Chapter Nine.
Merlin was pretty sure no one had ever been as fucked as he was. Not ever in the history of time.
Except for maybe Joan of Arc.
But, as far as fucked went, Merlin was pretty fucked.
He hated lying to Arthur, but he had to. He wanted to lie to Kanen, but he couldn't. If he did the opposite of either of those things, he'd most likely end up dead.
He had to come up with a good way of telling Arthur the truth.
"Hey, Arthur, I was sent here by Kanen to spy on you, but don't worry because I'm not going to hurt you. Except there was that one time I tried to kill you. But I didn't, so everything is okay now."
No, that wasn't right.
"Oh, Arthur, by the way, I've been lying to you all this time. I've never even been to Galway! It's a funny story . . ."
Definitely not.
Merlin couldn't come up with the right strand of words to ensure Arthur would always look at him the way he did on the drive back to Manhattan, like the outside scenery was suddenly dank and unimpressive. Like the buzz from the coke and the moonshine hadn't quite worn off yet. Like they were still on that damn mountain.
Kanen tapped his temple, the pad of his pinky finger tracing the curves of his scar tissue. They were in the back room of the Essetir. Kanen was sitting down in front of a bottle of scotch. He'd poured a glass for Merlin, who refused with a probably-could-have-been-more-polite, "It's nine in the morning!"
In truth, he should have drunk it down. It might have settled his shaking nerves. But he probably wouldn't have been able to swallow it without spilling it all down his front. He was too restless to sit. He squeezed his hat at his side, focusing all his energy into his white knuckles.
He'd gone way past guilt, if the spinning thoughts keeping him up for all of the previous night were anything to go by. What he now felt was hatred. At Kanen, for making him do this. At Sigan, whose eyes were insistently and intently watching Merlin in rightful suspicion.
At himself, for doing this to Arthur.
At himself, for being a coward.
"When's the first delivery?" Kanen finally asked.
"Two days." Merlin had told Kanen everything about Tristan and Isolde's farm, and about the deal Arthur had struck with them.
"What route are they taking?"
Merlin shook his head honestly. "They didn't say. They were . . . secretive." He held back any other misgivings he had about the couple. Arthur trusted their business, and that had to be good enough for Merlin. Kanen wouldn't care, anyway.
A smile stretched onto Kanen's face, causing crinkles around his eyes. "I'm sure you can appreciate secrecy."
Merlin really didn't.
He doubled his grip on his hat.
"Sir, I can send ten good men upstate tonight to burn this farm to the ground," Sigan urged, swiftly appearing at Kanen's side. Kanen held up his palm to silence him. His eyes stayed on Merlin.
"I have a better idea, I think. I'll need to pay Ragnor a visit first," he said, appearing to be in good humor. It made Merlin's stomach churn. "Go on, Merlin, get back to work. I'll find you when I need you."
Merlin wondered if Kanen would tell him the plan if he demanded to know. He could find a way to tip off the Knights, or come up with a way to prevent it himself. However, his demand came out in a smaller voice than he'd intended. "What are you—we going to do?"
"I'll find you when I need you," Kanen repeated, obviously not wanting to give away the big surprise. Merlin knew he was dismissed. He pulled his hat over his head and brisked out of the door. Once he was on its other side, he slumped.
He couldn't be in the Essetir any longer, not without suffocating. Perhaps it would be worse at the Camelot, but at least there he could pretend everything was fine. Better than fine, in fact, because Arthur was there.
Freya was behind the bar as he made for the exit. She immediately piped out his name when she saw him.
"I'm sorry, Freya, now's not a good time. I've got to get to work," Merlin mumbled quickly to the floor without slowing down.
"Oh. Okay," he just barely heard her quaver as he let the main door slam behind him.
Arthur had some time to kill before his next appointment. Annis and a handful of her men were coming to the Camelot to discuss which den they'd target that week. They were meant to be there a half hour ago, but that was no shock. Annis was always intentionally late. She liked to keep people waiting.
However, instead of sitting on the edge of his seat in anticipation, Arthur quickly learned to tell Annis to arrive an hour before he was actually ready for her. That way, she would arrive on time, and Arthur wouldn't have to readjust his schedule.
The extra time would come in handy for this particular meeting, as Arthur would have to bring up the new terms of their arrangement now that the Knights had a proper bootlegger. The alliance with the Knights and the Caerleons would still hold, and Arthur had no intention of pulling back his efforts to recapture the dens. It was in both their interests to get the Bandits out of the West. That didn't change.
Figuring he had a few more minutes before the Caerleons' arrival, Arthur headed into the club, expecting to find Merlin behind the bar. He wasn't, oddly enough. They'd driven straight to the Camelot from Bear Mountain, and that had been hours ago. Merlin really should have been working.
"Merlin?" he called. Nothing.
Just as he was about to check the cellar, the kitchen door opened. Merlin came through, wearing his hat and jacket, and looking at Arthur as though it were down the barrel of a gun.
Arthur raised a brow. "Why, Merlin, you didn't happen to sneak away from your duties without permission, did you?" he teased, but kept his expression blank.
Merlin quickly pulled off his hat and hid it behind his back. He ruffled his hair into place. "No," he said innocently.
