Two more days away from Pendragon Industries was all it took before Arthur started to get anxious. He had started to go in to the office this morning, even gone to the extent of putting on a suit and tie. He had turned on his computer and looked up literature specialists working at universities in the area as opposed to responding to the many emails regarding his absence. He wondered vaguely if Leon would beat down his door anytime soon, but he couldn't let himself worry about it when he might be dead in the two minutes.
At the rate this literature specialist climbed the stairs, he wondered if he would die of exhaustion. The man he found had introduced himself as simply 'Mordred' and the university website hadn't listed a first name. The man, though boy would have been a more accurate description, seemed perfect for sitting indoors and reading book after book until his body welded itself into the sofa.
He stood barely five feet off the ground, clothes slightly resembling those of the Tenth Doctor in the way that he wore a brown suit, but with a dark green overcoat instead of a brown one. He walked swiftly, without looking directly at Arthur, always keeping one step ahead of him.
"So you're the one who called my office yesterday about the narrator," Mordred stated, pronouncing each of his syllables, but keeping them as short as possible, just like a literature specialist should. He practically ran up the stairs after coming to retrieve Arthur from the ground floor of the literature department.
"Yes, I'm Arthur Pendragon," he said, extending his hand. Mordred stopped, looked at his hand and scoffed. Arthur withdrew, looking down at his hand and nervously flexing his fingers while Mordred kept walking.
"I know who you are. I'm not going to waste my time with just anyone who calls my office, Mr. Pendragon," he said, passing through the first floor.
"This narrator who you told me about says that you're going to die, is that correct?"
"Yes, Professor Mordred," he tried.
"Not Professor, just Mordred." Mordred left the first floor to enter a second staircase at the other end of the corridor. "Now, how long has she given you to live?"
"I don't know, she hasn't told me," he admitted.
Mordred heaved an exasperated sigh. "Dramatic irony can be such a bitch sometimes."
Arthur didn't know how he felt about this man who looked like a preteen cursing, but he let Mordred keep talking.
"Look, Mr. Pendragon, are you crazy or what? Because I don't have time to play around with spoiled rich boys, suffering from multiple personality disorder because they're overstressed at work.
He stopped on the second floor landing, not caring that he was leading Arthur into the men's bathroom.
"No, I'm not overworked. I need some answers like, why are we in the bathroom, for starters."
Mordred paid Arthur no mind. Instead he asked, "Are you sexually active?"
"Excuse me?" Not even Uther had asked Arthur that question, let alone a urinating stranger.
"You never know what kinds of weird fetishes people have these days. Your sexual frustration could have manifested itself as a desire to have a different life. Maybe, be someone else?"
"Mordred, I can assure you that that's not the issue. Can we please –"
"Hmm, how many stairs did we climb to get up here?"
"I…I don't know." The old Arthur would have counted the stairs. Uther had always taught him to notice every detail that most people would miss so that he could stay one step ahead of the game. The new Arthur, the one with death sentence, couldn't care less.
"So you work for your father at Pendragon Industries?" Mordred made his way out of the bathroom, expecting Arthur to follow. Somehow his facial expression never changed no matter the question or the answer.
"Yes."
"Have you ever been married?"
"No," Arthur said, unsure if he should continue. "I was engaged once to a woman named Vivian, but it was a political marriage. Father wanted our companies to merge, so he set us up."
"Who ended it?"
"I did. I finally admitted to my father that I was gay and called off the wedding," he said, remembering that day with painful clarity. Most of all, he remembered his father telling him to marry Vivian anyway because love didn't last, but the company had to.
"Do you have a lot of friends?" Mordred had walked them to an elevator and pressed the up arrow.
"Not too many. It's hard to know who's a friend and who's in it for the money."
The elevator came with a soft ding and no passengers.
"What does your narrator sound like?"
"She's a woman. She sounds young, but accomplished. I don't think I'm her first book," Arthur replied, watching the door close.
"Do you recognize her voice? Is she someone you know?"
"I have no idea who she could be."
"Did you count the tiles in bathroom, by any chance?"
