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fuzzytomato02! [1/3]
Dec. 15th, 2011 08:05 am![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
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merlin_holidaysTitle: Snowed in at Heathrow and Other Christmas Disasters
Recipient:fuzzytomato02
Author:rotrude
Rating: NC-17
Pairings: Arthur/Merlin; Gwaine/Other, hints of Gwaine/Elena
Word Count: 28,110
Warnings: mentioned past minor character illness, spoilers up to 4x5
Summary: Sometimes the weather conditions work a little like fate. And sometimes you find love in the most improbable circumstances.
Author's Notes:(i) Dearfuzzytomato02, I used the following prompts: snow, travelling for the holidays, Merlin and Arthur are both stuck in an airport waiting for grounded flights and meet/fall in love/get it on in the toilets as a basis for this story. I hope you find in it some of what you wanted. Merry holidays! (ii) Thanks to the lovely F for her insightful and thorough beta-read. You're as sweet as Eggnog with chocolate sprinkled on top.
Disclaimer: The characters depicted herein belong to Shine and BBC. I make no profit from this endeavor.
"And now the CSS is tweaked," Merlin says, rolling back his chair.
"Are you sure?" Freya asks. She's sitting on his desk, too close to Merlin's precariously perched Macbook for comfort. "We've been inundated by complaints."
Merlin holds up both his hands in a defensive gesture. "The app's working. I tested the unit and the whole system. I answered the most serious forum users, not the ones who can't find the sign-in button, and they won't be complaining." He smiles widely. "Really, Freya," he says, "it's all running smoothly now, and it's the 23rd."
"Well, I'd wish you happy holidays if I was sure it won't all go to hell again," Freya says, tapping her pencil against the desk. "The number of hits triples during the holidays, and we can't really do without our best web designer."
Merlin pats her hand and amps up the volume of the song he's had as background on his VLC player. The notes of Auld Lang Syne fill the office.
Two of Merlin's colleagues clap and one shouts, "Way to infuse the proper seasonal spirit, Merlin." Cedric turns up his nose in disgust and another co-worker puts ear buds in his ears to tune Merlin's music out.
Merlin lowers the volume.
Freya just looks at him in that long suffering way of hers.
"Look at this incoming message," says Merlin, moving the mouse and clicking on a forum sub-thread. "Love the new feature. Kudos for making it work on Opera," he quotes. Merlin hits print and when the printer coughs out the sheet, Merlin holds it up for Freya's inspection. "See, everything's under control. I have a plane in seven hours, Frey. Thanks to all this holiday bustle, I'll be lucky if it takes me an hour to get home. Then I'll have to pack and make it to Heathrow. Please?" Merlin bats his eyelashes and then hurries to add, "I spent the whole of yesterday night in here patching up Mordred's coding mistakes."
Freya pats Merlin on the top of his head and ruffles his hair. "All right," she says. "I was only nervous because our paper's gonna be bought out by a finance mogul I don't trust one bit. Annis is worried, though her strong editor front hasn't given yet. You can go and enjoy your holiday."
Merlin rises, switches off his two computers, and puts on his padded jacket. "Thank you."
Freya tuts and wraps Merlin's scarf around his neck, making two loops. "I want to be sure you won't catch a chill. It's been snowing all morning and it's subpolar out there."
Merlin reddens, feeling all eyes on him. Freya coddles him way too much. "Why, thank you," he says and draws himself up a bit, "but I'm way tougher than I look."
Freya smiles sweetly. "I know," she says. "I'm just looking out for you. I hope you're going somewhere warm."
Merlin plays with the ends of his scarf. "Well, not exactly," he says, grinning and picturing the sights he would see. "Switzerland. Gwaine booked me this holiday package he got cheap on e-dreams. I'm going to spend Christmas and the New Year there."
As Merlin piles up his two laptops one on top of the other and puts them in his messenger bag, Freya asks, "And who are you going with?"
Merlin doesn't miss the raised eyebrow or the nudging tone. He laughs and waves his hands about. "None of that. It's not that kind of a holiday." He's thought about pulling someone just for the occasion, and Gwaine had certainly suggested he do so, inviting him to the club he works at, offering him special passes and a go at the VIP area, but Merlin would rather share this holiday – the first in quite some time – with someone he genuinely likes. "Will's coming. His girlfriend has to spend the holidays at home in Gloucestershire and he's on the loose."
Freya is shaking with gentle laughter. "Poor Merlin, saddled with Will. Maybe you'll find a nice boy to kiss on New Year's Eve."
