A/N: Warning for suicidal themes/thoughts.
Everything a Man Could Want (part 3)
They say that Richard Cory owns one half of this whole town
With political connections to spread his wealth around
Born into society, a banker's only child
He had everything a man could want – power, grace and style
But I work in his factory,
And I curse the life I'm living, and I curse my poverty
And I wish that I could be… Richard Cory.
Papers print his pictures almost everywhere he goes
Richard Cory at the opera, Richard Cory at a show
And the rumors of his parties and the orgies on his yacht
Heart and soul he must be happy, with everything he's got
He freely gave to charity, he had the common touch
They were grateful for his patronage, and they thanked him very much
So my mind was filled with wonder when the evening headlines read,
'Richard Cory went home last night… and put a bullet through his head.'
But I work in his factory,
And I curse the life I'm living, and I curse my poverty
And I wish that I could be… Richard Cory
~ "Richard Cory", Simon and Garfunkel
…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..
Merlin was actually looking forward to the grand opening of the sunroom on the children's wing of the oncology floor. From the glimpses he'd gotten through plastic sheeting, it was going to be an amazing space – but amazing in a fun, comfortable, kid-friendly way.
Heaven knew the poor things needed a little sun in their lives.
Gwen was home sleeping off her own twenty-hour shift, so Merlin paid special attention to asking those few of the staff who were friends with them both to take pictures for her. His phone – old and decrepit – wouldn't, and a disposable camera was going to be bad form, given the presence of the press and his need to look at least marginally competent at his job. Busy, at least.
A professional cameraman, and a blonde journalist dressed in tight red that matched her lipstick and her heels. Not live, but gathering material. Maybe for the news, maybe for the dinner later – the sponsors and donors who'd schmooze about the dining hall in the conference center, two blocks over and one block down, next to the high-rise hotel. Because the black-tie crowd wasn't coming here-
And these sorts of incidents could be edited out of the official presentation.
Merlin sighed and rinsed his mop again, squeezing grayish water from grayish woolly loops. Evidently cupcakes and chemo didn't mix well.
His area of the tiled hall had been marked with yellow stand-alone caution signs, but the biohazard disinfectant water spattered a little further when he slopped the mop back onto the floor. Just as someone walked past - fancy dress trousers and fancy dress shoes and Merlin was too poor and uncultured even to guess at a designer label or price tag.
"Oops," he said involuntarily. His hospital ID swung against his chest as he straightened, ready to make an effusive apology, but.
It was Him. Layered golden hair, casually wind-swept for a look that said, I can walk out of the boardroom onto the beach and still fit right in. Ice blue eyes gave Merlin a glare – I pay people to squish things like you-
"Watch what you're doing!" the journalist at his side squawked reflexively, forgetting Merlin in the next moment as she stomped on in her own memorable red heeled shoes. "Mr. Cory, our audience will be curious – what makes an attractive single gentleman like yourself interested in this sort of charity work-"
Sandra paused in escorting them out, and her glare was personal. Intimidating, coming as it did from nearly a foot below Merlin's eye-height. The administrator could match him for weight, however; she was built like a very capable and self-assured and feminine tank, her dark hair cut in a cap that curled slightly under her ears.
"One complaint from him gets you fired," she reminded him in a low voice. "You better hope he has other things on his mind, and forgets you exist."
She narrowed her eyes to screw her point to his sticking place, and marched double-time to catch up with the other two, her demeanor melting from stern to placating in case an extra official apology was needed. Rich boy was looking down, turning his feet like he was inspecting the damage to his shoes.
Merlin watched them out of sight, his nose twitching with the familiar scent of lemon oil and ammonia.
"Every girl wants to do him, every guy wants to be him," Sierra sighed from the nurse's station behind him. "I should also say, in this day and age – plenty of girls want to be him, and plenty of guys want to do him…"
"Not me," Merlin retorted, returning to his mopping. "Not the one nor the other."
Sierra made a noise that was contemplatively unconvinced, turning back to her own work. "What does it say about jealousy in your psychology textbooks?"
Merlin ignored her.
Out of sight, out of mind… but he'd taken the temp job with the caterer for tonight's event at the conference center. He'd have to hope that he wasn't memorable enough – or clumsy enough – to catch the rich boy's attention again. Twice in one day would be pushing his luck. Then again, he thought he could reasonably assume – knock on wood – that he wouldn't be called on to clean up vomit at the dinner tonight.
