Chapter 9: What Gwaine Wants
"Don't forget we're meeting Gwaine tonight after work," Lance said to Merlin when they bumped into each other in the hallway.
"We are? Oh. We are," Merlin mumbled absent mindedly. He was feeling mildly sleepy – nothing a good double espresso wouldn't cure – and he had completely forgotten about Gwaine's standing invitation.
Arthur's cold had subsided; during the first night of his fever, however, he had tossed and turned until well after midnight until finally subsiding, his face against Merlin's shoulder, Merlin's hand gently stroking his hair. After that, he had stayed at home for only one day, lounging grouchily in bed, watching reruns of old movies and downing cup after cup of tea with lemon and honey. Merlin had rung him up him twice, only to hear Arthur snarl that he was coming to work tomorrow even if he had the plague, and that he didn't care if the rest of the Institute caught the plague from him and died because he had a mountain of work on his desk, and a fund-raiser the week after.
Morgana, perhaps feeling a trifle guilty for having agitated him on the day he fell ill, had visited Arthur during her lunch hour, fussed over him intolerably (according to his later account), and presented him with more chicken soup, as well as cough syrup and decongestant pills, "so you'll stop snorting like a pig." Mordred rang him up later in the afternoon, after school, and, upon Arthur's announcement that he had the plague, calmly informed him that it couldn't possibly be the plague, because there were no flea-infested rats at the Institute, and unless he was vomiting blood and had a high fever with pain and swellings in his armpits and groin, he was probably dealing with a mild case of flu or the common cold.
"Can you believe the boy?" Arthur had said to Merlin that same evening. "He told me to stop panicking, because even if I ever did have the plague, it could be cured with antibiotics. I told him I was only joking, and he was completely nonplussed. Why must he take things so literally? He probably still thinks you're afraid of ginger people."
"That's just the way he is," Merlin replied, thinking of Mordred's uncanny stare, and then surveying the wreck Arthur had made of the bedclothes. "He might outgrow it. Perhaps he'll go into medicine, into research in diseases. How's your fever? I take it you have no swelling in your armpits and groin."
"Not that kind," said Arthur, raising the duvet and looking down the length of his torso. "However...oh, look! If you'd just put your hand here—"
"No way," said Merlin, taking a step back. "Not until you're better. Shall I fetch you an aspirin?"
Arthur had given a melodramatic eye-roll, and Merlin had thoughtfully retreated.
"So…" Lance was saying, looking at his watch. "If we meet in the entrance hall a little after five…"
"Right," agreed Merlin, hoping Gaius wasn't going to fuss if he couldn't stay late to finish up his current work on a sixteenth-century Book of Hours. He had been laboring on that particular manuscript for days. "Would you remind Arthur, Lance? I've got to go back downstairs. Where is it Gwaine wants us to meet him?"
"Downtown, in Greenwich Village," sighed Lance, smiling and shaking his head. "I think he's planning to take us round to several places. He usually winds things up in the East Village, at a place called Gedref's Labyrinth…which is rather a dive."
"Really?" said Merlin, curiously. "Sounds…interesting. Does Gwaine, erm, make a habit of this?"
"Pub crawling, you mean?" Lance asked, an eyebrow raised. "Sometimes he stays put. In one place. If he likes the wait staff, and the service, and there's a horde of pretty girls on the premises. But he often prefers to vary the surroundings."
"Good job it's Friday," Merlin said apprehensively, and Lance burst out laughing.
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"How's the beard coming?" Lance asked as Arthur strolled into the entrance hall at ten minutes past five.
Since the first day of his cold, Arthur hadn't shaved, and had just gotten past the stubble stage. When Merlin asked him over breakfast why he had suddenly decided to grow facial hair, Arthur had shrugged, grinned a bit self-consciously, and said that he had always wanted to see what he looked like with a beard.
"I doubt I'll keep it, once I have one, but it'll save some time in the mornings, not having to shave," he murmured. "You can grow one as well…that could be interesting."
"I'll think it over," Merlin replied with a little smile, fingering his chin doubtfully. "I don't know…it might be good for a laugh, at any rate."
Arthur had looked his jawline over consideringly, and then run the side of his hand along Merlin's cheekbone, and his fingers over the soft fullness of his lips. This had led to other things, naturally, most of which took place on or around the kitchen table as well as on the floor.
