Chapter 35: Love, Interrupted
There was another flurry of knocks, slightly louder this time, and Arthur sighed gustily with annoyance. Merlin, staring wide-eyed at the door, drew back slightly, letting Arthur's hands slip from his waist.
"Who the hell could it be at this hour?" his Assistant Director hissed, and Merlin gave a nervous cough.
"Arthur, it's hardly late, barely dark outside…you can't suppose the hotel staff knows we just, erm, got unionized."
Arthur gave an abrupt snort of laughter at Merlin's deliberate misuse of the word, and walked to the door, pulling it open so rapidly that the dark-suited, middle-aged man outside nearly stumbled into the room.
"Yes?" he said quietly, trying to keep the edge of irritation out of his voice. "Is there a problem?"
Behind him, Merlin was muttering, "Partnered? Partnerized? Civil unioned? Civilised?" in what was probably an attempt to humor him.
"Mr Pendragon?" replied the dark-suited man, clearly flustered. "Forgive me—I'm the Manager's assistant, and he asked me to speak to you about…" His voice trailed away with embarrassment as he looked from Arthur, standing in the doorway with his collar open and shirttail halfway out of his trouser waistband, to Merlin, on the other side of the room, shirt unbuttoned and pulled open, his hair rumpled and sticking out in all directions above his brow.
"Yes?" Arthur said again, a little less tersely. If anything, he felt rather sorry for the poor man, through no fault of his own face to face with what was clearly the beginning stage of an erotic situation.
The Manager's assistant cleared his throat. "Your pardon for disturbing you—it's just that there's a guest here who's requested your, uh, aid," he said, stammering and turning red. "A Mr Fisher-King, sir. In Room 319. You're acquainted with the gentleman, I believe, sir?"
"Good lord!" Arthur exploded. "Old Pell—what could he be thinking?"
"He's…he's being looked after downstairs, sir," said the Manager's assistant, in whose face intense embarrassment and anxiety appeared to be fighting a battle. "One of our concierge personnel found him in the hallway, with evidence of, um, an injury to the head of some sort." His voice had dropped noticeably; surely the last thing he wanted was to let any other hotel visitors know of an unpleasant incident on the premises.
"What!" said Arthur blankly, narrowing his eyes. "He's hurt?"
"Well, yes, sir. We have an in-house doctor's aid, who's seeing to him now. But he asked to speak with you, before they take him to hospital."
"To hospital—well, I'm at your disposal," Arthur muttered, casting a regretful look back into the room with its dimmed lights, champagne, enormous bed, and Merlin. "What could have happened to him? I hope not a stroke, or a heart attack."
"I'll come with you," Merlin offered immediately, buttoning his shirt, and Arthur made no reply, simply nodding curtly. But as they followed the Manager's assistant down the hall, and then down a flight of stairs, he gave his junior conservator an apologetic look.
"I don't like the sound of this," he said quietly, reaching out to touch Merlin lightly on the wrist, behind the assistant's back. "Pell's always been strong, for a man of his age, no matter that he looks so frail. No real health issues except for his old injury, but—"
"In here, sir," said the Manager's assistant, veering towards a door marked Private. "If you and your…" He looked at Merlin and then away.
"My partner," Arthur said brusquely. "Mr Emrys."
Clearly relieved at not having made some sort of social gaffe, the Manager's assistant mumbled something polite in Merlin's direction and vanished.
As they stepped inside the room, they saw Pelles Fisher-King seated on a chair, patting cautiously at a streak of blood on the side of his face, as a young woman in a white coat inspected the crown of his head.
"Ah, Arthur," Mr Fisher-King said faintly, with a smile of gratitude. "And Merlin. Thank you for coming to see me…I'm so sorry I had to, uh, disturb you."
Arthur put a hand on his shoulder. "It's alright, Pell, for pity's sake. What's happened to you? Did you fall and hit your head?"