Merlin shakes his head in denial. "Nah," he says, nose wrinkling. "That kind of thing only happens in films or to other people."
Freya sidles closer as Merlin shoulders his bag. "Hey, none of that defeatist talk," she murmurs in his ear. "You're quite a catch."
Merlin's lips twist up a little. He pulls on the strap of his bag and puffs his chest out. "What defeatist talk? I'm very handsome in a non-muscly, completely understated way." He grins though this isn't one of his best grins.
Freya slaps his chest. "I'm serious, Merlin," she says. "You're sweet and clever and amazingly thoughtful."
There's not much Merlin can say to that without sounding either too much in need of comfort or obnoxiously smug, so he just taps the glass of his blue Ice Watch and says, "Really got to go now. I'll have to face Paddington on the day before Christmas Eve and I'd like to buy an extra sized Cornish Pasty on the way."
"Just go," says Freya and Merlin does, waving on his way out. So as to gain on the lost time he skips the lift, which always takes too long to respond, and opts for the stairs. He's taking them two at a time and nearly slips twice.
One of the first floor editors calls out to him, "Watch out, Merlin. You don't want to spend Christmas in hospital, do you?"
Merlin doesn't stop and chirps out a flying answer. "Absolutely not! Zurich's waiting for me."
Despite his confidence, he does stumble and slip on a frozen section of pavement right outside the newspaper offices. He ends up arse first on the chilly pavement, snowflakes crowning his head and settling on his nose. Despite the momentary shock, he pats himself down and finds that he's all right. He's broken nothing.
An old gentleman stops by and asks, "Are you all right, young man?"
Merlin smiles tentatively as the old man helps him up. "Yeah."
"Rotten weather."
"Yeah," Merlin agrees as he checks himself for damage once more. The back of his jeans is all wet and the cold is creeping into his bones, but everything else is okay. "Thank you, though."
"It's nothing," the old man says. "I was glad to be of help. But this is crap weather, so you'd better get home."
Merlin makes sure his laptops weren't damaged in the fall – they seem to have survived – and says, "Oh, no. I'm off on holiday."
"Good luck, then," the old man says. "I hope you can get where you need to be."
Still hollering his good-bye, Merlin dashes off towards the nearest tube station only to hear the announcer say, "Due to a signal failure, the Northern Line is partly suspended with no service between..."
"Crap," Merlin says, as he fishes his oyster card out of his wallet and waves it a little manically at the turnstile.
****
Leon is bent over Arthur's desk, leafing through the pages of the various documents stacked on Arthur's desk and pointing to the dotted lines so Arthur can sign. Leon has already gone through all the ins and outs of those files but Arthur can't stop from asking, "We have an agreement with Suntech in place; this won't be implemented till the second quarter, right?"
"Nothing has changed from the draft."
"Good," says Arthur signing with a flourish. "And all the papers for the buy-out of Blackday Publishing and the Evening Gazette are ready, I think?"
"Yes," says Leon, turning another page for Arthur. "But we sounded the board and there were a few unhappy members. Especially as regards the Evening Gazette's acquisition. They think..."
"--that the Gazette's revenues have declined and that they've gone through some losses," Arthur says a little tiredly. He puts down his pen and rubs the bridge of his nose. "I went through all the data myself and I still find that their equity value is more than enough and their ads revenue is promising. Aside from that they are read by a wide group of people, which is very attractive when it comes to selling ad spaces."
Leon puts all the signed papers into one column, parting them from the stack of to-be-signed ones. "Arthur, I didn't mean to add fuel to that."
"But," says uncle Agravaine, walking in and leaning against the door to Arthur's office, "you should have made all that clearer to the board."
"I mean to strengthen the newspaper’s competitiveness," says Arthur quickly. "I explained my views."
"As a king would," says Agravaine in a soft voice. He's lifting his eyebrows. "You get that from your father. I would recommend a softer approach."
Leon places a hand on Arthur's shoulder in a gesture Arthur can't quite make heads or tails of. "I--" he starts but Leon interrupts him. "Sign the last three. Percival's got the car ready for you downstairs."
Arthur swivels in his chair and looks up at Leon. "Perhaps I should stay and call a board meeting for tomorrow."
"Arthur," says Leon, trying to hide the initial gaping fish expression that had come across his face at Arthur's proposition. "I hardly think it necessary. Tomorrow's Christmas Eve." He points at the calendar and at its reindeer theme of the month.
Arthur looks to Agravaine, cocking an eyebrow.