"No, I wasn't counting the tiles. I was answering your questions. Mordred, how is this relevant?"
"If you really are a character, I need to see what type of man you are. I've just walked you through half of the department and you haven't complained. I urinated with you in the room and you didn't say a word and now I'm still not completely convinced that you aren't deranged, but I can tell that you assess everything. Even right now, you're assessing me, aren't you?"
Arthur remained silent. He knew that Mordred didn't want an answer. They took a few more steps in silence before they reached a vending machine.
"Would you like some coffee, Mr. Pendragon?"
"No, Mordred, I would like to know who is trying to kill me."
"A woman tells you that you're going to die and you just believe her? Did she pass your assessment?"
"She didn't tell me directly. She doesn't exactly know that I'm listening."
"But she did predict your death and you believed that."
"She's been right about everything else. She's narrated my life for the past few weeks now,"
"What kinds of things does she narrate?"
"How I feel at work, how I feel about other people, general things," he muttered hastily.
"Not the most insightful voice, is she? It seems like she's telling you what you already know," he paused for a moment, reflecting on the facts. "If I told you that you were going to die, would you believe me?"
"Of course not. I don't even know you," he says, a bit too quickly.
"You don't know her either. Quite frankly, Mr. Pendragon, I can't help you," Mordred stated.
Arthur almost slammed this man-child's head into a wall. He didn't have time for insolent professors who would rather work on another thesis than save his life.
"Why not?"
"Because you've given me nothing to go on. I'm not an expert in multiple personality disorder. I'm an expert in literary theory and analysis. Thus far, it just sounds like you're a lonely, overworked man whose inner voice has adopted the tone of a woman,"
"No, there has to be something else. Her vocabulary is too well thought out to come from me. If I did have another personality she wouldn't be so well-spoken all of the time and she most definitely would not be a she," he said stubbornly.
"Fine, the most literary thing about you might be your name, but there are so many Arthurian legends that it would be impossible for me to tell if you're Prince Arthur, waiting to inherit the throne or King Arthur ready to lead the troops into battle. I'm already mentoring two doctoral candidates, teaching five classes, and I coach chess at a recreation center in the city,"
"I'm sorry, I just thought you could help possibly, oh, I don't know, keep me alive,"
"Maybe you should keep a journal of everything she says to you. That's all I can suggest,"
"I don't need a journal. The most important thing that she's said is, 'Little did he know that this simple, seemingly innocuous act would result in his imminent death,'"
"Did you just say, 'Little did he know'?"
"Yes, 'Little did he know that this…'" he started.
"Mr. Pendragon, I've written papers on, 'Little did he know.' I used to teach a class based on, 'Little did he know. I once gave an entire seminar at Princeton on, 'Little did he know.' God damn it, 'Little did he know' means that there's something you don't know and you can't tell me what you don't know, can you?"
Mordred turned to look at his calendar, with Arthur practically seething by the door. He knew that literature specialists had a way with words, but Mordred hadn't yet suggested anything that he could actually do and it made him want to punch a wall.
"Come back on Friday at 9:45am."
"That's it? Ten seconds ago, you wouldn't help me and now you want me to come back?" he asked, incredulously.
"It's been a very revealing ten seconds, Mr. Pendragon. I'll see you on Friday," he said, sitting at his desk and engrossed in an article before Arthur even had a chance to leave the room.
Arthur stood outside of the university, feeling more dejected than when he had gone in. For the first time since his death sentence he actually had some hope that maybe someone could help him figure out why he was hearing voices, why someone wanted him dead, and why he couldn't seem to be the assertive Pendragon that his father had raised him to be.
He made a left at the first street corner, not really watching where he walked. He sniffed once, the closest he would ever come to crying and scrubbed a hand across his face. He couldn't think or feel and it took all of his energy just to keep moving.
Uther Pendragon had always taught him to be strict and analytical, no matter what. He had instructed Arthur to do what was best for the family name because if people didn't respect the family name, then nothing else mattered.
