A/N: Sorry it took so long! Couldn't be helped! Hope SOMEONE out there is still reading this, LOL.
"KEEP LOOKING, MERLIN," said Arthur absently, not even glancing up from the magazine he was flipping through.
"This would be a lot easier," Merlin grunted, his voice muffled because his head was in Mithian's closet, only his backside and legs currently visible, "if I knew what I'm supposed to help you find."
"I told you," Arthur sighed, closing the magazine and tossing it onto the bed. He flopped down backwards, lying on the mattress, head sinking into the edge of a pillow. "A cashmere glove."
"And how exactly is that going to help us find Gwen?" Merlin demanded as a shoebox full of something that might have been exercise weights landed on his head. "Ow!"
"Guinevere and I both had one of the gloves the last time we saw each other. Before that whole elevator mishap." Arthur shrugged. "If I can figure out who made the gloves, maybe I can trace her receipt. Sometimes the records go all the way back to the company."
"And why didn't you...oh, I don't know..." Merlin rolled his eyes. "Think of this before?"
"I don't know, Merlin," Arthur snapped. "Do I have to think of everything? Just stop whimpering and find it."
Merlin crawled out of the closet. "I know I'm probably going to regret asking this question, but why on earth would that glove be in Mithian's closet?"
"Because I started moving some of my stuff in. You have to admit she lives in a much more secure building than you." Arthur sat up. "Not that Morgana's swindling has left me with many valuable belongings... But if the glove is not at your flat, it's here."
"Arthur, I'm starting to feel a little bad going through Mithian's room like this. When you asked for my help, I thought we'd be frequenting bookstores looking for her phone number, or calling every person named Guinevere in the phone book until our Gwen picked up. You know, that sort of thing." Merlin rubbed his head while he spoke; it still hurt from the falling weights.
"Merlin, I have never heard such nonsense. Now stop worrying about your hair and get back to work."
Merlin sucked his teeth. "Don't you think you should at least let her know what's going on here?"
"And how am I meant to have that conversation?" Arthur snorted. "What do I say to her?" He threw his hands in the air dramatically. "'Mithian, it's not that I don't want to marry you, it's that I can't stop thinking about a girl I met once, years ago, and I want to spend the busy days before our wedding tracking her down'?"
Merlin winced. "Right... Better get after finding that glove, then."
"I don't see why you haven't found it already," huffed Arthur. "Honestly, all you have to do is sort through a few boxes."
"How would you know?"
"I beg your pardon?"
"It's just, you haven't had to look for it yourself..."
"I'm management." He shrugged.
The hell you are, thought Merlin. "Look, all I'm saying is, I'm doing you the favor, Arthur, and this would get done a lot faster if you'd get off your royal backside and search for the glove with me."
He wouldn't have minded spending the day at Mithian's so much if Gaius hadn't been having a rough morning. He'd left Gwaine looking after him when he walked out of the flat with Arthur a few hours ago, and that didn't exactly inspire a warm, fuzzy sense of inner peace. Especially not after that medical emergency incident at Arthur's bachelor party... Not to mention he was tired, and he hadn't spoken to Freya for nearly two weeks. Thanks to Gaius, who'd pawned Arthur's laptop during one of his goblin days, not long after Merlin had promised Arthur to help him track down Gwen.
Regardless, even if Gaius hadn't traded the only means he had of communicating with his wife, Merlin would have had time to talk to Freya. He'd been too busy calling and emailing every bookstore in Britain, trying to find out if any of them had a copy of The Mists of Avalon with a girl's phone number written on the inside. He lost count of how many times prudish bookstore owners had hung up on him in disgust or flagged his email as spam after he asked that question. Merlin had even gotten himself banded from the book sale room at the local library, thanks to his promise to help track down Guinevere for the sake of his best friend's sanity.
In short, he was running out of patience and energy. And if Arthur didn't start actually doing something, Merlin was nearly ready to go on strike. Why was it no one thought of forming a union for best friends on strike? Having a complete dollop-head for a friend was more tiring than any job could ever be.
"Fine." Arthur got up and marched over to the closet. "I'll start looking through this one." He had picked a middle box, and all the ones on top of it came crashing down.
Unfortunately, Merlin had begun to follow him back towards the closet and was quickly buried under the ensuing avalanche of falling household goods.
Arthur turned around, looking a little confused. "Merlin?"
A low groan came from somewhere under a pile of welcome mats, dog toys, and kickboxing DVDs.
"This is no time to be fooling around," Arthur said sternly.
Another groan, this one almost audible, with something not unlike words involved.
"What was that?"
A white hand shot up from the middle of the junk pile holding out a black cashmere glove, brandishing it triumphantly.
Merlin shook off a picnic blanket and what appeared to be a ripped inflatable raft of some kind. "I said," he panted, holding out the glove to Arthur, "I found it."