…..*….. …..*….. …..*…..
Merlin shined his Sunday shoes with a black Sharpie over the worn spots to darken them. And snapped his bowtie into place with an elastic band because no one had ever taught him to tie a bowtie – not that he'd really had occasion to need it, before now. Not that it was his occasion, anyway.
"You know, you can look up how to tie a tie on the internet," Gwen remarked, pushing open his bedroom door, which he left ajar habitually unless he needed her not to come in. "You-tube videos."
"Yeah, but this is faster." He tried to flatten his hair with his fingers.
"Comb?"
He made a derogatory noise and turned. She was dressed as he was, black trousers and white collared shirt with bowtie; she also had her curly black hair in a smooth bun at the nape of her neck, and the same ballet flats on her feet that she'd been wearing to service since he met her. "We gotta go anyway," he said. "Or we'll be late."
Not late for the event. Late for the caterer's staff, who set up the buffet tables in the ballroom and arranged the serving trays on a long counter in the kitchen, ready to carry out among the guests a discreet ten minutes later. Time enough for guests to arrive, divest themselves of outer garments, begin to greet each other and schmooze.
Gwen got lucky; she was assigned to the buffet table. Clean small spills, monitor plates-napkins-silverware, trade out demolished platters for fresh ones.
Merlin, on the other hand, was required to balance his tray of cheesy fish paste in pastry shells with a twig of some herb garnish – was that meant to be chewed and swallowed? – and maneuver among guests without spilling. Or tripping.
After his second mostly-successful circumnavigation of the room, he fetched up next to Gwen's position at the back corner of one of the tables slightly out of breath.
"You didn't see that, did you?" he asked, referring to his stumble over a table leg – hidden by floor-length tablecloth. Two of the hors d'oeuvres had slid from his tray in their little paper cups, but he'd managed to nudge them under the table in the next step.
"See what?"
"Never mind." Mood lighting. Little battery lamps at the tables, comfortably dim everywhere else. They were meant to do the clean-up, anyone who could stay, and he'd remember which table it was.
"He's here," she added, her eyes focused past his shoulder.
"Who?" Merlin followed her gaze, but his mind caught up before his eyes did.
Richard Cory, of course. Who else? The light gleaming off smooth-combed golden hair and the slightly-crooked grin as he bent to take the jeweled hand of an elderly admirer between both of his. Merlin wondered briefly if their parents' generation had been so focused on his father, making the millions and acquiring and building the various businesses. Not to the same extent, he guessed. Damn media. Damn social media, too.
"Remind me to keep my distance," he muttered to Gwen. So far Sandra hadn't said that Merlin was being let go from the hospital over a complaint from their most important stockholder-donor-chairman… but there was always that late-rent notice to worry about, too? Would Gwen be evicted too, if he was?
"Just watch where you're putting your feet," Gwen suggested, far too amused for Merlin's liking.
"If I'm doing that, then I'm not watching where I'm going," Merlin argued, trying not to move his lips too far from the smile he hoped looked more professional than a disgruntled grimace. "Or the tray – or the people. My life insurance couldn't cover the dry cleaning bill."
Gwen tilted her head toward him. "I didn't know you had life insurance."
"I don't. Can't afford it." He offered her the serving tray. "Trade me places?"
"Well…" Gwen reached agreeably, glancing around to see if there was going to be any negative attention. "Oh!"
Merlin followed her eyes again and grimaced for real. Their employer with the caterer stood at the other end of the table, arms crossed, glaring. He'd said something at the beginning of the evening about balance and aesthetic, the girls at the tables and the men circulating the trays… He uncrossed his arms to flick his fingers peremptorily at Merlin. Circulate!
He muttered an expletive under his breath, plastering the professional grin on his face and ignoring Gwen's sympathetic look. He whirled, intending to begin the easiest pattern between the tables – and had to bend almost double, yanking his tray protectively into the curve of his body to avoid slamming it into a tuxedo-clad guest. Pasty pastry papers slid – teetered – almost upended as the person elbowed the tray away rudely.
Merlin bit his tongue on a sharp Watch it! glancing up to catch a gleam of that golden hair, and the second stormy glare of the day.
Damn his life.
At least Richard Cory didn't seem to recognize him as the hospital orderly with the mop bucket. At least it wasn't Richard Cory's tuxedo – or Italian leather shoes – in danger. It was his father's.