Arthur stopped at the end of the block and looked at himself with new eyes. He hadn't gone to work in half a week and yet he still carried it with him. He had let the business training that he had learned for Pendragon Industries transform how he lived his life. This had never been a problem in the past, since most of his relationships had to do with the company. He didn't truly known how to have friends. Everyone was below him and his coworkers respected - or pretended to respect - him so much that it made him want to scream. What was respect if he had nothing else left at the end of the day?
In the midst of his thoughts, Arthur's feet led him home strictly on muscle memory since his brain had gone to on autopilot. He trudged toward the elevator waiting for it to carry him to a place where he could relax and sleep away all thoughts of dying. For once in his life he didn't know if he could handle this. His brain felt too full and the rest of him, extremely hollow. When the doors finally opened, he pushed his way inside, ignoring the angry looks of his victims, aching for the comfort of his own room. The lift rose slowly and took forever to get to where he wanted, but arriving in his room didn't give him the relief he desired.
He stepped inside, tossing his coat on the rack beside the door frame and letting his keys fall on the coffee table in front of the television. His breath came fast, faster than he had anticipated, his eyes shut of their own accord as Arthur tried and failed to regain control of himself. He needed a way to get out of his own head, even for a little while.
The couch beckoned and Arthur didn't have the strength to resist its siren call. Stretching himself across his plush loveseat, Arthur flipped channels aimlessly, before finding the tail end of a yoga program. The instructor on television was a young woman, most likely in her late twenties, with long brown hair and a slender form. She wore a standard athletic outfit, a pink sports bra and a pair of thin, black sweatpants. He closed his eyes, listening to the woman gave precise directions.
"Now, we're going to move into corpse position," she said softly.
Arthur snorted. Did everything have to remind him of his so-called imminent death?
"…that's it. Concentrate on your breathing. Relax all of your muscles. Close your eyes and keep taking those deep breaths. Inhale," she paused to give home viewers time to follow her instructions, "and exhale. Inhale and exhale..." she continued.
He obeyed the instructor's commands, allowing the tension to melt from his head, travel down his arms, seep from his wrists, move further down his body until finally, even his toes relaxed and his mind to let go.
"Inhale...exhale. Just like that. Inhale...exhale. Inhale..."
BANG!
Arthur Pendragon was not one to lose his cool. Many a business partner had tried his patience, but no one and nothing had ever made him less that professional. However, when he cast a glance at the hole where his wall used to be, he felt every ounce of sanity leave him completely. Scrambling up from the couch, he brandished a poker from the fireplace, holding it like a knight would hold his lance during a jousting match. The metal monster reached its giant hand into his home and tore it apart, as Arthur stood helpless, watching. It took the monster's retreating and gearing up for another go before he started seeing red.
He really did try to consider all of the logical reasons why there would be a construction crew working on his house before he started beating the claw-like machine with a fire poker.
He wondered if his father had actually gone this far to try and find him, but decided against it. If Uther wanted his son dead, he had easier and more discreet ways of doing so. Second, he thought that maybe an earthquake had occurred, but quickly decided against it since only one wall of the house had been deliberately torn out. Though, when that moment passed, Arthur saw the truth clearly through his shock-induced haze. He stood in front of his couch, the wind blowing debris onto his face, his mind completely blank except for the only thought that made sense.
Her.
The voice in his head that had told him exactly how this incident had unfolded. She was the only reason why the words 'long-reach excavator' would cross his mind, the only reason why his time was running out, the reason why nothing in his life made sense anymore. This evil, sadistic sower of discord had decided that not only would she sign his death warrant, but that she would make him miserable too? He wouldn't stand for it.
"WHAT THE HELL DO YOU THINK YOU'RE DOING?" Arthur bellowed, his voice breaking slightly.
Arthur would not be a puppet whose life his author would play with at will. He could distantly hear the men on the construction crew asking him his name, why he was in the house that would be demolished today and he couldn't even bring himself to be upset with their stupidity because he knew it wasn't their fault. He would find this woman and kill her for everything she had put him through. Arthur Pendragon would be no one's plot device.