Agravaine crosses his arms over his chest and smiles. "Your PA is right, Arthur," he says. He sounds calm and soothing, and Arthur finds he's glad Agravaine bought some of the shares Arthur's father had sold upon retiring.
Having him there lends the business an aura of the familiar he's not averse to. If anything he's very appreciative, feeling he can relax better having a relative with a solid business background to help him hold the reins of the company. "Nobody will listen kindly if they're focusing on their holidays. This is not a good time to press your points. Besides, you need to relax."
Leon makes a noise Arthur reads as agreement and when Arthur settles his gaze on him, he says, "You have been working non-stop for the past year and a half. And you do need a break."
Arthur knows that and knows that Leon needs one too. If Arthur takes a few days off, Leon will be able to spend some quality time with his family. He hasn't had the chance to do much of that lately.
"You're near break-down," Agravaine says gently. "The dark circles under your eyes have dark circles underneath."
Arthur makes an effort to loosen the muscles in his shoulder. Moving hurts. He's always taken care of his body, but the long office hours have done nothing to help the perpetual crick in his neck.
"Cyprus will do you good," says Leon.
"I'll mail you the address of some friends of mine who're over there," says Agravaine. "Expatriates. They have a beautiful daughter."
Arthur groans and buries his head in his arms. He looks up very reluctantly and grits out a very laconic, "I'm not looking for company."
Leon pats his tie and Agravaine says, "As you wish. She's a clever girl but I understand your need for solitude and relaxation."
Arthur doesn't say anything to that. Uncle Agravaine has only recently made a come-back into his life, and Arthur hasn't felt like acquainting him with every little detail of his life.
There's no need to equivocate, though, because the blinking red led on his phone display alerts them to an incoming call. Leon takes it and the oft repeated words, "Arthur Pendragon's office, Leon Knight speaking," roll easily off his tongue.
After having hemmed and hummed, Leon puts the receiver back in its cradle. "The car's ready, Arthur."
"What about my luggage? I don't have any luggage."
Leon opens a drawer, closes it, hands him a vinyl travel wallet, and says, "I printed off the boarding pass. You're travelling Business. I took the liberty of packing up for you. You'll find Percy has already stowed your suitcase in the limo."
Arthur gets to his feet, takes the wallet, and doesn't even bother to check his tickets or rental vouchers. Leon never makes mistakes of that kind.
"Go, Arthur," says his uncle, sauntering over and placing both hands on his shoulders. "Unwinding will do you good."
Arthur can only put on his coat, scarf and gloves and pick up the briefcase he never leaves without. "Well, see you after New Year's then."
A lift ride later, Arthur walks out of the company building and makes his way to the company limo.
Percival is standing at attention next to the open passenger door, snowflakes covering him, cap in place, looking for all the world like an SAS officer instead of a chauffeur.
"To Heathrow, Percival," says Arthur as he brushes off snowflakes and folds himself into the back seat.
****
Leon's sending out holiday card mails to all of Camelot's shareholders, staff, clients, associates and family members. They're all signed with a stylish Arthur Pendragon at the bottom, though of course, Arthur has had nothing to do with them from the idea's original inception to their delivery.
There are different personalised bunches Leon himself has designed with the help of their tech expert, Elyan from IT, and Leon is overall satisfied with them. He rubs at his bearded chin and smiles.
The smile fades somewhat when he remembers the files sitting next to his elbow. "Sod it all to hell!" He glances at the clock and finds that it's nearly five. He closes his mail client and pushes back his chair. He picks up the incriminating folders and looks at the door. Arthur's well on his way to Heathrow now and if Leon texts him, he'll come back, miss his plane, spend his holidays at home, which really means in his office, and come back more stressed than he was before.
Berating himself for having forgotten, Leon sighs and pushes his chair back. He tucks the folders under his arm and makes for the corridor. He just needs a board member's signature to get the staff bonuses approved and he needn't wreck Arthur's holiday for that.
He's so preoccupied, he almost doesn't notice Browne from acquisitions until the man stops and says, "Hello, Leon. Happy Holidays."
"Thank you, sir," Leon answers. "Likewise."
"Is Arthur working you into the ground as usual?"
Leon grimaces. "Not without doing the same to himself, unfortunately."
"That's what working for the boss is all about, eh?" Mr Browne says. "Especially such a one as Pendragon!"