"Like teenagers," Merlin commented, still breathing fast as Arthur stood up and then pulled him to his feet. "We'll be late unless we take a cab."
At work, in the Conservation studio, he had asked his colleagues what they would think of his growing a beard. Will howled with laughter, but Gaius had patted him on the shoulder and said that it wouldn't do any harm, and might even supply them all with a modicum of daily entertainment.
"Gwaine's got a good beard," Arthur said as he, Merlin, and Lance walked to the subway station. "I'll ask him how long it took to get that way."
"Speaking of beards," said Merlin, dodging to avoid a skateboarder, "is Leon coming along as well?"
"He might meet us there," Lance said. "He said he'd like to."
"If Morgana lets him off the leash," Arthur muttered. "I doubt that she'll show up, though. She and Gwen were thinking of having a girls' night out, and she said she had no desire to see a group of grown men get completely pissed and make fools of themselves."
"I suppose Gwaine might have a lady friend with him?" Merlin said, and Lance shrugged.
"He might," he said, smiling. "Sometimes he does. Other times, he just cruises the room until he finds somebody who appeals to him. And it isn't always a girl. But I doubt he'll go home alone. What Gwaine wants, he usually gets."
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Gwaine was waiting for them in Sheridan Square, in the West Village. When Arthur, Lance, and Merlin emerged from the subway station into crowds of locals, New York University students, tourists, and youthful stoners, they saw him leaning against a tall, wrought-iron fence, his leather jacket partially unfastened, the breeze blowing through his thick, wavy brown hair.
"He looks like an advertisement for a pricey men's cologne, or Calvin Klein jeans," Lance murmured under his breath, and Merlin chuckled.
"Ralph Lauren, maybe, or Abercrombie and Fitch," Lance added wryly, as Gwaine abandoned the fence and sauntered over in their direction.
Gwaine shook hands with Arthur and Lance, and clapped Merlin on the back.
"I've been asking Lance to bring you along some Friday," he said, ushering them toward a door in on of the old brick-walled buildings facing the square.
The first pub Gwaine took them into was a deceptively sedate-looking establishment with photographs of famous New York journalists of the 1960s and 70s on wood paneled walls. As it turned out, it was a popular hangout for many currently active journalists, some of whom seemed to be on first name terms with Gwaine. They settled at a small table with their drinks, and Arthur checked his mobile for messages from Leon. Then a basketball game suddenly erupted on the TV screen above the bar, and the room filled up with shouting, jostling men.
"Shall we move on, gentlemen?" Gwaine asked, maneuvering his way through the crowd with a half-empty pint in one hand and a smart phone in the other. "We can head for the East Village, or stay in this area…it doesn't much matter to me."
"Leon's on his way," Arthur shouted, over the roaring of the basketball fans. "He said to give him five minutes; he'll meet us outside."
It took them nearly five minutes to wriggle their way through the crowd and out the door, during which time they were elbowed and shoved by the enthusiastic, inebriated clientele, as names like Amare Stoudemire and Lebron James were shouted above their heads. Outside, in the cold air of the square, they caught their breath and were relieved to see Leon loping across the street, waving his arms to catch their attention.
"She let you out, then," Arthur said to his Head of Security. Merlin rolled his eyes, but Leon took this ribbing with good-natured equanimity, and fell into step beside Lance. Ten minutes later, they were ensconced in another, much quieter, pub not far from the first, with their second round of drinks. Merlin, restricting himself to seltzer and lime, watched Gwaine down a tall glass of Long Island Iced Tea ("You know that doesn't have a drop of tea in it!" hissed Leon) with a practiced ease.
"Dylan Thomas used to drink here," Gwaine explained, gesturing at the room, which had a comfortable air of bohemian informality. "And Bob Dylan as well."
"And now?" asked Merlin, glancing around in the hope of seeing recognizable faces from the New York literary or music scene.
"Now Gwaine drinks here," said Gwaine smugly, draining the last drops of his Long Island Iced Tea.
Perhaps this second venue was too quiet for Gwaine, who eventually bundled them all into two taxis and headed for the East Village. There, he led them into a place ominously named Gedref's Labyrinth, and found them a table not too far from the bar.
"Gedref's Labyrinth?" Arthur said to Merlin under his breath. "I hope that doesn't mean it's impossible to find the loo when you need it."