Mr Fisher-King looked indignant. "No, I did not. I should say not." He then gripped Arthur's hand with sudden urgency. "The documents—he was after the documents."
"The documents?" Arthur said questioningly. "You've lost me, Pell. He, what he? What are you—"
"The documents, the documents!" said Mr Fisher-King a little incoherently, wincing as the white-coated young woman dabbed something on his head. "I told you about them, my boy. The eighteenth-century bill of sale, the nineteenth-century sketches of the paintings, and notes by a previous owner. I have them here, in my hotel room."
"Oh!" Merlin interjected, speaking up for the first time. "Somebody tried to steal them from your room?"
"I can't think of any other reason why a person should want to hit me over the head," Mr Fisher-King replied with a touch of asperity. "I've been trying to tell this nice young lady that the hotel must send a security guard or the police to check my room. Sharpish."
"We've rung the police, sir," said the white-coated young woman, soothingly. "They should be here at any moment."
"I'll go have a look," Arthur murmured. "Don't worry, Pell. We'll see to it that your papers are safe."
"Yes, let him look," Mr Fisher-King said, insistently, as a burly young man wearing a badge—from Hotel Security, Merlin guessed—appeared in the doorway. "He's Uther Pendragon's son, he's from a museum; he'll know how to identify the things I'm talking about. They're in a leather portfolio with some other papers, in a case under the bed, Arthur."
Arthur was out the door and striding down the hall seconds later, followed by the security guard, with Merlin just behind them. He had blinked when Pelles Fisher-King identified him as Uther's son ("Now somebody will notify the press," he grumbled under his breath to Merlin), but doubted that any gossip-hounds in tabloid journalism (American or British) would be interested in something as dull as document theft—unless it involved the royal family, the Kardashians, or photos of himself, Merlin, and the burglar, stark raving naked.
Mr Fisher-King's door was closed but unlocked, and the room was dark. Arthur stepped inside, fumbling at the wall for the light switch. Everyone blinked as the light flashed on, and the young man from security stepped into the chamber.
There was an unexpected explosion of motion, as a dark-clad figure burst from behind the wardrobe, completely bowling over the startled Security man, and raced for the door. Arthur, who had moved automatically to block his exit, found the man pounding straight towards him, a fist already swinging in the direction of his face.
Arthur ducked sideways, and the fist that would have slammed into his nose connected with his jaw, hard but not hard enough to render him unconscious. His head snapped back and he staggered at the impact, but turned as the man slid past him, reaching out to grab the back of his shirt before he could either flee or turn to attack. It was then that his assailant suddenly—and quite unexpectedly—crashed to the floor, as Merlin tackled him with a scrambling, flying leap and brought him down.
Arthur's eyes went wide with astonishment, but he and the man from hotel security hastened to secure the fallen burglar—he knew perfectly well that there was no way Merlin was going to be able to hold him down for more than a few seconds, even though he had spread his thin body over as much of the struggling, dark-clad mystery man as he could. Merlin's eyes were blazing; he was flushed with anger, and Arthur felt an instant glow of warmth at the thought that Merlin would risk his own safety, without a second thought, to safeguard his own.
"Are you alright?" panted Merlin, releasing his hold on the burglar, who was muttering furiously into the carpet. "Are you hurt, Arthur?"
"You idiot!" Arthur replied under his breath with a mixture of exasperation, love, and gratitude. "Alright then, let's see who this is," he continued in a normal voice as he deftly flipped their grunting, twisting captive over onto his back and pulled off what looked like a black ski mask.
"Bloody hell…" he then said, nearly as incoherent with surprise as Mr Fisher-King had been earlier. "It's one of ours. I mean, used to be. It's Edwin."
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"I don't understand," Arthur said for what seemed like the tenth time that evening. "What would he gain? Why did he do it?"
"Buggered if I know," mumbled his junior conservator, brow furrowed, and Arthur felt the corner of his mouth twitch, because Merlin only swore when he was very tired, very out of sorts, or was making a joke.