Leon's not sure how to take the statement. Mr Browne is winking and his lips are tightly pursed. The muscle in his jaw looks set and he's playing with his tie in a nervous fashion though the expression in his eyes is benevolent enough. He could be yanking Leon's chain or he could be slinging barbs at Arthur. After all, Arthur's work ethic borders on the obsessive compulsive and he asks as much from others as he does out of himself. This makes a number of people less than happy.
Browne might be one of them. "Well, Arthur certainly is tough to please but working for him is an honour."
Mr Browne straightens and he claps a hand on Leon's arm. "Your diligence does you honour too."
They part over more "Happy Holidays" wishes, Leon hastening down the corridor and rounding a corner fast in the hopes of still catching Agravaine du Bois in his office.
He heaves a sigh of relief when he sees a short, stocky man exiting du Bois' office. "Pardon," Leon says when the man nearly walks into him, but the man doesn't apologise, opting for turning, ducking his head and hurrying towards the lifts.
Leon doesn't curse him only because he's made an art form of politeness.
Shaking his head, Leon slips into Mr du Bois' office. Mr du Bois is standing in his shirtsleeves next to the safe. When he sees Leon, he whips round, his lips tighten so that small wrinkles form around them, making him appear older and more severe, and slams the door to the safe shut.
He quickly punches in the lock code numbers, shading the keypad with his hand as he does so. Quite brusquely, given his usually gentle tone, he asks, "Was there something you wanted?"
Very odd, thinks Leon, but aloud he says, "Just needed you to sign a few papers now that Arthur's away."
Du Bois smiles tightly. "But of course." He makes for his desk and picks up a pen. "But of course."
****
One hour and a half, three too packed trains and an encounter with an umbrella-wielding old lady who'd spewed potting soil from a couple of freshly bought begonias all over him, Merlin finds himself on the landing before his flat's door.
He pats his pockets and searches his messenger bag only to realise that he hasn't got his keys. Like the idiot he is, he's locked himself out. He pushes the doorbell repeatedly and with a certain intent, hoping Gwaine is in. If Merlin remembers Gwaine's schedule, he should be, but then again Gwaine and timetables don't really mesh well.
He's practically rang the doorbell into performing a morse code version of the Radeztky March, when the door opens.
A tall leggy blonde leans against it and flashes him a bright smile. She's dressed in a Sexy Santa outfit, made up of a fur trimmed red mini-dress, wide black belt, striped stockings and Santa hat from which perfect ringlets escape. Merlin hasn't got the least idea as to who she is.
"I guess you’re Gwaine's friend?" he says.
The blonde smiles at him, showing a perfect, toothpaste-commercial-worthy row of pearly whites. "Yes, I'm Heather."
"Hello, Heather," Merlin says. "I'm Gwaine's--"
She doesn't let him finish but drags him in. "His flatmate. Of course. Gwaine's talked about his flatmate. He wanted to know if I have a hot friend to introduce you to. I know a Tai Chi instructor, if you're interested. We could have a foursome."
As befits all of Gwaine's friends, Heather is bubbly, so bubbly she's managed to say all that in under thirty seconds and before the door could fall shut. Which means that old Mrs Cailleach has heard everything because of course she's chosen that moment to run her morning errands. Merlin despairs of ever getting respect from his neighbours for as long as he shares living quarters with Gwaine. Pity that Gwaine is such a good friend because that means the neighbours will forever look askance at him.
When the door finally closes, Merlin asks, "Where's Gwaine? I wanted to say good-bye."
Heather bites her nails. "He's gone to buy the whipped cream. You've run out."
Merlin puts his messenger bag in the storage cupboard and says, lips twitching, "I don't want to know, do I?"
Heather prowls closer to him, running her fingers down his arm and whispering in his ear. "You might want to."
The key turns in the lock and Gwaine waltzes in, holding a carrier bag full of whipped cream bottles and what look to be frozen strawberries and mono-dose packets.
Heather licks Merlin's earlobe, Merlin jumps, and Gwaine says, "That's quite interesting," throwing Merlin an odd look.
Merlin holds up his hands in a gesture of surrender. "I'm not poaching on your territory, mate."
Gwaine shrugs. "You know I'm open to all kind of experiences."
"Sure, yeah." Merlin's face goes hot. "Because you're so-"
Gwaine smirks and Merlin just knows he's about to discuss all the kinky things he's done and could initiate Merlin to.
So as not to embarrass himself further with clear hints as to his wide-eyed innocence, Merlin dives into his own room. He's got some packing to do.