"Which you're going to," Merlin replied, looking at the frothy pint in his Assistant Director's hand.
Whatever the state of the toilet facilities, Gedref's Labyrinth had a much seedier atmosphere and appearance than the pubs they had visited earlier, and the customers looked somewhat rough around the edges. One or two eyed Arthur's tie and well-cut jacket with raised eyebrows. Gwaine, on the other hand, seemed to feel quite at home there, spoke cheerfully to the robust looking woman behind the bar, calling her by name (Mary), and encouraged his companions to make themselves comfortable and ignore the gits sending them odd looks from the other side of the room.
Mary came to the table to take their food orders, her place behind the bar taken by a large, beefy man with an amiable grin ("My cousin Fred.") She swatted Gwaine over the head, smiled at his comrades, and patted Merlin's cheek, calling him a "handsome fellow." Arthur, Lance and Leon finally wandered over to the bar, leaving Merlin to watch Gwaine deal handily with his pint of Guinness.
Two long-haired young girls, who probably had only just attained the legal drinking age, slid past their table, giggling and whispering to each other after glancing at Gwaine's rugged yet neatly sculpted profile, framed by the waves of his rich brown hair. Merlin raised an eyebrow.
"They were looking at you," he said, and almost laughed when Gwaine rolled his eyes toward the ceiling.
"They're infants," he murmured, smiling. "Adorable, but they're just kids. Anyway, the night's young. I don't always need to have a lady by my side, as nice as that is."
"Lance says you're very popular," Merlin ventured, and Gwaine shrugged.
"Ah," he said musingly. "I've always gotten by. But I seem to have a knack for fancying people who are unavailable."
"Not Gwen!" Merlin exclaimed before he could stop himself.
Gwaine squinted down at the foam topping off his Guinness. "No," he said, sounding amused. "Not Gwen. She's a lovely girl, of course, and I wouldn't have turned her away if I found her sitting on my bed one night…before she married Lance, naturally. But no, I was thinking of somebody else entirely."
"And this person's not interested?" asked Merlin a little absently, looking across the room to where Arthur and Lance were collecting their pints at the bar.
"I'm afraid not," came the casual reply. "At least, I'm fairly certain not." Merlin turned to face him, and found that Gwaine was looking him straight in the eyes.
"Well, you'll never know unless you ask, will you?" Merlin said, and then as soon as the words left his lips, a horrible suspicion struck him and he wished he had kept his mouth shut.
Gwaine lounged back in his chair, all bright eyes and lazy smile, sinuous, catlike body, and innuendo. "If I thought there was a chance for me…well, never mind. When do you two fly out to London?"
With a gesture, he indicated the Institute's Assistant Director, still standing by the bar.
Merlin breathed an almost audible sigh of relief, relief that he hadn't had to play stupid, or that he hadn't had to say, "Please stop now."
"Oh…Lance told you? About…erm, well. We haven't made reservations as yet, but we're thinking mid to late M-March. When young Mordred has his spring break."
Gwaine opened his mouth to reply, but an increase in the volume of conversations at the bar made them both turn their heads. Leaning forward in his chair, Merlin could see that one of the more sodden looking patrons had hooked a finger in Mary's waistband, partly pulling her across the bar, as he shouted some sort of angry criticism in her face. Not surprisingly, Arthur was in the process of intervening, although he was speaking in a quiet and level voice as he pushed the man back. Merlin got to his feet at the moment that the sodden customer turned from Mary only to swing his fist in the direction of Arthur's face.
"Bloody hell," muttered Gwaine, getting to his own feet. "Now they're in a bit of a pickle," and he strode towards the altercation before Merlin could say a word. Arthur had evaded the customer's blow with ease (merely leaning back a little), blocking a second swing with his forearm, but the customer's friends, an equally sodden foursome of very large men, were charging towards the bar.
"Here now, Jack, there's no need for any of this," Mary was saying, but Jack and his mates paid her absolutely no attention, simply lunging (drunkenly) at Arthur and, by extension, Lance. From the look of things, Lance was perfectly willing to use force to fend them off, and was as handy with his fists as Arthur, so that within seconds the two were embroiled in a classic example of a bar fight.