The publishers at Random House had warned Gwen before she decided to become Morgana's assistant. They had warned Gwen about her moodiness, the way that she shut everyone out when wrote, and most importantly, they had told her how long she could hold a grudge. Even so, Gwen never thought that she would torture her characters just to prove a point
"Morgana, what on Earth is this?" Gwen asked, halfway between anger and disbelief. She threw down the pages that she had received.
Morgana might have answered if she wasn't so focused on looking as nonchalant as possible.
Gwen looked at her carefully, eyes resting on the way her one-shoulder, black shirt fell across her shoulders and gave the illusion of a gown rather than ready-to-wear fashion. Her stare lingered jealously at the way that even her bun seemed strategically messy, where anyone else would look like they had lost a fight with a grizzly bear.
So when she turned from her computer screen to stare at Gwen knowingly, it was no surprise that Morgana said, "What do you think it is, Gwen? I gave you exactly what you asked for. You said to write something…new."
Patience had always been one of Gwen's strong suits, but this woman knew how to make her want to pull her hair out.
"Morgana, I asked you to write something new. I didn't ask you to ruin a beautiful book that was going so well," she said, exasperated. She couldn't believe that this author - her author - wanted to waste her talent on sticking it to her publishers.
"I told you. You can't rush greatness," she mocked, not sparing a glance.
"And I didn't ask you to. All I asked was that you do something other than smoke cigarettes and contemplate suicide."
Gwen folded her arms in anticipation of the backlash.
"You think that's what I'm doing? Just smoking and playing around? It's a part of the creative process."
"Fuck the creative process. You're just procrastinating like you have been for the past ten years because you're afraid that you've lost your touch," she said, throwing her hands up in defeat.
"Just face it. You're afraid that this book won't be as great as Death on the Open Road, but every relationship can't be like Rob and Morgan. Justin and Leanna came close, but like you said, the characters take a life of their own and you can't force their development."
Morgana stilled, turned completely from her computer; hands folded on the desk, and said, "You read my books."
"What?" Even as she said the word, Gwen immediately noticed her mistake. She could tell from the tone of her voice and the mischievous glint in her eye that Morgana hadn't asked her a question.
"You read my Death and... series. From the sounds of it you've read them all," she asserted, pushing herself out from behind the desk to walk toward her assistant. Her languid movements reminded Gwen of a huntress stalking her prey.
"I...I mean, the publishers suggested - " she began, taking a few steps backward, her previous anger dissipating faster than mist after sunshine.
"But you read them before then, didn't you? You read Death in Mississippi, Death and Lunchboxes, Death and the Autumn Breeze - "
"That one was exquisite, especially the desert scene," Gwen said, willing to concede the point if it would get Morgana writing again.
"That's the reason why you're here, isn't it? It's the reason why Random House decided to take an interest in me, even though they consider me 'retired.' It's because you read my books and told them to give me another chance and they listened to you."
It didn't take much for Gwen to see that she had finally put a dent in Morgana's highly constructed armor. Morgana walked over to her expanse of windows with heavy steps, her arms in the pockets of deliberately faded jeans, eyes on the outside world. She put a hand on the metal pane, joining the two windows together, but put her other hand right on the glass. Gwen watched Morgana's eyes carefully note
"I pleaded your case pretty well," she admitted.
"Did you?"
"Of course. There were charts and data and beautiful explanations of why people would want to keep reading what you write,"
"You thought Rob and Morgan were my best couple?"
"That depends,"
"On what?"
"On if you're keeping the...what did you call it?" Gwen squinted at the paper again to get the wording right. "Long-reach excavator, whatever that is,"
"It's a crane, like the ones the demolition teams use,"
"Couldn't you just call it a wrecking ball? Even Arthur doesn't know what it is,"
"It's not a wrecking ball. According to Wikipedia, no one uses those anymore,"
"But your character doesn't know what it means,"
"Who cares what it means? It's accurate. And why would Arthur know? He's a corporate businessman, not a contractor,"
"Just take it out, okay?"