"Is that so?" Arthur paced casually to the bar, scanning Merlin up and down. "You didn't just come through the back entrance so no one would catch you?"
"Nope."
"And if I asked the kitchen staff? They'd tell me the same?"
Merlin sighed. Finally, the truth came out. "Fine. I had to go home to—," he shook his head and looked away, "feed my cat!"
Arthur cocked his head to the side in surprise. "You have a cat?"
"Erm. No . . ."
And now Arthur was confused. Merlin ducked out of the way and slid his hat onto the bar. He peeled out of his jacket and threw it onto one of the stools. Immediately, he pulled out a knife and began preparing garnishes, probably just for show.
"You went home to feed an imaginary cat?" Arthur asked as he watched.
Merlin didn't look up from what he was doing. "It's a stray. I leave him food in the alley."
If Merlin ever did look up, he'd find himself on the receiving end of the fondest gaze in the tri-state area.
"You know, if you keep that up, more cats will come round expecting dinner, too," Arthur advised, stepping behind the bar to fill the space Merlin had put between them. He eyed the small, tight pout of Merlin's lips. It was frustrating as hell. "He'll tell all his cat friends, and soon—"
"I'll have more pussy than I can handle," Merlin interjected in a light tone.
"Well, I know that isn't your master plan."
"Why, are you jealous?"
"Why, should I be?"
Merlin stopped chopping for a fraction of a second. The hesitation, along with the tensing of his shoulders, was slight, easy to miss. Arthur didn't know how he'd caught it. Maybe it was years in the boxing ring, conditioning him to be aware of his opponent's every flinch, or maybe he'd been watching Merlin too intently since the moment he'd first laid eyes on him.
"You shouldn't be," Merlin said. His tone was frostier than it had been, and he was chopping so fast Arthur thought he might cut off his own finger by mistake.
Arthur decided not to broach the topic any further, no matter how fun it was getting under Merlin's skin. "Then, I won't be. And you can focus your energies on stocking the shelves with the rest of Annis' liquor. We'll need the space in the cellar for the new delivery."
Merlin nodded, not a word of protest. He usually complained, as he had to keep up appearances.
"Sweep out the cellar, too. The dust on the floor is almost up to my knees," Arthur continued. "Make sure there aren't any vermin or spiders down there. I don't want any of that getting into the barrels and drowning."
Again, Merlin nodded, keeping his concentration on his task.
Arthur narrowed his eyes. "In fact, just rearrange the entire cellar. Build new shelves if you have to. I want a whole new system of storing things."
"How's Dewey Decimal Classification?" Merlin brushed off. He turned away to put the garnishes in their containers.
Arthur sighed and rolled his eyes. "Is something the matter, Merlin?" he mocked.
"No." Merlin was busying himself at the furthest end of the bar, like he was trying to put as much space between them as he could. Arthur wondered if Merlin would physically leap over the bar if he stepped closer.
He tried it. Merlin didn't attempt a dramatic escape, but Arthur grabbed his elbow for good measure.
"I thought you'd gotten past this?" Arthur said, finally catching Merlin's eyes. "I told you, I'm still not dead."
Merlin didn't say anything. He stared through his eyelashes for a few beats, his expression unreadable. His gaze moved between Arthur's face and the hand clasped around his arm.
Arthur considered that Merlin might have been the moodiest person in, quite possibly, the entire world. But the thought was soon incinerated, as Arthur's mind threw out everything else but the hard press of Merlin's lips on his.
Arthur's breath trapped itself in his throat, until Merlin breathed it in. His hands found his way to Merlin's hips, fingers curling on the bones as Merlin wrapped his palms around Arthur's wrists to keep them in place. Arthur wouldn't dare remove them. He sank the pads of his fingers into Merlin's skin, making Merlin huff into his mouth.
Merlin ran his tongue across Arthur's lips, feathery and tickling. He licked wet brushstrokes on the inside of Arthur's mouth. It was nothing like how Arthur kissed him on the mountain, something that Arthur had begun to think was a cocaine-induced dream. It was drowning with want. If he'd known the night before kissing like this was on the table, perhaps they wouldn't have needed two rooms, after all.
There were footsteps pounding down the stairs. Arthur barely registered them. Merlin had, and he withdrew himself as quickly as he had rooted himself in Arthur's arms. He turned his back to Arthur again, grabbed a rag, and began scrubbing circles into the bar top.
Arthur wasn't as quick on his feet. He had enough sense to wipe the saliva off his chin and lips, but other than that, he was lost. He scratched the back of his hair awkwardly, and began peering around as though inspecting something.
Leon came through the door on the opposite end of the club. "Arthur, the Caerleons are here. I've sent them to your office," he said immediately. Apparently, he didn't suspect anything unusual. Anyone else might have, but Leon was always rather oblivious in the face of that sort of thing.
Or, at least, Arthur thought he was. Leon certainly never questioned it, or had so much as a furrowed brow. Maybe he was just really good at not letting it faze him?
Usually, Arthur wouldn't ponder on it too much. While he was never one to kiss and tell, it seemed his Knights always knew about his romantic (a word loosely used) life, as he knew about theirs. It was never a secret. But this, with Merlin, was different. He didn't want to rush it by acknowledging it or putting a name to it. He didn't want to ruin it by letting the world in.
