2. …Before Dawn
Arthur never knows quite why he bothers to stop and talk to the kid, ask if he's okay. (And it's really a stupid question, anyway. They're in a hospital – if someone is crying, they probably have good reason.)
Maybe it's because his life is actually going nicely for once – another semester of university is under his belt and he only has one more to go before he'll be the proud owner of a business degree… He's dating Gwen, and though nothing is serious yet, she hasn't pushed him away so he's hopeful… He called his father earlier that day and things were fairly civil on the phone – a vast improvement over last Christmas Eve… His sister is married to his best friend, and in between trying to kill each other Morgana and Gwaine are madly in love, and now she has just given birth to his very first nephew, their own little Christmas miracle.
So yeah, he's doing well.
But that boy obviously isn't.
Therefore – surprising himself to the core – he stops, steps over, places a hand on a bony, shaking shoulder, and asks his idiotic question.
He cringes the moment it comes out of his mouth, half expecting the kid to rip into him about being insensitive, but he doesn't even respond. He only reacts to his touch, the teen's moist face turning numbly to stare at Arthur's hand on his shirt, his expression uncomprehending – but he doesn't shrug the hand away.
And so wondering what the heck he's doing and why he's being so persistent in this, Arthur tries again.
"Kid, are you okay?" he asks softer, slower, trying to meet the haunted eyes of the boy. "Do you need something? Maybe a ride somewhere?"
Finally, the kid looks at him, and his blue eyes are wells filled with so much agony Arthur almost flinches back. He doesn't answer right away, silence stretching between them as though the boy, returning from whatever painful and isolated place his head had trapped him in, has to remember how words work once more.
"I…there's no…" he tries, voice barely a breath of air. "I have nowhere to go…"
One sentence, not even as loud as a whisper, but Arthur can hear in it dreams and hopes and a whole life washing away. And then Arthur looks at this boy – really looks at him – sees his thread-bare clothes, the hospital bag of belongings and mortuary brochure crumpled in a trembling fist, the backpack that's not holding much, the quiet but steady stream of tears and desperately blocked sobs, the pale face, listless hair, and dark smudges beneath his eyes…and he just knows this kid has hit rock bottom. There's just something about this boy sitting there – one stationary and overlooked human in the middle of a flurry of urgent activity – his entire being screaming desperation and abandonment and…alone… And maybe that's why he really stopped – the real reason, the clincher – because even though it's been five years since Lance died and the pain of his other best friend's leaving is not nearly as sharp now, he's been there, felt deep grief. He sees the boy that everyone else's eyes seem to just slide right past, because he sees something of himself from years ago reflected in those broken eyes.
Besides, even avoids-feelings-like-the-plague-Arthur knows no one should be suffering alone on Christmas Eve, especially when they look like that.
Arthur sighs. "What's your name?" he asks quietly, half wondering if the boy is young enough he should be calling Child Protective Services to collect him.
Again, it takes the kid what seems ages to answer, his mouth working on a dozen aborted attempts before a whispered word crawls out.
"Merlin."
The idea comes to Arthur in a split-second and he tries to shove it right away but he finds he can't… It's Christmas Eve and…well…he doesn't have any plans – Morgana and Gwaine will be with their new baby, Gwen and Elyan are in France visiting their grandparents, Percival has to work (he drew the short straw at the police station, snagging the Christmas Eve patrol,) and Leon has his little family to celebrate with. He'd thought about going out, hitting a show or a nice restaurant, but now here's this boy, shattering before his eyes, bringing with him the haunted memory of Lance and shouting and strong hands pushing him hard, a horn blaring and an awful thud…
"I'm Arthur. And, well, my couch is free," he hears himself say quickly, as if in an attempt to stop the direction his thoughts are spiraling in, "if you need somewhere to crash."
Once more the boy's mouth opens and closes several times (Arthur does not mentally compare him to an overgrown guppy) as the silence stretches painfully thin again, and he's sure the kid will refuse – actually a little relieved – but when he does finally find his tongue all that comes out is another question.
"Can I bring my books?"
00000
Trepidation flashes across the boy's face for an instant when they reach Arthur's car and he wonders if the kid is reconsidering, but then it's gone.
"Front seat is fine," Arthur tells him when Merlin automatically reaches for the handle of the back door.