Once millionaire. Now billionaire. If Richard Cory was the dorsal fin of the financial shark, this man was the teeth.
"Sorry," Merlin blurted in an ingratiating mutter. "Lo siento. Je suis desolee. Mea culpa."
He actually bowed, trying to extricate himself from the awkward almost-altercation, but the elder Mr. Cory ignored him. So totally that he overheard what he was not meant to overhear, backing away not quickly enough.
"…Plenty of stupid decisions in your life, but this was the worst. According to the numbers, this ridiculous sun-room will show negative profit for at least two seasons, with another six to eight breaking even, and at least five years before the return percentages are double digits!"
"That was taken into account, Father. I believe you're not giving enough weight to certain unquantifiable benefits-"
Mr. Cory Senior made a rude noise, turning to gesture for Gwen to handle plate-napkin-silverware and arrange his selection to order for him.
Merlin made his escape as swiftly and unobtrusively as possible. For the next half-an-hour he tried to keep both infamous father and son in the corner of his eye so he could avoid their general vicinity. And if they complained about lack of service from him personally, better that than anything more concretely negative.
Though, curious. He wouldn't have expected the golden boy to garner criticism from anyone, much less a parent. Didn't everyone's parents want kids like Richard Cory?
His luck took an upswing during the dinner, and it fell to some other poor sap to serve the table assigned to the Corys. Merlin tried to keep his back to them in laying out and picking up, two tables over, so no stray glance would remind either man to glare in such a way that would unnerve him enough to do some real klutzy damage, and draw the kind of attention that gets a server fired. So far, so good.
The serving staff was lined at the side of the room during the presentation, and in the dim lighting with everyone focused on the images projected onto a screen, Merlin managed to squeeze in next to Gwen. He wanted to re-live the children's party through her reactions, and he wasn't disappointed.
Soft gasps, big smiles, shining eyes, and a quick whisk-away of extra moisture when the presenter finished. Merlin had a moment to allow vague impressions of the future to half-form – some place like that sun-room, when he was working with children diagnosed with mental or emotional conditions…
"Can't wait to see it," Gwen whispered.
Then Cory the Elder stepped up to the microphone, and the attentive hush of the presentation died to absolute silence. He wasn't sunny or charming like his son – nor striking and vivacious like the legally-trained but less-publicized daughter.
Gwen admired her; part of that might have been a feminist-sympathetic reaction to the assumption of the entire financial kingdom being reserved for the male heir apparent. But the female Cory was so far out of Merlin's league he didn't bother paying attention to her appearance in various news outlets; he wasn't near as annoyed with that obsession as he was with the general fixation on Mr. Rich and Handsome. Everything and so much more than Merlin busted his butt for, just handed to him. And received with ungrateful boredom.
"Thank you all for coming tonight. We appreciate the show of support for this project from the community-"
From the community's top five percent, Merlin thought sardonically.
"When my son first broached the concept of this project-" He gestured to the side; Richard Cory straightened from his lounging position against one of the room's pillars; everyone applauded with polite enthusiasm. "I wasn't certain this day would ever come – this project seen to successful culmination. Not because he has a poor track record in business decisions…"
Well-bred titters rippled the room. A backhanded compliment – you did fine son wrapped in of course nowhere near my level of talent and garnished with, we're rather surprised at this level of success from you.
"But because we'd already done several mammoth charity projects and we just weren't sure if the finances were going to allow for another one."
Flat smile. Of course I support charity. On top of It's a necessary evil for a billionaire businessman. But even charity was speculation, wasn't it, for someone like him? Always getting something back – like the positive press from tonight.
Merlin began to wonder why Richard Cory wasn't at the microphone, if this was his project – and pushed in spite of the expenses. As Cory the Elder – who still disapproved, evidently – began to expound each step of the process, simultaneously praising some instrumental individual and tacitly claiming credit, Merlin looked for the man's son. Didn't see him at the pillar, didn't see him through the rest of the room.
"So please enjoy the rest of your evening as our thanks for your contributions," the businessman concluded.
Merlin missed the rest of his remarks as the catering staff nudged each other back to action, down the line of elbows. Go again – who cares if you've been on your feet all day – you gotta glide like a swan with a tray of fancy single-bite desserts for another hour if you want rent money.
"Did you see where he went?" he said in Gwen's ear, following her a few steps as she headed back to her post at the corner of the table. He didn't have to say who he meant.
"No – maybe outside for some air?"