He wanted it to be theirs alone, just for a bit longer. But now that dream might have been destroyed, had Leon been more observant than Arthur thought.
Arthur shook the paranoia from his head, realizing he should probably answer. He attempted to balance himself, to get the blood flowing throughout his whole body again, instead of rushing full speed ahead to one place in particular.
"Good," he said with a nod, and gulped when his voice came out in a higher pitch than he'd intended. "Tell them I'll be right there." He turned to Merlin, trying to act laid-back. "We'll finish this conversation later."
He could probably drop the act now. Leon was gone. But Arthur was still blushing when he was on the other side of the bar.
"You could join us?" he offered, turning back to Merlin. Everyone else would be attending the meeting. "It's just planning. I don't think anyone will try to shoot you there."
"The Caerleons don't take too kindly to the Irish," Merlin said in ways of an excuse, "so they might. Not everyone's so willing to stop—what did you say? 'Harboring the animosities of the old country'?" Merlin smirked, seeming pleased with himself. "You're not starting to actually like it here, are you?"
Arthur rolled his eyes. He didn't admit that he was, in fact, starting to like New York very much.
"Get to work. Cellar, remember?" he said instead, and started for the door.
"Dewey Decimal?" Merlin joked.
"Alphabetical!"
Perhaps Kanen had forgotten about Tristan and Isolde's delivery. Perhaps Merlin had been on pins and needles, looking over his shoulder in sheer dread that one of Kanen's messengers could come collect him at any moment, for the last two days for nothing.
The Knights and the Caerleons had taken another den. The Bandits only had two left, and one of them wasn't even in Hell's Kitchen, but in Hudson Yards. Kanen could have been preoccupied with making sure he kept his control over them.
Merlin knew he was just fooling himself. He could hardly breathe as he attempted to guess whatever Kanen had planned. Even earlier that day, when the crates and barrels had been delivered and stocked on the shelves or stored in the cellar, seemingly safe and intact, Merlin couldn't relax.
The Camelot was in full swing now. Trumpets were bursting on stage, and Gwen was belting out a song that sent a rhythm over the club like a shockwave. The cigarette smoke in the air was almost tangible, and the sweet, crisp fragrance of mixed drinks filled Merlin up. People seemed to like Tristan and Isolde's products. Merlin had to go to the cellar to refill a few bottles from the kegs at least twice already.
He made conversation with a few familiar faces, as much as he could over the booming music. He doubted any of the patrons would remember their chats, anyway, but that was nothing new. Arthur was no stranger to the party that night, either. He was probably celebrating the success of his new partnership. Even in the crowd, his eyes would find Merlin now and again throughout the night. While during the day, his expression would clearly read "you should be working," his drunken, beaming smile at night was less reserved.
Merlin smiled back at him as he counted out the pours of a shot, not noticing the woman to his right shouting for him to mix her another Brandy Alexander. For once in the last seventy-eight hours, the butterflies in his stomach were not nerves, but something softer.
That was until someone else moved into his line of vision, completely obstructing Arthur. Merlin's eyes refocused on Sigan, and all light and sound were ripped from the room like they'd been dropped into a void. It wasn't until the liquid spread across the bar top and trickled over the edge onto his shoes, did Merlin realized he was still pouring the shot.
He jumped up, ignoring the laughter or the groans of annoyance from the wet customers on the other side of the bar. Frantically apologizing to them, he ran a rag across the wood. It did little to soak up the alcohol, and left streaks on the counter. Merlin rung out the rag in the sink, not caring how sticky the bar would be later.
He tried to think, but his mind only blanked. Sigan was there, that's all he knew. He did not know why, or whether Kanen had sent him, or if they had plans for the Camelot, or if Merlin could stop them before it was too late. Sigan was there, in the Camelot, mixing Merlin's worlds. And yet, he only reacted to the immediate danger it posed to Arthur.
Merlin had to get Sigan out of there. Now.
He looked up, training his face, and made eye contact again. He nodded towards the kitchen door, silently telling Sigan to meet him around back. Sigan got the message, and disappeared towards the club's main entrance.
Then, Merlin searched around for the nearest available Knight. Lance was close by, leaning against a wall and watching Gwen on stage. Merlin tried calling to him, but his voice was lost in the dissonance.
He almost went up to Lance before realizing he needed an excuse to leave the bar. Hastily, he tied up the bag of trash in the bin under the bar. Lance looked over his shoulder with a smile when Merlin tapped.
"Could you mind the bar for a second? I've got to take this round back," Merlin shouted to be heard, holding up the black bag.
Luckily, Lance didn't offer to take the bag outside himself, probably figuring that Merlin needed a break from the bar. Merlin rushed straight through the kitchen. "Merlin, take this one, too!" one of the busboys said, tossing him another wrapped up trash bag, this one full. Merlin didn't have time to complain. He took it and burst into the humid night.
Fog rested over the Hudson, softening the orange and yellow pinpricks of lights from boats on the water or buildings on the opposite bank in New Jersey. The back door slammed shut behind Merlin, muffling the music within.
Sigan wasn't there. Merlin closed his eyes and took in a deep breath of the murky river air, which stuck to his skin like a bog. It was sweaty in the club, but there was no relief outdoors. Maybe it was Sigan's presence.