He doesn't answer, just changes directions and slides hesitantly into the passenger seat next to Arthur, who graciously pretends not to notice as the kid wipes at the remaining moisture on his face with a frayed sweatshirt cuff.
The drive is mostly silent except for the few quiet instructions Merlin gives, body tense and emotions barely contained, his few belongings held tightly in his lap with desperate hands.
Arthur raises an eyebrow when the directions land them in a cold, snowy backlot full of lonely looking storage units, but he holds his tongue and climbs out of the car with what he supposes has become his Christmas Eve project. Merlin pulls a key from around his neck and steps up to a unit two from the end, opening the lock.
The door rolls up and the kid walks without fear into the yawning black of the cave-like interior, but Arthur – suddenly having niggles of worry and second thoughts flash through his brain – waits for his eyes to adjust.
When they do, something in his gut clenches in a way that's new for him – because the space is totally empty save for a small, wooden crate in the back corner that Merlin is just picking up, filled with old books. No furniture, no boxes of belongings, no signs of home and care and waiting family. Just one crate of books.
Empty.
Alone.
Nowhere to go.
The words twist inside his mind, and it's them coupled with the sight of that frozen, barren storage unit that finally drives home what he's stumbled into with crystal clarity – that this boy is caught up in some unfathomable personal tragedy, his whole world crashing and slipping away, but without a soul to notice it happening. There's a story here, of horrendous loss, but it's a silent one, playing out while the rest of humanity decks the halls and rings the bells.
And Arthur, who hadn't been looking for a project, a charity case, a new person in his life, can't seem to shake the feeling as he watches Merlin carry his precious books out of the shed that for some reason he's meant to help this lost kid.
The boy pauses at the entrance, shuffling the crate to a hip so he has a free hand then reaching out and looping the string with the dangling key onto a nail just inside the door.
"The um…payment runs out in three days," he says softly in response to Arthur's raised eyebrow.
And I don't have the money to pay again, Arthur hears the unspoken rest of that sentence in the downcast eyes and hunched shoulders of the young man.
"Put the crate in the car," he says more gently than he normally would, then Arthur closes the unit's door himself, puts the lock back in place, and slides once more into the driver's seat, Merlin next to him holding onto both his bags and his box of books as if to a life-preserver in a turbulent sea.
Arthur sighs and fights the urge to run a hand through his hair. This is not the way he'd planned to spend his holiday evening, and he's so out of his element it isn't even funny, but he's in too deep to turn back now.
"Do you like Chinese?" he finally asks as he puts the car in gear and pulls away, leaving the brooding, silent lot behind in his rearview window.
For the first time since the hospital, Merlin meets his eyes and Arthur sees a flash of something almost like hope struggle to the surface as he hesitantly nods.
"Good. Me, too," Arthur answers. "Looks like it's a takeout feast this Christmas Eve."
00000
Red and white cardboard cartons litter Arthur's table and counter – all empty – every last noodle or grain of rice having disappeared, mostly down the throat of the teenage beanpole currently using Arthur's shower.
He shakes his head, remembering the awkward meal.
The boy hadn't pounced, hadn't shoved the food into his mouth like a starving man. In fact he'd eaten quietly and hesitantly, just like he'd done everything else since Arthur had first spoken to him – but Arthur could still see it there, in his eyes – the hunger, the need, the desperate longing that spoke of too many days with too few meals. So he'd slid the containers over one by one, mixed here and there in his stilted attempts at conversation, claiming to be full, to have no desire for leftovers…
Merlin ate it all – slow and steady, a quiet thank you falling from his lips after each new item was pushed his way. But he didn't look up. And he didn't give anything away. Arthur knows nothing more about his unexpected Christmas guest than he did when he approached him in the hospital.
Not for the first time he wonders what the heck he's doing, and if he even should, and is he helping or enabling or hurting?
But it's Christmas Eve and he isn't sending a kid that barely looks old enough to drive out to sleep in the streets, so he tosses the empty containers and makes his way to the hall closet, pulling out extra blankets and pillows. He can deal with digging for answers in the morning.
The couch is bathed in the glow from his Christmas tree – Gwen had insisted he put one up, telling him he needed more festive spirit in his life – as he piles the bedding on one end. He spares a glance at the presents stacked beneath the tree, waiting to be opened in the morning – packages from Gwen, Morgana, his friends and even something that had surprisingly come in the mail from his father.
