A/N: *coughs* Well, I think we've established at this point that I suck at updating. I'm gonna try to upload a new chapter every day this weekend to make up for it!

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Chapter Five

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So, to recap, in the last forty-eight hours Mordred has a) shown off his abilities or whatever to a near-perfect stranger, b) learned that said stranger is under the impression Mordred's a reincarnated murderer, c) made friends with a bird, d) somehow scrounged up gainful employment and a roof over his head in one fell swoop and e) is now following his new employer upstairs, ostensibly to take a shower because he's disgusting, but possibly so that Merlin can murder him and hide the body with fewer potential witnesses.

It's just been a day.

Merlin keeps glancing back over his shoulder like he doesn't want to let Mordred out of his sight. Mordred feels like he ought to be offended by this, but quite frankly he's too fucking tired.

But hey, shower. Let's just hope no one feels like reenacting 'Psycho', yeah?

God, but that movie had given him nightmares. Watching Merlin stick a key in the door at the top of the stairs, Mordred sends off another quick prayer to luck: Please do not let this end with a knife stuck in my back, because dying in the shower seems like a really undignified way to go.

Merlin shoves the door open and goes inside. After a second of hesitation—during which Mordred imagines the last of his self-preservation instincts dying horrible deaths—he follows.

"Kick your shoes off wherever, I guess," Merlin is muttering, tossing his key on the counter. Mordred obeys and drops his bag as well, cautiously scanning his new surroundings for any sign of murderous implements.

He doesn't see any, but then, the flat is enough of a mess that they could very well be hidden in plain sight. Clothes are strewn randomly about the floor, dusty knickknacks are dotted over every flat surface, and Mordred spots a squashy sofa that he immediately wants to collapse onto.

There are also apparently the remnants of the world's largest piñata explosion. Bits of multicolored paper sit absolutely everywhere—the counter, the floor, the TV, everywhere Mordred looks. Upon closer inspection, a shitton of pens are laying around as well. Maybe Merlin's a writer or something when he's not peddling dusty books. Either that or he's the most forgetful person Mordred's ever met.

"Did you win a Post-It sweepstakes or something?" he asks.

Merlin ignores the question, which if he's honest Mordred was pretty much expecting. "The shower's straight down that hallway, second door on the left. There's towels under the sink."

"Right," Mordred says, feeling suddenly awkward. "Erm. Thanks."

"Don't mention it," Merlin replies. Somehow Mordred gets the feeling that he really means it when he says it.

He walks down the hallway a little too fast to be casual, but Mordred feels sacrifices have to be made in the interest of survival. Behind him, he hears Merlin say something that sounds like "Don't make that face at me," and wonders dismally if he's in the residence of a legitimate crazy person.

At least the crazy person has a pretty great shower. Mordred's aware of the stereotype that teenaged boys are totally comfortable stewing in their own filth, but he's always called bullshit on that one. He hates feeling dirty; it's been driving him mad these past few days, enough that he's considered nicking soap instead of chocolate from the next corner shop. At least then he'd be a hygienic thief.

He exits the shower free of any knives to the back or chest. His clothes are still disgusting, of course, and Mordred cringes the whole time he pulls them back on, but at least the rest of him is warm and clean. He also ends up requisitioning a toothbrush from under the sink to get rid of the puke taste. It's a good feeling.

Very nearly as good as the smell of microwave pizza wafting through the door.

He's reminded of the old cartoons wherein delicious smells, more often than not, lured unsuspecting characters to painful fates. Following the smell of empty calories back down the hallway, Mordred suddenly understands why those characters never seemed to smarten up. Food is a powerful motivator.

Merlin glances up as he reenters the room. "When was the last time you ate?" he asks suspiciously.

As if on cue, Mordred's stomach lets loose a helpful growl.

"I had a chocolate bar this morning," he offers, pathetically.

Merlin looks briefly torn between amusement and something more pained. He sighs and shoves the pizza across the counter.

"Just eat something before you collapse. I don't want to have to explain the body of a teenage runaway ending up on my floor, thanks all the same."