Merlin dropped the bags into the bins along the back wall, resolving to wait. He wasn't going to search for Sigan.
He was startled when, before he placed the tin lid back on the bin, a voice behind him broke the quiet. "Nice club. Bet you prefer it to the Essetir."
Merlin rallied for whatever the conversation would bring. Molding his features into an expression that meant business, he slammed the lid down with a clang and rounded on Sigan. "What the fuck are you doing here?"
Sigan shot him a smug face, apparently finding Merlin's irritation amusing. Merlin didn't have to remind him that he was working a job, and he couldn't be seen speaking to a Bandit, especially right outside the Camelot. It was a miracle none of the Knights had spotted Sigan inside. Merlin wondered how he even got inside in the first place, but he had more important questions to seethe about at the moment.
"In fact, it looked like you were having a bit too much fun behind the bar, Emrys," Sigan goaded.
"What the fuck are you doing here?" Merlin demanded again, slower this time.
Sigan apparently gave up trying to get a rise out of Merlin. "Message from Kanen." He dug into his pocket and carefully produced a glass bottle of clear liquid. It looked like it had come from an apothecary, but the label had been scratched off. Sigan offered it to Merlin and said, "Put about an ounce in all of the liquor that's fast selling tonight."
Merlin didn't take it. He stared down at the bottle with a sick feeling he already knew what it was. He asked anyway.
"Methane alcohol," was the answer, said as though Sigan had just offered him something as pure and innocuous as water. There was only one place Kanen could have gotten methanol—the police. Ragnor.
It was poison—the kind of alcohol used in industrial alcohol products, in paint and for car engines. It smelled just like drinking alcohol, but it was tasteless. The federal government ruled it legal for the authorities to slip it into bootleg liquor, or into the smuggled products they'd intercepted in secret. Some bootleggers were in cahoots with local authorities, whether from the start or if they were offered a deal after being busted. They'd sell the poisoned moonshine, and no one would know the difference.
In small amounts, it would cause sickness. Headaches, nausea, some pretty bad vomiting. However, if too much was ingested, it would easily slip a grown man into a coma. Or kill him. Most doctors wouldn't even be able to tell it apart from regular alcohol poisoning.
Merlin had heard of the stuff shutting down speakeasies for good in one night. No one would trust the club anymore, and they'd stop coming. The Camelot could go under. Arthur could be ruined.
Merlin blinked down at the jar. He couldn't let that happen. He couldn't steep that low, even if Kanen was willing to.
"People will get sick," he refused weakly.
"That's the point," Sigan spelled out.
"People could die!" Merlin shot back, appalled. "How could you ask me to do this?"
Sigan chortled. "I'm sorry, I thought you were a gangster, not a piker." He narrowed his eyes into slits and regarded Merlin up at down. "Unless you don't want to do it. You don't want me to tell Kanen you're thinking of double-crossing him again, do you?"
Merlin's stomach dropped. He didn't physically react, or at least he hoped not, save for averting his gaze for a moment. He played it off like he was thinking.
"Of course, I'm not," he hissed. He snatched the bottle out of Sigan's hand, trying to appear tough. He couldn't show any sign of the war raging in his head. But it was clear which side would win. He didn't have a choice.
"Tell Kanen it's done," he said, and turned around.
"Wait, Merlin," Sigan said, pausing him. Merlin took a quick look around to make sure no one was eavesdropping, slumped his shoulders, and looked back. Sigan had another glass bottle in his hands. "And empty this into one of the kegs . . . just in case people show up tomorrow night."
Merlin gulped. He watched Sigan hold the bottle by the cap and dangle it between two fingers. He ripped it from Sigan's grasp and pushed back inside before Sigan could pull another toxic substance out of his jacket, or to threaten Merlin with something vague and dramatic like, "I'm onto you."
He hid the bottles underneath his jacket and ducked through the kitchen, back into the technicolor lights and loud laughter of the club.
Lance wasn't behind the bar when Merlin reached it. It was a blessing, even though Merlin wondered why Lance had left it unattended. Merlin didn't think he could have looked Lance in eyes in that moment. On the other side of the bar, there was a dense congregation, which promptly began frantically shouting drink orders at Merlin the moment he was spotted.
Merlin tried to remember who had ordered what. His mind was too preoccupied on the bottles clinking together in his jacket pocket. It made him feel sick to his stomach, like he'd drank the entire jar of the stuff himself.
All the while, Merlin tried to rationalize the best way to distribute the methanol. If he divided it up into different bottles, more customers would drink it. They'd get ill, but only for a few hours before it passed. However, it could drive a lot of people away from the Camelot forever. His second option was to put the methanol into as few bottles as possible, so fewer customers ordered the tainted drinks, but such an amount could cause violent sickness—or worse.
He decided to choose life, rationalizing that one dead business was better than many dead humans. He prayed the Camelot had enough loyal patrons to keep it afloat.
With unsteadiness slowing the movement of normally swift hands, he sneakily mixed the poison into the bottles as he went. He'd put an ounce of it into three whiskey bottles, two gins, and a vodka before it was empty. Those would sell quickly enough for each bottle to run out before the same customer could come back looking for another round. He stayed away from the slower selling products—liqueurs, cordials, and mixers—so the customers who stuck to the less popular drinks would ingest as little toxin as possible.