No presents for Merlin he thinks distractedly, and somehow he wishes he could fix that, even though he had no way of knowing he'd have a stray staying at his apartment this night.
Done with his chore, his eyes land on the box of books he'd barely managed to get Merlin to set aside long enough to eat and clean up. It's placed right next to the couch – Arthur honestly wouldn't be surprised if the kid sleeps with it.
Books.
Words.
Treasures.
No, more like memories Arthur corrects himself – books connected to people and events – more precious than money or gems, at least to the boy who has carted them up three flights of stairs to place them carefully on Arthur's floor.
Curious, Arthur steps over, perusing the spines.
It's an eclectic mix. Beowulf next to Shakespeare, Darwin tucked down beside a history of world religions. Dinosaurs and Isaac Asimov and Charles Dickens.
A worn-to-the-point-the-binding-is-breaking copy of fairy tales catches Arthur's eye, and he pulls it carefully from the box, sitting on the edge of the couch to leaf through it. An inscription is just inside the front cover, written in a shaky cursive.
For my boy. Welcome home.
"That's the first book that was ever mine."
Arthur glances up to find Merlin looking at him from the hall entry, wet hair tousled every-which-way, backpack slung over one shoulder, his face pale in the Christmas light.
"Which story is your favorite?" It's not the question he means to ask, but it slips out anyway as he turns through the book, stopping here and there at a full-page, color illustration. Something about the book and the words and the pictures is tugging at the part of him that loves the smell of leather and old paper, the feel of rough pages beneath his fingers, the freedom of words that can carry you away from your troubles. The part of himself that he usually tries to hide for the sake of his manly reputation.
The couch dips next to him and Merlin reaches over, flipping deftly through the pages. "That one," he says softly.
The Ugly Duckling.
Arthur raises an eyebrow at his strange guest, demanding more.
"It's about…the fact that it's okay to be who you are. And finding where you belong…" There's a catch in his voice that the boy tries desperately to hide.
"And did you?" Arthur asks. "Find where you belong?"
Wordlessly, Merlin nods, his eyes full once more as he takes the book from Arthur's hands and cradles it in his own, fingers tracing the wobbly inscription.
00000
The rest of the evening is silent and solemn and awkward – not at all how Arthur imagined his Christmas Eve being spent. Merlin hardly speaks, huddled on one end of Arthur's couch with his knees pulled up to his chin, book of fairy tales held protectively between his chest and his legs, arms wrapped tightly around them. He stares into the glimmer of the Christmas tree and only answers when asked a direct question, in as few words as possible.
Eventually, Arthur tells him to get some sleep and escapes to the refuge of his own room, unable to bear the extreme grief rolling off the boy in mute waves.
But it's nine at night on a holiday and his body isn't anywhere near tired yet, so he wiles away the hours with a book he's been meaning to read, though he finds himself scanning paragraphs over and over as his thoughts drift to the strange boy camping out on his couch. Finally, when he realizes he's been staring at the same page for almost an hour and doesn't remember any of it, he gives up, closing the book with a sigh.
A drink.
Of ice water.
That's all he needs. All he's going out to get. All he's doing, as he slips from his room and walks toward the open living area of his apartment.
He is most certainly not going to check on the gangly kid sleeping on his sofa.
Except said kid is not sleeping. He's sobbing – horrendous, muffled sobs that shake his whole skinny frame – a frame that is curled impossibly tight on Arthur's couch, desperately clinging to the old book of fairy tales and what looks like a worn out, stuffed grey…something.
Arthur freezes.
He has no idea what to do. Does he turn around and walk away, pretend not to have seen such a raw, personal moment? Does he speak from where he's at, try to offer comfort without intruding? This boy is a stranger – he doesn't even know his last name – proper society dictates that he keep his distance and not touch.
But suddenly, without conscious direction, he finds himself moving toward the couch, sitting down beside the trembling form, hesitantly gripping a thin shoulder.
And with that move, with that unconscious contact in the safety of the night and the glow of the lights that herald the season of peace and goodwill, it's as if some barrier has been broken. Without warning, the kid turns toward him, burying his whole upper body in Arthur's chest and sobbing fit to fall apart, clinging on as if starved for some form of kind human comfort. Startled, Arthur reacts on instinct, his arms circling to hold the boy against him because he has no idea how else to respond.