Mordred opts to ignore the snark in favor of inhaling a slice of pizza. Honestly, he doesn't even remember moving across the room; apparently prolonged hunger will do that to you. It tastes amazing, even with a slightly singed crust and—

"Is this Hawaiian?"

Merlin straightens up like he's bracing for a fight. "Yes."

Mordred makes a face. "You realize that's disgusting, right? Fruit doesn't really belong on pizza, just saying."

The raven, from its current perch atop the TV, makes what Mordred takes as an agreeable sound.

Merlin glares—first at the bird, then at Mordred, which is interesting. "You're still eating it, aren't you?" he says pointedly.

Mordred takes the hint and picks up another slice.

Together they polish off the food in silence, Merlin pausing only to set aside a few slices and cover them in plastic wrap. Mordred wonders if they're for the still-absent roommate.

It's not exactly difficult to infer that there's a roommate. Not when every spare surface is covered in Post-Its saying things like 'the milk is sour, you've been warned' or 'if you watch How To Train Your Dragon while I'm trying to sleep one more time I swear to god, I will slit your throat with a butter knife'. Not exactly the kind of notes you leave yourself, even if you are the most forgetful person of the face of the planet. It can't be anyone but Arthur, he figures, given how he'd been wandering around the inside of Merlin's shop in the middle of the night.

Then again… There's one near Mordred's elbow; he flips it around to get a better look while Merlin is refrigerating his leftovers. In big, spectacularly awful handwriting it says, I hear all the kids are doing 'selfies' these days. You should master the art before I forget what you look like.

Huh. Maybe not just roommates, then. Either way, Arthur must have some really bizarre work hours. Maybe it's a night shift thing. Maybe he's a nurse? He hadn't really seemed like the bedside-manner type, but what does Mordred know?

Merlin clears his throat, breaking Mordred's concentration. "You have what you need?" he asks, awkward. "I mean. Those blankets should do it?"

"Erm." Mordred blinks. "I think so, yeah. It hasn't been cold or anything, so."

"Good. That's…good." Merlin nods a few times. Mordred has to wonder if he's actually an adult.

Thinking about age as it pertains to Merlin actually makes him think of something else. "Hey, do you have any idea who owned the bookshop before you?"

"Why do you ask?"

"Just wondered." The look on Merlin's face tells him that's not going to cut it. "It's just—I used to look in the window, yeah? When I was a kid. But my mum would never let me go in, said the man who owned it was crazy." Merlin's eyebrows hit his hair, and Mordred scrambles to elaborate. "I mean, she didn't say crazy, she just said odd. 'A very odd old man', I think it was. So I just…wondered."

Merlin's got that pained look on his face again, like it doesn't know which expression to make. "I guess she wouldn't be wrong in thinking he was…odd," he says carefully. "He was very old; you're bound to get a little odd eventually."

The silence that follows stretches into awkwardness extremely fast. It's Mordred who finally puts them out of their mutual misery.

"Erm. Thanks for the pizza."

"You're welcome."

"I'll just…" He trails off and drifts over to the door, shoving his feet back into his shoes. "Good night, I guess."

"Good night," Merlin echoes. He only hesitated a second. Maybe that's progress?

Probably not.

Mordred steps carefully out of the door and shuts it behind him. Then he takes the stairs two at a time and hopes Merlin can't hear his footsteps—or his heart—pounding away like he's just run a marathon.

Right, so, that was really weird.

Honestly, it's like the point of all this is to teach him a lesson or something, only he's got no idea what it is. He and Merlin have apparently come to a truce, which is weird in and of itself since the only reason they need a truce is because Merlin's got some weird metamagical ideas in his head and accidentally kidnapped Mordred to make himself feel better, so what exactly is he supposed to be getting out of this?

Mordred gets to the bottom of the stairs, through the door and all the way back to the back room no closer to an answer.

And typically, it's only then that he manages to pull his head out of his own arse long enough to realize he's left his backpack behind.

Oh, shit.