Merlin's reaction skipped over why he might need it. Rich boy probably met twenty interested and eligible girls a night. "Good – if I only have to worry about avoiding one Cory now…"
…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..
He slipped out a side door of the ballroom before his father had finished the speech-ending toast, and made his way through dim empty corridors to a rear exit without seeing another person.
His heart thundered in his ears with every step, and his throat threatened to choke the air from his lungs no matter how many times he swallowed to clear it. He pushed through the rear exit explosively, harsh scraping noises echoing through the hall behind and the lot ahead of him, the valet-parked luxury vehicles of the events' attendees. He was probably lucky it wasn't an emergency exit, setting off alarms and bringing security running… He didn't have his keys. They were with the valet service desk.
He wasn't going back.
So he set off walking. Traffic was nonexistent in the alleys that divided the buildings of the city block from each other, lined with dumpsters and rutted with sewer grates. He was at the heart of a city, and he was alone. He had everything; he had nothing.
The alley ended on a four-lane street – he couldn't remember which one, or what compass points it connected. He paused in the wash of traffic noise – tires rubbing pavement, distant horns and shouts, music muffled and transitory. Laughter from the street corner where people loitered at the bus stop.
Just next to him, the neon sign of a liquor store blinked rhythmically. Beckoning. He turned his steps, and entered to a squeak of hinges and a garish chime of cheerful alarm. The lights inside cast a yellow-green stain over the rows of shelves of glass bottles, myriad colors and shapes and he thought of the story of the genie inside, all-powerful and wish-granting. Only that was a lamp, wasn't it.
"How's it going, mister…"
He turned to see the clerk – they two had the store to themselves for the moment. The man's forehead had receded past the crown of his head, shiny yellow-green, the same as his teeth, showing an overbite as he smiled. In a single moment, the man's expression changed from obsequious welcome to a searching puzzlement to a dawning recognition.
Damn the tuxedo.
"Evening," he said, forcing cheerfulness. And turned down the first aisle.
Vodka. Good enough. He grabbed at a tall slim cobalt-blue bottle, tucking it into his elbow and another clinking next to it and another, and a fourth in his free hand – because for him, only one bottle was going to invite questions. And then to the check-out to expedite this encounter.
"Mr. – Cory, isn't it?" the clerk said, giving him a ghastly grin as he approached. "What brings you… here?"
He summoned an answering smile, full of charm that no one ever noticed was false. Sometimes, Morgana. But only sometimes.
"Hey, it's my party," he said lightly, setting the bottle down next to the cash register. "Can't let it run dry, can I? The Skyy's the limit."
The man didn't seem to catch the pun, avidly focused on absorbing his features and missing the first bottle he grabbed for.
He allowed the man his profile, distracting both of them by fishing out his wallet. A hundred-dollar bill – leave no hard evidence in the form of a credit card receipt or a signature in case the man tried to go public with his story. "The change is yours," he said, gathering up his bottles again. "Excellent service, by the way – keep it up."
And never mind the sarcasm.
He had to juggle a bit to get a hand on the door handle sufficient to trigger the jangling alarm and let himself out. And knowing that his suit and his vodka was going to draw attention on the street, he ducked back down the alley.
Found a dumpster lid handily ajar, and dumped three of the bottles. Thud-thud-whuff. Half-full of garbage. A sad commentary on our times. His life too, maybe.
Twisting the cap off the one remaining bottle, he took a careless swig – and coughed, almost spitting it back out. Awful stuff. Flavored like… citrus? Crap.
Anyway. He took another long series of swallows – get it down without noticing the taste - sauntering back down the deserted alleyway and well aware of the picture he presented if anyone caught him. That's why he wouldn't do this, normally. Get well and truly drunk, and he couldn't control the narrative – and he'd already had the champagne at the function dinner.
His father would emerge eventually from the conference center. Might ask if his car was still in the lot – probably the valet service had rules about discretion, but his father was… his father. They wouldn't even consider denying him an answer.
His heel turned on a broken bit of curb, and in stumbling, he chose to drop all the way to his butt on the crumbling lip of concrete. Probably when his was the last car in the lot, they'd call his cell. If he didn't answer, they might assume he'd hitched a ride with someone else. They might speculate who. They'd leave a message for him to arrange to get his keys the next day.
And meanwhile, they'd lock the keys safely away and go home to their beds and their families and their lovers, and he'd be stranded on the street all night. Someone might notice, and it might turn into… something embarrassing. And if he showed up the next day to get his keys still wearing rumpled evening-wear, there would be rumors. Unsubstantiated, but still.