"No...but I'll spare you the next chapter where he gets fired from his job and becomes a prostitute,"
"Morgana LeFray, I will not let you sell Arthur into the sex trade, just to anger your publishers. Your readers have a lot of faith in you,"
"Fine, but only because you liked my desert scene. It took me months to get that right."
And after seeing the smile on Morgana's face, Gwen believed every word.
Arthur walked into Balinor's for the third time that week, carrying a large box with no lid. He didn't feel nervous anymore, but felt excited nonetheless. He still hadn't changed out of the clothes from when he went to see Mordred and his shirt was slightly crumpled, but he could call it a style if he wanted.
Anticipation crept up Arthur's spine when he put his hand on the doorknob. He had showed up an hour before closing time, expecting what exactly? But he had nothing to lose either way, so he turned the knob and let himself in.
Merlin's eyes snapped up before he got both feet in the shop.
"What are you doing here?"
"I brought you flours," he said bluntly.
Merlin looked at the box in Arthur's hands, letting his shoulders sag and his wrinkled eyebrows wrinkle to show his confusion at the packages wrapped in brown paper.
"Do I have to grow them myself?" he said.
"No, I mean, I..." Arthur marveled at the unintentional word play. "I brought you flours to bake with. I didn't know what you used so I got unbleached all-propose flour, but you're baker so I also got some bread flour and cake flour. But I still didn't know what kind you use regularly so I bought some whole wheat, pumpernickel, rye, –oh – and potato flour for any gluten free people..."
Merlin laughed genuinely enough that Arthur felt a little less depressed.
"You know I have a guy who gets me at least thirty pounds of this a day, right?"
"But does he give you King Arthur flour?" he joked. "You know, King Arthur flour is the best flour."'
"King Arthur flour doesn't consistently turn up on my doorstep once I'm done for the day,"
"Would you rather it showed up in when you open? It's always best when you get your needs taken care of in the morning."
Merlin loosened up a bit at Arthur's blatant innuendo and said, "Well, I'm more of a nighttime guy myself."
"So, what are you making?"
"I'm loaf and I'll probably asked Will to open for me tomorrow so that I could stay up and bake."
"You need to stay up late for that?" he asked disapprovingly.
"Of course, I do. Do you know how long it takes to bake a loaf of bread?"
Arthur stared blankly. It wasn't often that other people taught him how to do things.
"Would you like to find out?"
Merlin gave Arthur the same look that he had seen in the boardroom time and time again. Merlin was deciding whether or not to invest in him or not. Many a board meeting had Arthur prided himself on reeling in many clients with his intelligence and charisma, but he had never had as difficult a sell as he did with Merlin. And he doubted that any other deal would pay off as much either.
"Yes," he said. "I'd love too."
He tossed his suit jacket lightly over the chair and walked behind the counter.
"You'll need to roll up your sleeves and put this on," he said, attempting to wrap Arthur in what looked like a hand towel with strings attached.
"Hey, what is that?" he said, not knowing what would happen if Merlin started touching his waist.
"It's a waist apron. You use it to keep your pants clean and it stays best when you tie it like this."
Merlin's hands were an anesthetic to the events of the last three days. He could feel those fingers through the fabric of his shirt, moving efficiently, so close to his skin and yet so painfully far away.
A part of him, an old part, said that he needed to stop thinking like this, but the new Arthur wanted… everything this man could possibly give him. After half a minute Merlin released him with a, "Great, now let's see how good you are with your hands," which didn't help at all.
"I'm going to fetch some butter, honey, yeast, my starter, and why don't you get those flours you're so proud of," he said, patting Arthur on the back the way an owner would congratulate his dog for fetching a Frisbee.
Merlin returned carrying everything that he'd stated, along with a rubber spatula, and a large glass mixing bowl filled in something brown and bubbly.
"You ready?"
Arthur found this statement borderline comical. He considered saying, "I've been given a death sentence, had a literature specialist tell say that my life may or may not be a novel, and watched a bulldozer demolished my apartment. But baking bread? That'll be a challenge."