"Bloody hell," Gwaine said again, but he was grinning as he ploughed into Arthur's opponents, fists flying. Leon, emerging from the Men's Room, took one look, and joined the fray with a vengeance. It seemed as though the room was filled with men throwing punches and crashing into tables; drinks were spilling all over the place, and Merlin was wondering whether he should join in – he had never been much of a fighter and would probably only get in the way – when one of Jack's more ungainly friends staggered backward into him, knocking over his table in the process.
"Fuckin' urghhh," bellowed Jack's mate, looking round for somebody to blame, and fixing a bloodshot eye on Merlin. His meaty fist flew in Merlin's general direction, and Merlin managed – mostly by fluke – to knock him to the floor with an elbow to the sternum.
Jack's mate was on his feet less than thirty seconds later, and would have hurled himself onto his accidental opponent, but Merlin found himself gently but firmly pushed aside as Arthur stepped forward from behind him and delivered a precise right hook that sent Jack's unfortunate friend back to the floor.
"That's enough!" shouted Mary, who had emerged from behind the bar. "Take it outside, if you have to, but I'm calling the cops if you don't break it up."
"Awwwww, Mary, I didn't mean nuthin'," mumbled Jack from the pool of beer in which (thanks to Gwaine) he was lying, partly propped up against a stool. Gwaine chuckled and promptly poured a pitcher of sangria over his head.
"Such a waste, eh?" he said, winking at Merlin. Ten minutes later, he and a wobbling Jack had been set to mopping up the floor by an irate Mary, and he waved goodbye to Lance and the others, who had been told to go home and "sleep it off."
"I'm not drunk," Lance protested, but Leon hauled him out of the pub unceremoniously. Gwaine was swabbing away at the floor with a flourish, and although the two barely-legal girls had vanished, several young woman of a more appropriate age had materialized, and were staring at him with undisguised admiration.
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Once home, Merlin stole a look at Arthur out of the corner of his eye. Both of them were rumpled and their clothes were stained with splashes of beer, but Arthur was sporting a black and blue mark below his left eye and a swollen lip. Before Merlin could offer him the first use of the shower, a telephone call came in from Mordred ("What is he doing awake at this hour?"), and Arthur sat down in the study to take it, whilst Merlin showered and brushed his teeth. Not long after he came out of the bathroom, toweling his hair dry, Arthur left the study and passed him in the hallway, whistling, his eyes almost unnaturally bright with what looked like exuberance. It was obvious that the very macho events of the evening had actually put him into a gleeful mood.
Merlin wasn't given much time to think about the events of the evening, because no sooner had Arthur emerged from the shower than he practically tossed Merlin onto the bed and flung himself down seconds later. His kisses were hungry and intense, and his hands clutched Merlin to him with an almost feverish possessiveness; Merlin had the feeling that there would be bruises tomorrow.
"Arthur—" he began, reprovingly; he was about to say "Is this because of that bar fight?" – but Arthur growled (he actually growled!) and flipped him neatly onto his stomach. A moment later, he felt Arthur's weight spread across his back, and his teeth were grazing his shoulder as he pressed Merlin into the already rumpled sheets and pillows.
"I've read about this in books," Merlin panted, coming up for air. "In the old days, men came home from battle, all pumped up with conquest and testosterone, and jumped on their…ah, aaahhhh!" as Arthur pushed in with almost nothing in the way of preparation. Merlin's face was against the pillow and he felt Arthur pressing urgent kisses between his shoulder blades and up and down his nape, his breathing harsh and rapid. "Sorry," gasped Arthur indistinctly, into his hair. "Was that too…?" "A bit late to ask, isn't it," Merlin thought somewhere at the back of his mind, but there was an obvious disconnect between his brain and his mouth, and the only sounds that emerged from his lips, every time Arthur moved, were beyond embarrassing. They usually did this face to face, and much less savagely, yet Arthur's sudden fierce and driving dominance was exciting in a way Merlin vaguely hoped wasn't pervy. They twisted and turned like a pair of coupled dolphins in the ocean, and the conclusion, when it came, was white-hot and explosive.
The next morning Arthur eyed his bruised lip and cheekbone in the mirror with the manly satisfaction of a Spartan freshly returned from battle, or the survivor of a medieval knightly melee, and sat down at the breakfast table with his shoulders back and his head held high. He wolfed down massive quantities of food with the pride of a conquering hero, and Merlin suspected that Gwaine was doing the same, unless he was still asleep in the arms of whichever awe-struck girl he had gone home with.