He absolutely hated the fact that he couldn't stop thinking about being careful. Feeling that burden of can't. have to. Desperate to break free of stifling, smothering constrictions and knowing he wouldn't.
Another swig. Make it two. Make it three.
He considered the sewer grate half a step from his smeary-shiny shoe. He could dump the contents of his wallet to be washed away. Leave the wallet lying.
Smash the bottle – when it was empty – over his own head.
When it broke, he could use it on his forearms. Through his shirt. Defensive wounds from a mugging, maybe.
If it didn't kill him, it might earn him some damn rest in a hospital stay. Some sympathy with his father and Morgana. Fleeting and momentary. Nope I didn't get a clear view, officer…
What if he feigned brain damage, though? Would they let him retire to some quiet bungalow somewhere and someday forget to check that he was really brain-damaged?
There wouldn't be any fingerprints but his own on the bottle. Was it feasible to claim an unknown assailant had been wearing gloves.
Carefully he turned his hand on the cobalt-blue neck, switching his grip to be able to swing, not swig.
Just to see. Just to test. Just to feel the difference in the balance.
It would be less violent than running his car off the road like he'd swerved to avoid some nocturnal critter. Less pain, probably. More questions, though, if he wasn't too dead to answer them by the time anyone thought to ask…
His eyes shifted involuntarily past his contemplated bottle, to realize someone else was present, an unnoticed arrival. Black trousers, white shirt, bow tie.
One of his peers, he assumed, from the dinner.
He also assumed the charming grin, in lifting his head to deal with the intrusion and slipping his fingers back the right way on blue glass made slippery with condensation. "Helluva party, huh? I can't stand champagne, though – care for a taste of something harder? This, this is a celebration."
"What the hell are you doing?" the man said. He sounded young, and bewildered, and maybe disgusted.
He blinked and focused a bit more on the one who'd joined him so abruptly. Black hair, awkwardly uncombed. Hands in his pockets. Cheap knock-off evening clothes, and another realization swam to him on vodka fumes. Not a peer. Serving staff. Dammit, that probably meant publicity…
Another wave of alcoholic effect, another realization of recognition.
"Holy hells," he said blankly. "You? Are you stalking me?"
The orderly in navy scrubs at the hospital, carelessly sloshing puke-water. Somehow, also on the wait-staff for tonight's event, very nearly sloshing some kind of pâté all over his waistcoat.
The young man shifted as if he wanted to walk away. At least he didn't have his phone out, snapping pics or calling reporters. "You know your family owns half this town, right?"
He snorted. Did not need reminding.
"So, half this town works for you. And those of us who need two jobs to pay the rent for one of your high-rises, we get to work for you twice."
"Bet that burns your ass," he said, baring his teeth to shift the charm of the smile. "Take your shot. Take a swing. Kick a man while he's down. Now's your chance – I may not even remember this, come morning."
The waiter-orderly shifted again, glancing back toward the conference center. "The party's over," he remarked. "Everyone who's anyone is gone."
He must have blanked on more than an hour, somehow.
"Some of the staff are still cleaning up. They said I could go – they didn't want my help."
"I wonder why," he said, goading. "Cleaning is clearly not your forte."
The waiter-orderly looked at him again, not taking offense like Arthur wanted him to. "I was going to wait for my friend anyway…"
And abruptly, he stepped to the curb and crouched down to the edge, arms loosely wrapping his knees, close enough to lean and be able to touch.
"The hell are you doing?" he said blankly, unintentionally repeating the other's first words to him.
"Do you have someone you can call?" his unwanted companion said.
He scoffed derision for the idea that he would need help, but found his free hand fumbling in his pocket for his phone anyway. It seemed the thing to do, to turn it on and select his contacts list. And scroll through… and keep scrolling.
Name after name after name after name after name after…
No one. Maybe they'd respond, but they wouldn't be discreet, not for his sake. Not when gossip and shared notoriety was so much more titillating. He could pay for discretion and hope it was enough to last forever… and lose respect.
His contact list reached the bottom – Zach O. – and bounced. And bounced, refusing to give him more options.
But he did have another option, didn't he? His thumb shifted to Calls Made, and his mouth asked casually, "Is this Friday?"
"You mean is it still Friday, or is it past midnight?" the waiter-orderly said.