Merlin set to work making the drinks on the back counter beneath the shelves, out of the way of prying eyes. However, as he continuously cast antsy glances over his shoulder, he found no one was watching him. Those in the crowd at the bar were only interested in chatting with their parties, sweaty and hot from dancing and contented now that they'd have refreshment soon. They kept those trying to push their way forward to order at bay for now. The Knights were nowhere in sight, and the employees bobbed in and out of Merlin's vision, too preoccupied with whatever they were doing to pay the bar any mind.
He probably could have made the drinks out in the open, on the bar, as he usually did. When he reached for the methanol, the customers wouldn't notice—nor would they even know the difference, and think it was just another safe ingredient added to their order. And the Knights trusted Merlin enough not to ask any questions.
He cursed inwardly, wishing someone would catch on and stop him before anyone got hurt.
As the first group of satisfied customers received their drinks and pushed out of view, more people hounded Merlin for attention. It never usually overwhelmed him.
Just as Merlin felt the urge to run out back again and heave in bouts of air (and possibly never come back), Lance appeared at his side with an apologetic, but relieved expression. "Good, your back. I was hoping you would be."
"Where were you?" Merlin snipped accidentally. He shouldn't have taken his anger out on the man who deserved it least.
Lance, however, took it in stride. "The cellar. We've run out of brandy up here. I tried looking for it, but—Did you rearrange the entire stockroom?"
Merlin shifted in his shoes. He'd hoped he didn't have to make a trip to the cellar before he could figure out what to do with the second bottle of poison.
"I'll find it," he said. "Stay at the bar this time."
He attempted to push by Lance, but Lance gripped his arm to stop him. Lance leaned in so Merlin could better hear him ask with concern, "Are you all right, Merlin?"
No! Merlin wanted to shout, followed by a ranted, complete confession of everything he'd done since the moment he first stepped foot into the Camelot all those months ago.
Instead, he blew out his cheeks and rolled his eyes, playing it off like a joke. "Yeah!" he chuckled, probably sounding guilty rather than the lightheartedness he was going for.
But Lance didn't press. He didn't seem convinced, but he let Merlin go and attended to the customers. Merlin snatched the empty bottle of methanol on the counter and headed to the cellar.
The closed door behind him muffled the music only slightly, but it was much cooler in the dank darkness than it had been in the club. A single, unadorned light bulb hung from the cement ceiling. It barely casted any light, and really only served to elongate the shadows of the crates, kegs, and shelving units.
Merlin rested his back against the cold, metal door and took in a few steadying breaths. It was only a matter of time until the poison would take effect. He wondered if Sigan were still in the club, waiting to make sure Merlin had completed the task.
But it wasn't completed. Not yet. He still had a whole other jar, and any barrel in the cellar to pick from.
He spotted one in the very center of the room, just as nondescript as the rest. It was as good as any, he supposed.
He pushed himself to a stand and paced down the steps carefully, like he'd expected someone to jump out of the shadows and catch him in the act. The creaking wood of the loose steps only added to his paranoia, as did the echoes of his footfalls on the concrete floor.
He placed the empty methanol jar down on a shelf next to the keg, and pulled the other out of his pocket. The wooden stopper on the top of the barrel made a popping sound when Merlin forced it out. His fingers rested on the cap of the poison, but he hesitated breaking its seal.
There was no need for him to do this. The customers upstairs would be enough to placate Kanen for now. In the meantime, Merlin could figure out how to avoid poisoning anything else. He had time. He could think this through—somehow.
The door at the top of the steps opened, letting the music and laughter from upstairs fill the cellar and cast a stream of light into the relative darkness. Merlin hastily swooped down and hid the methanol behind the barrel. He jerked to a stand at the sudden onslaught of fast, tumbling footsteps on the wood.
Unburdened, the heavy steel door slammed closed again.
Arthur stopped about halfway down the stairs when he caught sight of Merlin. He had a glass held up in his hand, and when Merlin squinted in the lowlight he could see the golden liquid in it.
"What are you doing down here?" Merlin demanded, trying not to sound on edge. Arthur wouldn't have noticed, anyway.
"Was lookin' for—for you!" He swayed dizzyingly as he brandished his glass as though to point at Merlin. "Why's Lancelot behind the bar? What's he know 'bout liquor? Had to get Gwaine and Mordred to take over—and they're drunk!"
"They're not the only ones," Merlin muttered to himself.
Arthur scrunched his nose down at Merlin. "Shouldn' you be working?"
"I am working, prat," Merlin sighed. He started for the stairs. Arthur would trip and fall and probably kill himself if he took another step. "I'm fetching more bottles." He trudged up to Arthur and slung Arthur's arm around his shoulders while grumbling, "Come on, you're zozzled."
Arthur threw his head back into a laugh as he leaned into Merlin and allowed himself to be led downward. "Yeah."
There were muffled wolf whistles and applause from upstairs as one song ended and another started up. Pounding footfalls raged on the dance floor.
As Merlin got Arthur fully into the cellar, he grunted, "Time for a rest. Off your feet." He dumped Arthur down on a wooden crate on the floor, and the glass inside chattered upon impact.