Instead he settled for a confident, "Always."
"This," he said, gesturing to a foamy liquid. "Is called a starter. It's basically flour and water that I let ferment for a few days. I usually make a lot and try to make as many loaves I can the night before."
It was strange for Arthur to see Merlin in his own element. The man mulit-tasked like it was nothing. He laid out his ingredients, opened the flours Arthur had bought him, and grabbed the necessary baking tools, all the while giving Arthur a thorough explanation of Bread Baking 101.
When he explained the way the dry ingredients needed to get sifted into the wet ones and why this loaf needed three different flour types, he exuded a confidence that Arthur wouldn't have guessed he had. He had seen Merlin be playful, defiant, compassionate, but never this serious. Here was a man that took pride in his work and wouldn't let a corporate businessman get his recipe wrong.
"I'll sift, you knead. Here's your first batch," he said, passing Arthur a bowl filled with a semi-solid brown blob.
Arthur dived straight into the bowl and mixed with fervor, angering at the fact that the dough stuck to his hands when he tried to flip it onto the counter.
"Idiot, didn't I tell you to put flour on your hands first?" he scowled. He sifted some of the flour onto Arthur's hands and went back to his original with sure hands.
He worked the dough for the next few minutes, quickly realizing why Merlin had become a baker. In this place, he could let go of his inhibitions and concentrate on something that he could see. He didn't need to wonder what type of impression he'd made or strategize his next move. The only interaction that mattered was the one between this dough and his hands.
"Okay, let me look at you for a second," he said, hands lightly caressing his creation.
"What?"
"Sorry, I meant the dough. I talk to my food when I cook."
"Am I really that bad to look at?" he asked, glad that Merlin couldn't see his face.
"No! Looking at you isn't bad at all. I mean, not that I look at you all the time or anything..." he said.
His eyes lingered on Arthur in a way that made his breath stop and a blush slither up his neck.
Merlin leaned over to check the sourdough loaf by running his fingers over the top of it and making slight depressions on the surface. The loaf indented a bit, but took longer going back to its original form, making Merlin frown.
"It shouldn't be this dense," he assessed. "Show me what you did before."
Arthur did as he was told, turning the dough lightly on the floured surface.
"Here, try it like this. Put your hands here," he said, stepping behind, just shy of resting on his back, placing his hands over Arthur's. Merlin put their hands on either side of the loaf and looked over Arthur's shoulder, face so close that he could feel those obnoxiously large ears against his.
"You have to really get in there and press against it, going from here," he lifted their hands on the side closest to them, "to here," he drove the heels of their hands into the far side, folding the dough in half and rotating the loaf once more.
"So I just go from this side to that one?" Arthur said, repeating the movement. He angled his head a little to the right for Merlin's response when he remembered that their faces were less than an inch away from each other.
Merlin hadn't expected to be so close and pulled back a bit, making Arthur think that maybe he had been wrong the entire time, that Merlin didn't want him, and that all of his feelings had been based off of fear and insecurity. Then, when Arthur had lost almost all hope, he felt Merlin curve into his body, Merlin's chest melting deliciously into his back.
His neurons disconnected themselves from his brain and all he could feel was the beat of his heart, pounding in time with Merlin's. He felt their faces come closer together, foreheads sliding, mouths so close that either tongue could have made the distance easily.
And Arthur wanted nothing more than to do just that.
"Morgana, I don't understand why we're doing this, especially late at night. Some of us like to sleep, you know," Gwen said in frustration.
Morgana pointedly ignored her so as not to break her concentration. She stared at the gurney supporting a man who couldn't have been a day over twenty-five and looked like he had been fatally wounded. A swarm of nurses and doctors buzzed around him, hoping that he would stabilize, but knowing it was unlikely.
"Sir? Sir, I need you to keep breathing for me, please," one of the nurses said. As a doctor approached, she told him, "We have a twenty-one year old, black male caught in the crossfire of a gang fight. He has GSW's to the leg and abdomen. Stable, but in critical condition."