It was past midnight, and they were sitting in a hospital waiting room, waiting to see Pelles Fisher-King. They had come from the police station, where they had spent close to half an hour waiting around until somebody took their statements. Edwin had had his rights explained to him by the custody officer, before being hustled away to be questioned. He had slunk off between two beefy policemen looking decidedly put upon, muttering something about needing to see his solicitor, as he had been badly roughed up by Arthur Pendragon.
"I barely touched him, for God's sake!" Arthur protested. "I only stopped him from getting away." But it was obvious that nobody at the station was taking Edwin's babblings very seriously, as he was clearly unhurt and Arthur was sporting an impressive bruise on his jaw. Not to mention that the hotel security man had given a statement, as a witness to the fact that Edwin had struck first.
"Why did you try to rob Pelles Fisher-King?" Arthur had asked Edwin whilst they were still in the hotel, before the police arrived to take him away. "What could you possibly gain by it? He had no works of art in his room, only some papers. And to strike an old man—"
"Didn't hit him hard," Edwin had said in a sour voice. "He knocked against the wardrobe when he fell. Didn't want to hurt him."
"Then why—?" Arthur repeated, his hands balling into fists at the thought of poor old Pell. He felt completely at sea. He remembered this fellow, Edwin, from the Institute, although he had given notice and quit his job in the gift shop's stockroom earlier that year. He recalled remarking on the man's departure to Gaius, saying that Edwin had left because he had been promised a job as Salesperson at the Getty Museum in California.*
"Why, Edwin?" he said again, sharply.
Edwin had simply muttered darkly about how "none of this was my idea," and how he refused to be "the fall guy" and take the heat for some "stupid old git with delusions of grandeur"—statements that that left Arthur and Merlin exchanging looks of total confusion.
"Who's he talking about?" Arthur asked himself aloud. They had been knocking back cups of coffee, both at the station and the hospital, to keep themselves alert, and now he was reaching for his fourth. "What old git? Surely not Pell. Who, then?"
Merlin shrugged in complete bewilderment. "Somebody he was working for?"
Their bewilderment had been compounded when the news came in that there had been an attempted burglary at the Belgravia home of Sir Uther Pendragon, at roughly the same time as the attack on Pelles Fisher-King.
Edwin had not leveled any formal accusation at Arthur for "roughing him up," and he and Merlin had been allowed to leave, after signing their statements. ("That's the second document I've had to sign today," sighed Arthur. "But I can't say this one's given me any pleasure.") At the hospital, they managed to locate Mr Fisher-King's room, and waited for what seemed an interminable amount of time before they were permitted to speak to him.
"Your papers are intact, and they're at the hotel," Arthur told him. "It was some nit who used to work for us who tried to steal them. I can't think why."
"Neither can I," whispered Pelles Fisher-King, puzzled. "I suppose they have some value, but only as they relate to the fifteenth-century manuscript. Which is safe and sound with your father."
A policeman then requested a few moments to ask some question of the patient, and Arthur and Merlin retired to the hallway.
"I'll just have one last word with him, before we go," Arthur told Merlin, rubbing at his eyes, which were beginning to redden. "Once the officer's gone."
After Arthur re-entered the hospital room, Merlin wandered gloomily down the hall, in search of a magazine to read, or a food machine, or something to help keep himself awake. What he did find was more coffee, which he carried back to the uncomfortable metal chair just outside Mr Fisher-King's door. He was sipping the horrible brew, practicing his disappearing coin trick—one he had taught Mordred some time ago—with his free hand, and wondering if the evening (which was now morning) could get any worse, when Uther Pendragon barreled through the double doors at the end of the sterile white hallway.
"Oh," said Merlin faintly, realizing that things certainly could and now probably would get worse.
"Ah, Merlin," said Uther instantly and sounding almost grateful. "Thank God. Nobody downstairs would tell me anything. Is Arthur—is he alright?"