He quibbles with himself for all of ten seconds before groaning, getting up and heading right back up those unforgiving stairs. Merlin had seemed pretty keen to get rid of him, but you know what, he can put up with another thirty seconds of Mordred's presence. His phone is in that bag; his alternative is a night of mind-numbing boredom. And it's only just getting dark.

The door to Merlin's flat looms in front of him. Bracing himself, he knocks.

There's no answer.

Cursing under his breath, he knocks again. "Come on, I just want my bag, all right? I'll quit bothering you after that." Still nothing. "Merlin?"

An unpleasant sort of sick feeling is curdling in his stomach. Because, all right, Merlin could be in the bathroom or something, but what if he's not? What if he's hurt, bleeding out all over that ratty sofa while Mordred's out here shuffling his feet?

So maybe he's gotten a little paranoid lately.

Nervously, Mordred reaches out and tries the doorknob—more out of a desire to be thorough than any real hope it'll work—and to his astonishment finds it turning under his hand. Merlin must've forgotten to lock it.

He steps into the flat and—

Is that a fucking frying pan coming at my head?

Indeed it is.

It fortunately stops several inches from his face, not that that does fuck all in getting his heart rate back down.

Arthur is standing at the other end of the frying pan, looking disheveled and completely confused.

His "What the hell are you doing up here?" is completely drowned out by what Mordred thinks is his rather more pressing, "What the fuck is wrong with you?"

"Me? You're the one sneaking into people's flats," Arthur says tersely.

"I was invited!" Mordred half-shrieks. It's not a very manly noise, he's aware, but come on—frying pan. "I left my stuff behind, I wasn't expecting fucking Rapunzel to be—"

And, wait. Mordred frowns and stops mid-tirade. "When'd you get up here, anyway?"

For the first time in the admittedly brief interactions they've had, Arthur looks uncomfortable. "I was here the whole time. Sleeping. Must not have heard you come in the first time."

"Sleeping. Right." Honestly, is there something about being fourteen that makes all so-called adults convinced they can bullshit you with zero effort? Mordred's almost insulted; at least when he lies to people he knows they're getting the result of years of practice. A quality product, if you will. Arthur's lying is like a tool left too long on the shelf, rusty with disuse.

A growl comes from behind him, and Mordred jumps. A big black dog has come out of nowhere and is staring him down with ice-blue eyes. And also growling quite a bit.

Mordred really doesn't want to be eaten by a dog. That seems like it'd be only a few steps better than 'knifed in the shower' in terms of undignified deaths.

"Easy," Arthur says, and Mordred has one homicidal second of thinking it's directed at him before he realizes Arthur is talking to the dog. He's also lowered the frying pan. "We're fine here. Everything is fine."

Mordred takes issue with that summary, he really does, but his mind is hung up on the kerchief around the dog's neck.

The miserably familiar red neckerchief.

The sick feeling in his stomach is back.

"Where's Merlin?" he hears himself ask. "Seems weird he's not out here, with you making a ruckus and all. Or is he sleeping too?"

"Mordred, you need to leave," Arthur says firmly. The growling continues.

"Your dog really doesn't like me," Mordred remarks. It's odd; his heart hasn't stopped pounding away, but he sounds almost calm. "Where'd you get that—" he gestures to his neck "—for him, by the way? It's nice. Distinctive, and all. Looks antique or something."

"Mordred—"

"You still haven't answered me, you know. Where's Merlin? Is he here?" Mordred lets out a strangled little laugh. "Only, I've just been downstairs and back and I didn't see him."

Arthur's jaw tightens. His eyes flicker to the dog; it's brief, but it's there.

Oh, no.

Mordred can actually feel his brain rejecting everything he's seeing right now because oh, no, no, no, this cannot be his life.

A little desperately, he asks, "Did he climb out a window or something? Because I'd accept that. Like, it's gotten to the point where I'd accept that as an explanation."

There's silence for what feels like a hundred years.

Very slowly, Arthur sets the frying pan down. The dog continues to growl.

Mordred thinks he actually whimpers. "Oh my god, I was wrong. I haven't wandered into a horror movie; I've wandered into an acid trip."

Arthur clears his throat. "I think we need to have a conversation," he says.

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