Arthur laughed again. Before Merlin could straighten to a stand, Arthur grabbed him down by the tie and smashed their lips together with enough force to bruise. Merlin had a moment of panic. His heart stopped beating and he took in deep gasp through his nose. Arthur's eyes were shut; Merlin only knew that because his were so wide open.
And then Arthur released him. It made Merlin sway off-balance, lingering too close.
"'ve been thinking we should do that more—uh—," Arthur slurred, shaking his head up at the ceiling, "more often!"
Now that the shock had passed and his heart started up again, Merlin felt a tug at it. He smirked at Arthur's messy blonde hair, highlighted by the naked bulb hanging over their heads, and the blurry expression in his shadowed eyes.
"Yeah? Me, too," Merlin admitted happily. As he watched Arthur's face, he bit his lower lip, tasting the whiskey remnants that Arthur had left on him. "And I think I want to do it again."
Arthur hummed in agreement from somewhere deep in his throat. "Me, too."
He wrapped his palm on the back of Merlin's head and pulled him in close again. Arthur's lips were warm—all of him was. Merlin didn't know if that's just how Arthur ran or if it was from the alcohol. He could taste it on Arthur's tongue, in every breath that passed between them. He thought he might get drunk off it, too.
Merlin had to get closer, to be in a position less fleeting than leaning over Arthur. It might have been a bold move—as if making out with your boss, and rival, on the job was anything but bold already—but he straddled Arthur's lap, pushing himself in until their chests were touching.
Arthur didn't seem to mind at all. He moaned into Merlin's mouth. Only then did Merlin notice the small, desperate sounds escaping his own throat. He gave into them, following them as though they were coherent instructions. They told him to grip Arthur's hair in his fists, and to run the heels of his palms down the muscles of Arthur's back.
The whiskey glass in Arthur's hand shattered on the concrete floor. He wrapped both arms around Merlin, squeezing him in tighter. Merlin was sure Arthur could feel him getting stiff against his lower stomach. Merlin could certainly feel something pressing at his ass, just as clearly as he felt Arthur's heartbeat slamming in his chest. The horns and saxophones overhead exploded.
Arthur's breath was sticky when he pulled away, allowing Merlin to drink in bouts of dusty oxygen. Arthur was leaving sloppy kisses around Merlin's Adam's apple. His tongue rode the motion of each of Merlin's hard swallows.
Merlin stilled when he opened his eyes and caught sight of the barrel of whiskey to Arthur's back.
What was he doing? He had to get out of there. He had to stop this right away. With any luck, Arthur would be too drunk to remember it the next day.
"Arthur—," Merlin rasped out. Arthur responded by nibbling at Merlin's jaw.
"Arthur, I should really be getting back to—ooh."
He'd taken to biting at Merlin's ear, making Merlin's breath catch and his eyes roll back.
"Yeah, there," he groaned when Arthur moved down to the crook of his neck. He angled his head to give Arthur more room.
Suddenly, Arthur pulled away, leaving a chill where he'd been before. He looked up at Merlin with hazy eyes. "I think 'm drunk," he stated like it just dawned on him. "Think I should go home."
Merlin blinked down at him, not sure what to make of it, until Arthur said in a low voice, "Think you should take me."
The very idea of it made Merlin twitch with want.
But he shouldn't! He couldn't! Arthur would find out Merlin's secret eventually, which meant Merlin couldn't let their relationship get too complicated. It meant Merlin couldn't bed him, no matter how much every atom in his body screamed, Do it, you idiot! Fuck his lights out!
"Yeah, yeah, okay," Merlin said into a swallow. Hating himself for it, he extracted himself from Arthur and heaved him back on his feet. He tried shooting Arthur the brightest grins he could muster as he dragged him up the steps. Arthur responded with dreamy, intoxicated smiles and hooded eyes.
Arthur winced at the wall of sound they hit when Merlin opened the door, and they stumbled back into the club side-by-side.
Quickly, Merlin caught sight of Lance and Gwen by the bar. It was late. The band was still playing, but her set would be up, and she and Lance usually went home soon after she'd stopped singing for the night. Merlin got their attention and nodded towards Arthur, who was slumping sleepily into Merlin's chest. He was becoming increasingly heavier.
"He's half seas over," Merlin shouted to them over the racket when they were close enough.
Gwen laughed once, but the sound was drowned out, and clasped her hand over her heart like Arthur was an adorable puppy. A look of amusement flashed over Lance's face before his expression became dutiful.
"Don't worry, Merlin. We'll get him home," he said. There was an awkward shuffle as Merlin shifted Arthur's weight towards Lance, and Gwen quickly appeared on his other side. They held Arthur between them with his head drooping and his arms across their shoulders.
Merlin couldn't take his eyes off Arthur, who roused just long enough to look at Gwen in a confused way and say, "You're not Merlin."
She grinned brightly at him before eyeing Lance. They started dragging Arthur away. The music boomed through Merlin. Its vibrations coming up from the floor might have been the only things keeping his heart pumping.
And then it happened. It was close by, at one of the tables just off the dance floor. A woman was shrieking, and a few men had sprung to their feet and shouted for help. The music stopped playing abruptly. Lance and Gwen stilled. Everyone turned toward the commotion.