"He's fine," Merlin hastened to reassure him. "Just some bruises. If it hadn't been for him, that fellow would have got away."
Uther looked relieved. "I couldn't believe when I heard…were you there?"
"Yes, Merlin was there," Arthur said, emerging from Mr Fisher-King's room. "He actually tackled the man when he thought I was in danger of being hurt."
The senior Pendragon rested a heavy hand on Merlin's shoulder for a brief moment, patting it twice, before fastening the hand on Arthur's upper arm. "Are you certain you're not injured?" His eyes went to the angry red mark on Arthur's jaw, which was now well on the way to turning purple.
"Not hurt, just exhausted," his son replied soberly. "What with one thing and another. We spoke with the police. We went to the station and gave statements. Then we came here, to check on poor old Pell. He's been shaken up, but he's going to be fine—they stitched up his head, and he's slept a little. Now he's awake, and talking to a police officer."
"I'll see him, before he goes back to sleep," Uther murmured.
"And then we got word about your break-in…it's hard to believe all of this. Somebody planned it, obviously, but who? And what for?"
"An art theft ring?" Uther said, his voice loud with frustration, but a passing doctor raised a finger to his lips and asked them, in a loud whisper, not to wake the patients.
"For some reason, I don't think it's that simple," his son replied, gingerly fingering his jaw and chin. "And those documents of Pell's don't exactly qualify as art."
"And the burglar used to work for us?" Uther continued with near-disbelief. "Why the devil…? It would have made more sense, from a criminal standpoint, if he had tried to steal a work of art when he was employed at the Institute."
"That's what I meant when I said I don't think it's that simple," Arthur said. "Well, perhaps we'll hear something new before long—" He stopped talking abruptly and gave a tremendous yawn. "An officer at the police station told us they'd be talking to you tomorrow—I mean today—at Belgrave Square, and they asked us to join you." He gave another massive yawn and looked hopefully into his nearly empty coffee cup.
It was then that Uther seemed to realize that the sky beyond the corridor's windows had lightened, and everything outside was clearly visible. He glanced at his wristwatch and bit his lip.
"Good lord," he said, turning towards them but not looking either of them in the face, shifting from one foot to another, awkwardly. "It seems you've been up all night with this mess. I would have come sooner…And this was your…" He then went a little red, and had the grace to look shamefaced.
"Not exactly what I had envisioned for last night," Arthur said quietly to Merlin, so that his father could not hear. "But nobody can say it wasn't exciting." He then smiled as Merlin rolled his eyes and chuckled feebly.
Aloud, he said only, "Now that you're here, Father, if you'd kindly give our good wishes to Pell. We'll need a few hours of sleep before we meet with the police in Belgrave Square this afternoon."
"That's meant to be at four, is it?" Uther said, fumbling in his pocket for his electronic planner, and then staring at it, but Arthur was already pulling Merlin towards the doors at the end of the hall. By the time the senior Pendragon raised his head, he found himself alone in the corridor, save for a bright-eyed young doctor who had just begun his shift, and a very sleepy orderly.
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Outside the hospital, Arthur commandeered a taxi, and gave the address of their hotel as Merlin slid in beside him. They jolted along in silence for a while, neither even trying to suppress their yawns. As extreme fatigue tended to make Merlin giddy, and Arthur testy, they wisely kept silent until Merlin's nodding head briefly came to rest against his Assistant Director.
"Merlin," Arthur said balefully, glaring as Merlin sat up again. "Don't you dare fall asleep on me, and drool all over my shoulder."
"I don't drool," Merlin replied, yawning. "You do. Only a little…sometimes," he added, as Arthur continued to glare at him.
Merlin put a tentative hand out to touch the purpling bruise on the side of Arthur's face, fingers gentle, and Arthur stopped glaring. They exchanged rueful looks, and Arthur let his hand rest lightly on Merlin's thigh.