GWEN TOOK A deep breath as she entered the living room. Elyan, Lancelot, and one of the Lancelot's band-mates were sitting on a couch watching a promo preview of their new-age music group's first music video. It had arrived on a burnt dvd via package that morning. Lancelot was meant to watch it and give it the okay. If he didn't like it, their manager was probably going to have to start from scratch. Gwen would imagine he was at home, biting his nails and staring helplessly at his cellphone, that very moment.
Technically, Elyan wasn't supposed to be involved -as he wasn't in the group- but Lamia was at the dentist, and no one was returning his voicemails or Facebook e-vites, so he'd followed his sister's fiancee here out of sheer boredom.
Over the surround-sound blasted music, none of them had seemed to hear Gwen's approach.
"I don't understand," Lancelot was saying, half-shouting so his band-mate could hear him over the music; "why am I the only one in the video? My flute and harp solo only comes in during the last thirty seconds. I didn't even write this song."
His band-mate shrugged. "Marketing, Lancey-boy! You're the only good-looking guy in our group. Your face is what sells. Not Pellas the drummer running around in his cowboy boots."
"There's nothing wrong with Pellas," Lancelot protested, defensive of his friend. "Or his boots."
"That is a subject of much debate," his band-mate argued. "We'll agree to disagree, yeah?"
"All right." Lancelot paused the image on the screen. "Can you explain why all these scantily clad women have been digitally added in?"
"Same reason."
He hit a button on the remote and zoomed in. "But this one's banging her head against the ground! Repeatedly."
"She's bowing to your awesomeness."
Lancelot shuddered. "I think it looks like she hates the music."
"No, no, Lancelot, she's in a trance. The music's enchanted her. That's why the song's called The Enchanting of Elaine."
Gwen cleared her throat. "I'm sorry, do you have a minute?"
Lancelot twisted his neck, smiling when he realized it was his fiancee. "Of course. What is it?"
"I've been looking everywhere for my hairbrush."
Lancelot's eyebrows lowered themselves in confusion.
"I just found it an hour ago." Gwen swallowed and shook her head. "In the oven."
"I'm lost, Gwen," Lancelot said apologetically. "Is that supposed to mean something?"
"No..." Gwen shook her head again. "I mean, yes. Sort of. I think I'm just going out of my mind with all the wedding plans." Her voice grew a little shaky. "I...I think I need a break."
Lancelot's expression went from concerned to outright scared. "What are you saying? You want to call it off?"
Gwen reached over the couch and clasped his shoulders. "No, not that kind of break!" She loved Lancelot, and still wanted to marry him, even if she had been walking up to tables in random restaurants and turning over all the five pound notes people left behind in their tips lately... All she really needed was some time to clear her head. "I'm simply asking for a little holiday. Only for a weekend, no longer. I promise. And I'll take Sefa with me."
Lancelot smiled understandingly. "Have fun, Gwen. We can get back to planning the wedding as soon as you return."
She let go of his shoulders and started walking away.
"Where are you thinking of going, Gwen?" he called after her.
"Oh." She stopped in the doorway and shrugged. "England, maybe. Sefa's father lives there. I'm sure she'd love to see him again."
"COME ON, UNCLE," moaned Arthur, as he leaned over the counter, staring into the middle-aged man's emotionless face pleadingly. "I know we've had our differences -the big one being that you choose to support Morgana in taking over the entire Pendragon fortune- but that's not what I'm here about. I just want you to tell me who bought this brand of gloves, around Christmastime, five years ago. I know the company keeps extensive records. My father must have bragged about his customer service to me a thousand and one times!"
"Arthur," said Agravaine, shaking his head. "Surely you of all people must understand that I could lose my job. Morgana is my boss now. If she finds out I gave you private company information, do you have any idea what she'd do to me?"
"You only have the job because you betrayed Arthur," Merlin -standing sportively beside his best friend- grunted, folding his arms across his chest. "It would serve you right."
Arthur sighed, taking the cashmere glove out of his coat pocket. "I don't want all the information, Uncle. Just who bought this." He handed the glove to Agravaine. "Please. This is very important to me. You know I wouldn't come here otherwise." He looked over his shoulder and pulled his hood over his head, nervous someone might see him in there and tell his sister of his visit.
"You're behaving like a coward," Agravaine snapped, clicking a pen. "What kind of a man would deny who he is? In such a tasteless disguise, no less. Wearing those horrid, gangster clothes that look like they were soiled by a pack of wild-"
Merlin frowned. "That's my blue sweatshirt Arthur's wearing."
Agravaine chuckled and looked down at a clipboard under the desk. "That explains it, then."
"I don't even think we sell this brand anymore," Arthur pressed. "But you've been with the company long enough to remember when we last did. You can tell me that much, right?"