"Get him to OR #3. I'll get find Wilson," the doctor instructed. The team rounded the corner to the operating room, leaving Gwen and Morgana staring sadly.
"There you go," Gwen said. "Could you Arthur shoot in a gang fight?"
"Arthur's not in a gang, Gwen. Be reasonable," Morgana countered. They had been standing against the wall for an hour and a half, guessing how people in the Intensive Care had come to be there as inspiration for Morgana's death scene. Gwen had offered to go with her and make sure that Morgana didn't irritate the hell out of every nurse on call.
"What about him over there?" Gwen proposed, nodding in the direction of an old man in a dark brown, tweed jacket, who had turned to stare at the both of them. His hair had left him and he needed a cane to walk, but his eyes focused intently on one of the nurses behind the desk, until she got up to see if he needed assistance. Instantly, his face lit up up and he rattled off limb after limb that was giving him trouble.
"No," Morgana assessed. "He's not a patient, he just wants that nurse to cater to his every whim,"
"Sounds like someone I know,"
"You know what? This isn't helping. These people aren't dead yet,"
"Excuse me?"
But Morgana had already headed for the nurses' station.
"Where are the dying people?"
The nurse, a middle-aged black woman in light blue scrubs, looked at Morgana as though she had just asked how to find the doorway to Narnia.
"What did you just say?"
"Look, I'm doing some research and I need to see the dying people. You know, the ones who aren't going to make it," she stated.
"I'm sorry, is this some kind of clinical trial or something?"
"No, I writing a novel and - "
"GWEN!" a man yelled from down the hall. Morgana barely gave him a glance, but looked more thoroughly when she saw the two embracing. The man stood at least six inches taller than Gwen with a well-trimmed beard around the length of his face. He had a gorgeous, full head of hair, but what stood out most to Morgana were his eyes. This man had burning intense eyes that were only for Gwen. Cautiously, Morgana moved in closer to take in the conversation.
"Honey, what's wrong? Are you okay?" he said, checking Gwen over for injuries.
"I'm fine, Lance. I'm here with my boss so that she can stare at dead people,"
"Your boss is here? That evil woman makes you work crazy hours, sit out in the freezing rain, and stare at people while they're dying?"
"You work crazy hours too, you know," she said, eager to change the subject. "Hey, isn't this supposed to be your night off?"
"Yes it is, but someone didn't answer her phone when I told her that my patient got the heart," he said,
"Lance that's…that's wonderful," Gwen said both excited and a bit lethargic.
"Gwen – " Lance began.
"I know," she said, as though she already knew that Lance would say to her. "But transplant surgery is hard for to wrap my head around."
"It's hard for all of us, but it's what we have to do."
A pager at Lance's side beeped frantically so he kissed Gwen goodbye and passed through a set of double doors before disappearing completely. Gwen lingered a moment on the spot where Lance left her, but eventually found Morgana once again.
"You're married?" Morgana demanded. She had seen it in the way they looked at each other and didn't like it one bit. This man, this surgeon, had gotten Gwen's attention and in less the two had been utterly consumed in one another. When he talked, she gave him her undivided attention. Morgana desperately wanted Gwen to look at her that way.
"I…yes," Gwen said, toying with the ring on her left hand.
"You never said you had a husband,"
"You never asked," she retorted. Then, more softly, "I wear this ring every day. I don't know how you missed it."
Morgana couldn't believe how much she had missed between them. So much of her energy had gone into the process of writing a novel that she hadn't realized – and honestly hadn't cared – how much she had put Gwen through. She had considered Gwen more than just an assistant, more than just a friend too. Gwen was hers and she hated sharing her with anyone, even a spouse.
"So he's a surgeon?" she asked sourly.
"Yes, Lancelot – my husband's name is Lancelot – is a pediatric surgeon. He's performing a heart transplant tonight on a ten year-old boy."
"From what I heard, you have a problem with that?" It was no doubt a question, one that even Gwen couldn't explain.