The cab lurched to a stop in front of the Caerleon, and Merlin, still yawning ferociously, climbed out, followed by his Assistant Director. They walked solemnly to the front desk to check for message; Arthur spoke briefly with the Manager, who was all nervous apologies, and announced that he would like a breakfast—no, two breakfasts—delivered at around two o'clock that afternoon. He and Merlin managed to maintain their dignity until the lift doors had closed behind them, at which point they sagged against the walls of the tiny space until it deposited them at their floor. How they got through the door of their room without one of them collapsing seemed to them to be a miracle.
Somebody must have partly closed the drapes and replenished the wine cooler, but the last thing either of them needed at the moment was a drink. They had come, as well, to the sorry realization that what they needed more than anything was a good several hours of sleep.
Perhaps it was the fatigue that was weakening his brain, Arthur thought, a little crossly, but he didn't think he had ever seen anything as captivating as his fawnlike young conservator, his thin frame all angles and straight lines, almost insubstantial and otherworldly in the dimness of the room. His delicate pallor was offset by his white tee shirt and black jeans, his hair was a dark cap of smudgy points and spikes, and there were shadows beneath those blue eyes, over which his eyelids were drooping lower and lower with every passing moment.
For his part, Merlin peered sideways at his Assistant Director, who was stretching and grimacing unrestrainedly, like a weary athlete after a match of some sort. He watched with sleepy pleasure, seeing Arthur's dark gold lashes flutter over his flushed cheeks as he yawned. After two years spent in his company, Merlin was still periodically amazed by that remarkable beauty.
"I think I'll brush my teeth," he mumbled, rubbing both eyes with his fists. "And sleep until two. That'll give us time to get washed and dressed to meet with Inspector Whatsisname."
"You go first," Arthur responded wearily, gesturing in the general direction of the bathroom. "I hope none of my teeth fall out when I brush them."
Merlin eyed his bruised jaw with a sleepy combination of concern and impish humor.
"People will be thinking we had very rough sex on our so-called wedding night."
"If you don't shut up and get a move on," Arthur growled, "I will perform extremely rough sex on you this instant."
Merlin gave a derisive snort as he headed into the bathroom, but the look he turned on Arthur before shutting the door was one of tenderness mixed with very drowsy ardor. When he staggered out, Arthur took his turn, emerging to find Merlin's clothes strewing the floor between the bathroom door and the bed, and Merlin sprawled under the bedclothes, heaving enormous sighs as he tried to wedge pillows behind his head to his satisfaction.
Arthur flung his own clothing towards a nearby chair (missing it) and climbed in, turning off the single bedside lamp. Merlin scooted over to make room for him—hardly necessary, since the bed was very wide and supremely comfortable. As profoundly tired as he felt, the very sight of those thin, elegant limbs and the smooth ivory of those narrow hips put Arthur into a state of arousal. He slid closer, and pressed his lips against Merlin's brow, and then, when Merlin turned sleepily in his arms, against his mouth, below his ear, and down the length of his neck.
"Arthur," Merlin whispered, eyes closed. "Your-ow! Those teeth!"
Quite forgetting the sharpness of his two pointed eyeteeth—although Merlin had pointed this out on numerous occasions—Arthur had nibbled on his junior conservator's throat, just where the pulse beat beneath the milky skin.
"Sorry," he murmured, a little contritely, although he was too tired to feel very apologetic. He then pulled Merlin so tightly against him that their hips and legs were mashed together.
"Arthur," Merlin said again, in mild protest, his voice muffled. He sounded so exhausted—half asleep, really—that Arthur made a valiant effort to quell his lust, holding Merlin gently against his chest and silently willing himself (with limited success) to deflate.
"Sorry," Merlin whispered in his turn, pressing his face against his Assistant Director's neck, breath ruffling the ends of his blond hair. "Tomorrow, Arthur…I promise."
Arthur and Gaius discussed Edwin's departure from the Pendragon Institute in Chapter 19.