He ignored the non-answer, lifting the phone to his ear. Waiting for the familiar automated greeting giving him options. Waiting for a human voice to speak a perfunctory welcome in his ear – and then not waiting for her to finish.
"Is Merlin there tonight?"
Beside him, the waiter-orderly inhaled sharply through his nostrils, stiffening straight. He ignored him.
"No, I'm sorry he's not, but I'm pleased you chose to call us. What seems to be the problem you're currently experiencing?"
Words piled up on his tongue, clogging his throat, choking him. Everything. Nothing. People had trauma, and he wanted to complain about family pressure and job tension and feelings of loneliness and isolation and incompetence?
"Um," he said, leaning his forehead into the chill of the vodka bottle, his elbow propped on the knee nearly level with his chin. "It's… nothing, really. I've just… called a couple of times, and talked to Merlin, and…"
And then I feel better? he mocked himself. And it helps to talk about my feelings.
It did help to talk about his feelings. Put words to his thoughts. Definition was the first step of control, maybe. And was there a step in there that was surmounting? But it seemed he couldn't do that with just anyone.
"I'm sorry, Merlin isn't here tonight."
Isn't here tonight. No one was here tonight. An existential answer.
"Sir? Can I-"
"You know what?" he said into the phone. "Never mind. This was a stupid idea anyway." He let his arm fall, ignoring the insistent squawking of the person trying to get him to open up.
He didn't open his eyes. On a sudden surge of temper and disgust, he threw his phone with a shattering clatter against the rough brick of the opposite wall of the alley. And couldn't help being aware that the younger man next to him flinched at the abrupt violence.
"Damn," the waiter-orderly said, forcing light amusement. "You really are a spoiled rich boy, huh? You can afford to destroy your own fancy expensive toys when you get upset."
He shook his head, setting the half-emptied bottle of vodka down with an unsteady clunk, and dug the heels of his hands into his eye sockets. "Go away," he said wearily. "Leave me alone, for the love of…"
"You sure you don't need someone to talk to?" his unsolicited companion said in a low voice.
He snorted, sounding sarcastic and feeling desperate. "I don't know you. I don't trust you. Go away."
The waiter-orderly shifted, and he was sure he was going to be left alone – was annoyed more bearable than lonely? But the young man only pulled his wallet from his back pocket and shuffled through it.
"Sometimes I wonder if actual moths are going to flutter out of here someday," the waiter-orderly commented.
Inanely, in his opinion. But the shoulder that nudged his was a shock of presumptuous familiarity, and he could only glare incredulously with his eyes open. The other flipped a card selected from his wallet at him in invitation, and he didn't understand. There was nothing in this guy's wallet he wanted – but it wasn't a business card or a credit card. It was his government-issued ID.
"Here."
He took it almost involuntarily. "The hell is this?"
"Um. I find this mildly embarrassing too, but I'm pretty sure I'm not wrong. So I can't just walk away. Not that I would anyway, but…"
He studied the photo – it looked like the kid had just been stabbed with a pixie stick. Startled, and manically cheerful. He was a donor. So what?
"It's a small world after all, huh? You own my apartment building. You might as well own the hospital where I work, the college where I'm getting my degree. And then tonight…"
Still uncomprehending, he turned his head to stare into earnest compassion, and still he resisted. "What do you want from me?"
His companion's mouth twisted into a wry smile. "Look at the name, Arthur."
He was obeying the suggestion before the use of that name registered in fogged consciousness. Then another name registered. Merlin Emrys. 211 Sunny Pines #503…
Merlin. He kept staring – stupidly – not even sure how to react. "Your name? is actually Merlin?" Because, no one else…
"Yeah. And Arthur is…"
"My middle name," he said without thinking. He was screwed; he'd told Merlin – this was Merlin? – so damn much. And now he knew, or at least could guess, so much more.
"What are the odds, huh?" Merlin nudged him again, giving an amused little huff of a chuckle. "I've never met anyone from the call center before – at least not that I know of."
Hells. Mustering as much threat as he could into his glare, two-thirds of his way into a bottle of citrus vodka, he threatened, "If you tell anyone, anything-"
The startled look made an appearance. Along with something not unlike disappointment. "I wouldn't. I take code of conduct pretty seriously, and even if I didn't… I have principles. I wouldn't do that to a friend."
What.
He said, reluctant to surrender to the appeal of the word, "We're not friends."
"No, I know." Merlin shrugged. "But why not? We could be, maybe. You never know until you try."