It feels like hours pass – though he can't see the clock from this angle – before the trembling and the sobs subside slightly. Their absence, however, makes the silence of the room that much more oppressive, and Arthur finds his mouth opening to fill it, again without real thought.
"My best friend died, when I was seventeen. We were messing around, being stupid. I didn't see the truck and…Lance pushed me out of the way. He died, right in front of me."
The words spill from his lips, shocking him slightly – he never talks about Lance, not even with Gwaine and Morgana. It happened, and it broke him for a while, but then he put it in a box in his mind and locked it away.
There's a few large sniffs and some movement from the teenaged lump against his chest, and then Merlin disentangles himself, sitting up and pulling away as he rubs self-consciously at his face with one ratty sleeve, his other arm still clutching the book and what Arthur can now see is a stuffed dragon that has certainly seen better days. His face is flushed from his crying and with embarrassment and the kid huddles back into the corner of the couch, folding into himself.
"Gaius…Gaius died today," he finally whispers, his voice cracking on the name.
"And who is – was Gaius?" Arthur probes quietly, feeling he is on more solid ground now he's no longer being used as a human comfort blanket.
"No one wanted me," Merlin mumbles. "I'm different. But Gaius…he still did. He loved me." The words wobble once more and he scrubs at his face again. "They tried to tell him he was too old, but he didn't listen. He still adopted me."
Arthur nods, the cryptic words finally starting to form a fuzzy backstory in his mind to go with the kid sitting next to him.
"How old are you, Merlin?" he asks.
"Eighteen."
Legally an adult, but still just a kid, broken and alone.
"And who's been taking care of you?"
The ringing silence is all the answer Arthur needs.
00000
Arthur sleeps longer than he planned on Christmas morning but he had a late night, sitting quietly on the couch keeping a shattered boy company.
Merlin didn't say more – about his past, about what had happened, about how he ended up without anywhere to go once his guardian had passed. He wasn't ready to speak, but Arthur couldn't in good conscious leave him alone with his tortured grief. It would have been a long, awkward, silent night if Arthur hadn't hit on an unexpected inspiration – Merlin's books. He asked about them, and it opened a conversation path that was safe. He supposes they bonded, of sorts, over books, and when he finally excused himself back to his bedroom to sleep, his young guest was slightly less pale and fragile.
Even after, he lay awake for a long while, pondering. He didn't know exactly what to do, but he did know something was pushing him to help this kid, and he was in too far to keep pretending he wasn't feeling it. Maybe it was the memory of Lance's ultimate sacrifice, driving him to somehow pay it forward in some small way. Whatever it was, he'd finally fallen asleep with the understanding that he wouldn't be asking the boy to leave in the morning, or anytime soon for that matter.
So, as he pads sleepily out Christmas day, his mind is not on presents under the tree but on the teenager who is hopefully still zonked out in his living room getting some much need rest, and on the conversation they now need to have.
But his couch is empty – blankets folded neatly, pillow laid on top – and he stops short. The crate of books is still on the floor – though it appears a little less full – but there's no sign of Merlin or his backpack. A folded piece of paper sits on top of a few stacked bills and some change on the coffee table and Arthur snatches it up.
Thank you for the ride and the food and the warm, safe place to stay. Thank you for talking and listening and reminding me that people can be good. Mostly, thank you for being kind.
I can't pay you back, not what you deserve, but I've left what I have, plus the books. I can tell from last night that you like them and will care for them, and they're all I have to say thank you with.
Merry Christmas and thanks again.
Merlin
Arthur is shocked. In a daze, he glances at the crate. The book of fairy tales is missing, along with one or two others, but all the rest are still there. Then his eyes slide to the small pile of cash, counting without thought: twelve dollars and sixty-seven cents.
Twelve whole dollars, some coins, and a box of beloved books – all the money and possessions (because that ratty, stuffed dragon can hardly count!) that a grieving, young boy has in the whole world, left behind to pay for one night of kindness that didn't even ruin Arthur's plans.
And suddenly Arthur's moving – jamming his feet into shoes and pulling a coat over the sweats he slept in as he searches for his wallet. He grabs his keys and locks the door, determination burning strong in his eyes as he makes his way out into the snowy Christmas morning.
Author's Note: I'm very sorry for the long wait. My muse decided to take an extended holiday break. Trying to keep her around better, but no promises. Anyway, one more chapter to go and this one is finished. Thanks so much for any feedback.