"Of course." Agravaine shrugged. He didn't even bother looking up. "Not that it would be of any use to you. You've told me already that you know exactly when the young lady in question bought the gloves."
He was right, of course. There was nothing Arthur could do about that. Any useful information would be highly confidential. And, as easily swayed as Agravaine was into betraying his nephew, for some reason his loyalties to Morgana were not so easily changed, even in seemingly small ways.
"Agravaine, you know you owe him, after what you did-" Merlin tried. He took a step around the counter, trying to get closer to Agravaine, who still hadn't looked up from his clipboard, silently dismissing them.
When Merlin appeared to materialize on his side of the counter, Agravaine jolted back to life, staring at him in pure horror. "You must remain on that side of the counter. Company policy." He made a shooing motion with his hand until Merlin backed up.
"What's going to change your mind?" Arthur asked, not giving up.
"I was a little short on my sales inventory," Agravaine admitted, a slow, sly grin coming to his face. "Morgana was really upset about that. Maybe if I make it up, she won't be as mad about the information release." He arched an eyebrow. "Or ask who I gave it to."
"Fine, done." Arthur looked at Merlin. "Merlin, grab that red caplet thing hanging next to Agravaine and buy it."
"But..." Merlin winced. It was hideous. It looked like something a court jester from the middle ages would have worn. He wouldn't even wear that ridiculous outfit if he and Arthur had to sneak into a medieval fair! And, of course, everything in this store was so unbelievably expensive... The prices had only gone up since Morgana took over. He'd be working off the credit card bill for weeks!
"Just do it," Arthur said. "Please, Merlin."
He sighed and reached for it.
A strangled sound of disapproval came from Agravaine's throat when Merlin reached across the counter, but he raised his eyebrows and pointed at his feet. "They're still on this side of the counter. It's all right."
"Excellent choice," Agravaine said as Merlin set the caplet on the counter and took out his wallet.
"Yes, that color suits you, Merlin," Arthur laughed.
Oh, Arthur was so, so dead... Merlin gritted his teeth and took out his card.
"Wait." Agravaine held up his hand. "I still haven't made ends meet. I need to sell something else, too."
"What?" growled Arthur.
"Well," chuckled Agravaine, "what goes with a red caplet?"
Moments later, Merlin was decked out in the red caplet and a matching red hat with an enormous feather. He stared into the mirror, blinking in horror.
Arthur took a picture of him with his cell phone.
"Arthur, what are you doing?" growled Merlin, glaring at his friend over his shoulder.
"Sending a picture of you dressed like that to Freya."
"Arthur, give me the phone." Merlin whirled around and tried to take it from him.
"No way."
"You are not sending that picture!" He didn't want his wife to see him looking like a Christmas goose with dyed feathers! It would have been different if he and Freya saw each other in person in a regular basis, but pictures were how she remembered him now. He'd never live this down.
"Yes, Merlin, I am."
"No, you're not."
He tried to hide the phone behind his back and Merlin accidentally snagged Arthur's belt, sending his over-sized borrowed trousers to his ankles.
"Oh, sorry, allow me to help you with that."
"No, Merlin," Arthur tried to pick them up himself.
Normally, Merlin would have let him, having no desire to deal with Arthur's falling trousers, but he still wanted to get that phone and delete the embarrassing picture before his friend could hit send. So he lunged and grabbed onto Arthur, trying to pull up the trousers and take the phone at the same time.
"Merlin!" Arthur screeched as this attempt resulted in them both being knocked to the ground, wrestling like a couple of disgruntled schoolboys.
"Arthur!"
"Merlin!"
"Get off me!"
"I'm trying to help you!"
"Get off!"
From his side of the counter, Agravaine watched in confusion as Merlin's legs somehow managed to flail up in the air for a full thirty seconds. When the legs disappeared behind the counter, he leaned over and addressed them. They were both on the floor now, panting. Merlin had lost his hat (Arthur had ripped the feather off in the scuffle), but he'd gotten the phone away from Arthur in the end.
"Did you find out who bought the gloves, Uncle?" Arthur gasped out, struggling to get back to his feet. "I just need a last name."
"I'm sorry, but I'm afraid there were at least four Guineveres registered as having bought your gloves around Christmastime five years ago."
Arthur's face became crestfallen. "You have got to be joking."
Agravaine shook his head. "Afraid not, Arthur."
"Now what?" Merlin asked.
"I don't know." Arthur's voice was small now, sad. "This was my last resort."
"There is a way to narrow down the possibilities," Agravaine said, grinning again. "The complete archives -as in more than just our in-store databases- will have billing information, addresses, and other little snippets that might make it more clear which Guinevere bought your glove."
Arthur brightened.
"But you're going to need an employee to get you in." Agravaine's grin deepened suggestively.
Merlin grimaced. Leaning closer to Arthur, he whispered, "Why do I get the feeling buying that hat wasn't enough to get us into those archives?"