Merlin was the only one who sprang into action. He elbowed through the throng until he reached the source of the chaos, around which a wide circle was forming. A man was unconscious on the floor, in a puddle on his own sick. A woman was sitting on a chair nearby, nursing her head in her hands and asking where she was. Her friend knelt down next to her, comforting her but looking as though she were about to vomit herself.
"What the hell happened?" Morgana's voice rang out above all the rest. She'd gotten to the focal point of the circle, but retracted slightly with disgust when her heel stepped into the puddle. She looked very pale, her skin sheet white rather than porcelain.
Merlin looked to the woman on the chair. Her nose had begun to bleed.
Merlin's world started to spin. He wanted to run. His legs wouldn't listen.
Someone bumped into his back, knocking him forward a few clumsy steps. It was Arthur, wobbling but upright and looking as though he was trying very hard to sober up.
"Someone call an ambulance," he ordered in general, until his eyes fell on his sister across the circle. "Morgana." She obeyed, and the crowd parted for her. He continued to take charge of the situation, telling Lancelot to usher the sick women to the exit and having Leon and Elyan move the unconscious man. Merlin heard very little of it. He felt like he was underwater.
He barely registered Arthur calling his name. It echoed in his head, until Arthur's face came into focus. "Those women need water!" Arthur demanded in aggravation, as though he had to repeat himself.
Merlin swallowed hard and nodded frantically. However, before he started to the bar, he heard someone making retching sounds. Those around the victim yelped in repulsion and sprang out of the way.
"What the hell is this?" Arthur said through his teeth, visibly trying to keep calm.
Leon broke through the crowd, seeming panicked. "Arthur, Morgana's just fainted."
Merlin's stomach lurched. He clasped his hands over his mouth to stifle a cry. His eyes started stinging hotly.
He hadn't served her! He knew he hadn't! He wouldn't have given her anything contaminated if she'd asked for a drink. But Lance, Gwaine, and Mordred—how could they have known?
Arthur's posture tightened. Even with his back to Merlin, Merlin knew he'd gone on high alert.
"This can't be alcohol poisoning," he said to no one in particular. Then, he charged forward, presumably towards Morgana, and shouted to Leon over his shoulder, "Get everyone out! And find out who did this!"
Merlin closed his eyes to steady himself, allowing people to jostle him around as they scurried toward the exit as quickly as possible.
They'd been up all night, combing over the entire warehouse for evidence. The sun had risen at least three hours ago, and the staff that Arthur had sent home after the incident would be reporting back to work any minute now. He wondered if he should give them the day off, as he didn't want anyone in the club he didn't trust completely.
Thankfully, Morgana had recovered from her unconsciousness quickly. She'd experienced confusion for a few minutes after she'd woken up, but not enough, as it would seem. It didn't stop her from very clearly telling Arthur she wouldn't check herself into a hospital, because any reported alcohol-related illness would instantly get the Bureau on their backs. They didn't need that, especially after the previous night.
The rest of them were fine. Gwaine and Mordred suffered headaches and slight nausea, and Percy and Elyan were unaffected. Leon, of course, was always too dutiful to drink very much while working.
Arthur stepped into the club. It was much cooler in the basement than it had been in his office, but probably just because he had a moment to calm himself down. He'd been worked up all morning, trying to get to the bottom of what happened. He certainly had his theories, but dwelling on them only furthered his bad mood.
Merlin was behind the bar emptying the remaining bottles of liquor down the sink. Arthur had told him to get rid of everything on the shelves and in the cellar, and Merlin seemed eager to do it. They didn't know how much of it was still good. Thankfully, they had enough in the storehouse to last them until Tristan and Isolde's next delivery.
Merlin stopped what he was doing as Arthur plopped down on one of the bar stools. Arthur buried his face into his palms, giving into his exhaustion for the first time all morning. He only let it overwhelm him for a moment before running his hands through his hair and correcting his posture. There was still work to be done.
"How is she?" Merlin worried, and his big, sad eyes could have only been speaking of Morgana.
Arthur nodded. "Resting. She'll be fine."
"And the man who collapsed?"
Most customers had only gotten sick. However, the man who first fainted and the woman with the nosebleed were taken to the hospital. She was fine; he still hadn't woken up.
"Still out," Arthur told him heavily. "Gwaine's not taking it well. He blames himself—says he kept giving him shots."
"He didn't know," Merlin whispered to the bar top.
None of them knew. That was the problem. Arthur should have been on the look out for something like this.
"I've been on the phone with Tristan all morning, screaming," he recounted. He was still all pent up from the conversation, but the steam inside of him was quickly dissipating now that he was downstairs. "He swears he had nothing to do with this. He said the product was fine when it was delivered, and how dare I accuse him of working with the police."
Arthur scoffed. He didn't know why Tristan blamed him. At the farm, Tristan had been so sure of the police never shutting them down. After recent events, it was easy to imagine Tristan and Isolde working for the authorities. Yes, Arthur may have leapt to the accusation, but it wasn't exactly like leaping across the canyon. He was right to be suspicious.
"And you believe him?" Merlin wondered.