"One of the reasons that I married Lance is that he's genuine. He does surgery on children and if he makes one mistake, his patient dies, the muscle goes to waste, and he comes home distraught. But someone died tonight so that a complete stranger can live. I know the victim won't need the organ anymore, but thinking about dying kids is just too much for me," she finished.
Gwen looked down at the floor, ashamed of her feelings. Morgana hadn't moved throughout the conversation, but seeing her assistant look so upset, she took Gwen's hands in hers.
"Go home, Gwen."
"I…what?" Gwen stared at Morgana, waiting for her to start on another outlandish plan where they snuck inside a pastry school and see how the machines worked.
"Go home. Wait for your husband. Drink a glass of wine. Watch some trashy TV. I'll be finished by the deadline," she said cheerfully, ushering Gwen out of the ICU.
"The entire thing? How will you finish the whole thing by the end of the week?"
"Because you did your job the way you said you would," she said, as they walked into the cold, night air. "You made me want to kill Arthur the right way."
In the process of figuring out how he could negotiate his body to kiss Merlin at a less awkward angle, Arthur felt something vibrate gently against his leg. He raised an eyebrow.
"My phone," Merlin said. With a pout on his face, Merlin detached himself from Arthur and moved to the other end of the counter. Arthur kept kneading, but wanted to know who had interrupted the best moment of his week.
"Hello?" Merlin answered. "Hi, Mum...of course I'm not at work...Business is pretty good, but if food costs keep going up, I'm not sure if we can handle it...Mom, can I call you back, I'm...What makes you think I'm with Arthur?" he said.
Arthur froze on the spot. Not only had Merlin called him by his first name, but Merlin's mother knew who he was and thought that they were spending time together.
"Well he does own half the store, Mum."
Did he? Arthur hadn't been to work in days and his father would no doubt disapprove, but for once in his life the concerns of Uther Pendragon meant nothing to him.
"No, Mum, I'm not going to bribe him with lemon chiffon cake," he whined.
Arthur wondered what it would be like to have a mom fuss over him. Though he also wondered about this chiffon cake that was delicious enough to be used as a bribe.
"I'll call you back first thing tomorrow, okay? I'm making mocha caramels and you know how I get when my candy overheats...I love you too. Bye," he said, putting the phone back in his apron.
Arthur knew this was now or never. He wouldn't get this opportunity again. He could either wash his hands and never see Merlin again or he could say everything he felt and hope it was enough.
"Merlin, I want you."
"What?"
"I want you. I haven't gone to work since the day we met, a bulldozer ran into my house, and I feel like life is trying to kill me, but all I want to do is stand her and help you bake," he admitted.
Merlin took a step toward Arthur, wary, but intrigued.
"A bulldozer ran into your house? You sure you're not just trying to find a warm bed to sleep in?"
"You want me in your bed?"
"Isn't there some clear rule about the office executives fraternizing with commoners, or whatever you call us poor thieves?"
"My father makes extremely strict rules about these things, but he's probably fired me by now and if he hasn't, I really don't care,"
"Why?"
"Because you invite the homeless man outside and give him tea to keep warm. Because you know your customer's first names and because you told your mom about that there's a spoiled, rich boy named Arthur Pendragon who stalks your shop at all hours of the night. I don't care if that sounds girly or stupid because I know what I want and I'm not scared to admit it."
Arthur stepped right back into Merlin's space, no pretenses.
"You still think you can have the world on a string? That if you say you want me, I'll just fall into your arms?" Merlin moved a step closer, his hands resting on Arthur's biceps.
"Oh, shut up, Merlin."
Arthur crossed the space in two strides to kiss Merlin full on the mouth, one hand in his hair and the other on his back. He pushed Merlin up onto the countertop, gripping his thighs and Merlin matched him, fingers cupping the back of his head, tongue pushing into Arthur's mouth with urgency. Arthur pulled away before he laid Merlin out on a table and ripped off his clothes.
"What's wrong?" Merlin asked breathlessly.
"I never washed my hands," Arthur lied. "There's dough in your hair."
"I guess you'll have to help me wash it out," Merlin said playfully.
"I guess I will."