It occurred to him, Merlin could have walked away, after realizing who he was. Only he didn't.
Because he was wealthy and powerful – and therefore useful and convenient and rewarding? Because of that private code of honor for people who coached strangers out of their pill-bottle-reverie funks?
"Why?" he asked, still stupidly. Because people didn't ask that question – or answer it honestly.
Merlin shrugged awkwardly, forearms crossed over his knees and long fingers wrapping his biceps loosely. He tucked his chin shyly, almost hiding a grin. "I'd kinda like to keep my jobs. And my home. And… I don't really have a lot of friends. I don't have time to make new friends. Like you said, co-workers don't really count."
"I don't have any friends," his mouth said, independent of his brain.
Merlin didn't protest, or even act surprised. "You have me. And we can… hang out here… or go back to mine, if you want somewhere different to crash. Or ride the bus til they park it for the night, and talk. Or not."
He studied Merlin. Young and self-admittedly poor. Hard-working and hopeful. Willing to do what he needed – and not just to suppress or deny the issues, filling the time with expensive distractions selfishly shared for personal enjoyment. Maybe he was, exactly the way he sounded on the phone, in real life.
Was it worth taking the chance, to find out?
Again without thinking first, he said, "What do you want to do?"
"Need to call my roommate, probably, no matter what we decide," Merlin answered contemplatively. "Let her know whatever's going on."
Roommate and her was an interest that cleared vodka-haze somewhat, and he remembered Merlin telling him that before, on the phone. Not girlfriend. There was a story there, and the fact that he was interested in someone's life – not resisting someone trying to get inside his life, but offering for him to join theirs… That was new – and it felt good. This was one of those ordinary people he never met, a decent friendly person who'd donate a kidney, or just a spare shirt.
Merlin blinked and lost his gaze as if surprised by another realization. "Should probably get some sleep at some point. Twenty-hour shift at the hospital tomorrow – and then I'm on at the call center tomorrow night. Not tonight, because of this gig…"
He had no desire to reclaim his keys and his car, right now, even if the valet staff were still around. Would anyone recognize him traveling on the bus? Maybe not in company with Merlin dressed so similarly, and being called by his middle name – which wasn't popularly known. And in the morning he could probably call for a car to pick him up from the hospital.
"If I crashed on your couch and borrowed a change of clothes?" he said tentatively. At least it would be a novel experience – and by morning he would know if the experiment in making a friend was a failure… or a success.
"For sure," Merlin said contentedly. "Except our couch is a rickety recliner – though I can sleep there if you want to borrow the bed... except, I haven't washed the sheets this week? The chair isn't too uncomfortable either, I've fallen asleep there studying, before. And if you don't fit my stuff, I think Gwen probably has some things of her boyfriend's that would. He's built like you."
He grunted. Maybe soon, but not just yet... and bonus, no one was going to bother him, calling his phone. He was free for hours, right now. Sorry, I didn't get your message, I dropped my phone… He snagged the long frosty neck of the vodka bottle between his fingers, and swung it in Merlin's direction. "Help me finish this before we go?"
Merlin accepted with agreeable silence and tipped the bottle back for a healthy mouthful. "Gah. What is this stuff? Flavored… citrus infusion?"
"I just grabbed whatever," he defended. "The guy was looking at me."
Merlin snickered and nudged Arthur again with a bony elbow. "Think you'd be used to that by now…"
"You'd think," he agreed tiredly.
Merlin took another swallow, and passed the vodka back with a hard sigh that released the tension of a long day. He didn't say anything else, and something about the late hour and the dark, the background city-sound, the common stink of the alley, or the not-being-alone, was a balm to Arthur's soul.
Tomorrow might be hard, the next day awful, next week miserable and his future unbearable… but maybe not. Maybe he'd finally found a safety net – an outlet. An escape, even if temporary and small, which would be enough to preserve his sanity and resolve. Maybe Merlin would be willing to procure a rusted pick-up and holey clothes and a ballcap for him to hide in. Drive down the coast for an unpublicized week off from life…
And tonight… tonight he was all right.
He passed the vodka back to Merlin, who sipped pensively. "It's a nice night."
"Yeah, it is."
A/N: In my experience, all it takes is one person to be willing to listen – and then not to treat you any differently…
(This isn't the end of their story, either, but it's all I'm writing – use your imagination for the rest. The vacation, and Gwen, and all…)