"I do." He showed Merlin why: He took out a glass bottle of clear liquid from inside his jacket and tossed it onto the counter like he'd contract a disease from it if he touched it for too long. Merlin's face stiffened and he stared down at the jar.
"It's methane alcohol. Percy found two bottles of it in the cellar," Arthur explained. "One of them . . . was empty."
Merlin knew what that implied. Arthur could read it on his face, in the way his Adam's apple quivered as he swallowed hard.
"Who did it?" he gulped.
Arthur sighed and shoved the bottle back into his inside pocket. "That's what I'd like to know." He leaned in, fishing for Merlin's gaze. "You didn't see anyone, did you? You didn't let any customers behind the bar? Notice anyone who wasn't drinking last night?"
"Besides Lance?"
For a single, fleeting moment, Arthur considered it. Then, he kicked himself for it. Lance was too loyal—not to mention, honorable—for the word betrayal to even be in his lexicon.
"Obviously."
Merlin curled his nose, shook his head, and shrugged simultaneously. "I don't know. Usually, people who aren't drinking stay away from the bar, don't they?"
"What about the cellar?" Arthur pressed. "Did you see anyone down there?"
Merlin arched a brow. "Besides you?"
Arthur huffed, trying to cover his mortification with irritation. God, why had he drunkenly thought it was a good idea to seek Merlin out last night? What had he said? What had he done? He'd made a fool of himself, asking Merlin back to his place. In truth, Merlin handled it well by passing him off to Lance and Gwen. However, now that Arthur had a moment to dwell on it, the snub stung. He'd moved too fast, ruined everything.
He shouldn't have drank at all that night! He could have prevented the poisoning, and he would have never screwed everything up with Merlin. He should have known something bad was about to happen. Maybe he could have stopped it had he been more attentive.
Less drunk.
God, maybe Uther had been right about him . . .
"Not the time, Merlin!"
Merlin looked scolded. "I know." And then, "I didn't see anyone. And of course I didn't let anyone behind the bar, except Lance."
Arthur sat up straighter in realization. "And Gwaine and Mordred," he remembered. "It all started happening after that. You don't think Mordred . . .?"
Merlin gaped and stammered some. "No! He got sick, too. Why would he do that to himself?"
"So we wouldn't suspect him?" Arthur shook his head. He folded his fists together before his lips in thought. Mordred was still with his Knights. He, Gwaine, Percy, and Elyan were on damage control, seeking out the usual patrons and promising them nothing like this would ever happen again. Why had Arthur put so much faith in someone who wasn't his own?
"He was with Gwaine all night," Merlin tried to reason.
"Well, it had to have been someone we know! How else could they have gotten past the bouncer? The Kings must have offered him something."
He resolved to put snitches on Mordred until he was satisfied of his innocence. Mordred knew all the Knights' men, but the Caerleons would help Arthur out. They'd loan him some spies.
"The Kings?" Merlin wondered, looking like he was trying very hard not to panic. Arthur knew the feeling.
"They're behind this; I know it. It has their stench all over it."
He should have known they'd strike eventually. It had been much too quiet. He'd taken for granted that Kanen was on the defense trying to maintain his crack dens. Arthur should have known the Kings would be planning an attack of their own.
"You can't know that for sure," said Merlin.
Of course, he could! "Don't be an idiot, Merlin."
Arthur stood up and kicked the stool back to let himself out. "Which means, I've got to figure out how I'm going to retaliate. Unless you've got any bright ideas?"
Merlin shook his head.
"No, didn't think so," Arthur droned. "Too bad. It would have saved me some time." He looked Merlin up and down, finally taking in the state of him: the ruffled hair, the disheveled clothes, and the dark circles under his red eyes. He looked almost as weary as Arthur felt.
"You should go home and get some sleep," Arthur offered. "I'll have someone else stock up for tonight—assuming any customers show up."
"They will." Merlin seemed sure. "You'll figure it out."
Arthur was certainly trying. There would be a fight that night, with all the champions who usually stuck to the Dragon. It would attract a few customers, and maybe some of them would even drink. Arthur attempted to keep hope alive.
He didn't say any of that, and instead felt his chest constrict at Merlin's word choice. "It's not we anymore, then?" he said lightly. Perhaps he'd ruined his chances with Merlin more so than he thought. He had to fix it somehow, to salvage whatever he could between them. "Look, Merlin, last night, I had—," he waved his hand, realizing the number of drinks he'd consumed was unknown but irrelevant, "one too many."
He cleared his throat awkwardly. "I said things I shouldn't have. Anyway, you should know your job is safe. And it won't happen again."
He couldn't meet Merlin's eyes. He looked down instead, at Merlin's hands resting on the wood, leaving smudges on the polishing.
"Oh," he heard Merlin say with a twinge of disappointment.
It kick started the cogs in Arthur's mind, all of them turning in maximum overdrive. He jerked his head back up. "Oh?" he repeated hopefully. "What—what's 'oh'?"
"It's not the time," Merlin reminded him halfheartedly. Funnily, Arthur took his tone as a good thing.
"Right," Arthur said, remembering why he shouldn't be grinning. "Get some rest. Be back for opening tonight."
He started away when Merlin said, "You should get some sleep, too."
I wish, Arthur wanted to say, but settled for, "There's too much to do."