He puts his iPod in its dock and cranks up the music so he won't have to listen to the goings on outside his room. He's downloaded himself a nice Christmas medley and as he counts underwear pieces and socks, makes a ball of them, and throws them basketball style into his trolley, he listens to the lyrics to the first song. "It doesn't show signs of stopping, And I've bought some corn for popping." He can't help feeling as though for once the lyrics match the weather conditions.
He's moved to placing toiletries into the trolley's side compartment when the doorbell rings.
Before he's out of his room and back into the hall he hears Gwaine say, "What the fuck, Will!"
Which is right about the time Merlin's heart acquaints itself with Merlin's stomach. When Merlin makes the hall, the picture he takes in is all kinds of odd indeed and can only be a tableau out of his sometimes epically shitty life.
To the left, Gwaine is standing shirtless while Heather's peeking out of his bedroom. Now this is par for the course; it's not as if Gwaine doesn't pull a lot and the people he attracts tend to not to be shy.
Will and his girlfriend are huddled together by the door; Will's arm is draped over her shoulder. The problem, though, is that Will's arm isn't draped over Drea's shoulders out of sheer and pure affection – though Merlin entertains no doubts as to Will being arse over tit in love with Drea – but because he needs the support. As a matter of fact, Will's leg is encased in plaster from foot to knee and he's using one of a pair of crutches. Drea is brandishing the other one.
"What happened?" Merlin gawps, as do Gwaine and Heather.
"I woke up a bit late this morning."
"It was past ten!" says Drea.
"And I thought to myself that if I drove here I'd never really make it. Not if I wanted to have time to do my packing."
Dreya sighs. "Cause you couldn't do it yesterday while I did?"
"No," says Will, balancing on his lone crutch. "Because doing things at the same time when you're a couple is stupid."
"Some things work out well when you do them at the same time," Gwaine puts in, tossing his head because his hair's blinding him.
Drea blushes while Will puffs his chest out, opening his mouth to challenge Gwaine.
Merlin has no time for that. "So?"
"So I took out my scooter but the ground was frozen, the wheels had no grip and I sort of crashed."
"Right outside our driveway," says Drea mournfully.
"I'm so sorry, Will," says Merlin. "How on-- He passes a hand over his face. "Does it hurt?"
"They gave me morphine and ibuprofen at the A&E, so I'm sort of mellow."
Merlin goes to help Will move over to the sofa. As they wobble over, he says, "I think we can get a refund, don't worry."
"Huh?" says Will as he manoeuvres himself onto the sofa. "We? You're going, Merlin!"
"What? No!" says Merlin, gesticulating at Will's plaster encased leg. "I'll stay."
"No, I'll file a claim for my refund but you can still go."
"But you'll need help."
Drea is still intent on disposing of the crutches, propping them vertically against the wall. They keep sliding sideways, leaving indents in the wall. She's getting a bit frantic since they refuse to stay in place, so Gwaine just stalks over, grabs them and tosses them on the armchair. "Merlin can stand."
Free from the encumbrance, Drea mutters a thank you to Gwaine and then spins around to tell Merlin, "I rang me mum and told her I'm not visiting anymore. I'm looking after Will."
"But--"
"Really, Merlin, you shouldn't miss your holiday," says Will. "When was the last time you went on one? When was the last time you didn't pull that long face of yours?"
"I'm extremely cheerful, I'll have you know."
"Really, Merlin," says Will. "You have two functional legs right now. If you waste this chance, I'll make sure you'll have only one before the evening's out. We'll be called the broken limbs twins."
Gwaine shuffles closer. "That or I'll ask Heather to set you up on a series of New Year blind dates. I hear her Tai Chi instructor is hot if a bit dim."
Merlin raises both hands. "I just want to help my friend!"
"And your friend just wants you out of his hair," says Will, flinging a cushion at him. "Really, Merlin, I'll have all the comfort I need from my hot girl here."
"That's not very kind."
"But oh so true," says Gwaine.
"Okay, Gwaine's officially a plonker," Merlin says, "but you do need me!"
"No, I don't."
"Yes, you do."
"Merlin, it's not as if I run on micro-chips and wi-fi. You can't fix me."
Merlin makes a face. That's kind of true. "What if you're in pain?"
Will laughs. "They gave me morphine, remember? And if that's not enough I'll take the A&E by storm. It's not as if you can forge me prescriptions."
"I so wouldn't."
"There, see?"
Gwaine slips out of the living room and into Merlin's bedroom, Merlin's music drifting out incongruously as he opens the door. He comes back lugging Merlin's trolley. "Just go have fun, Merlin. You deserve it."
Flicking a glance at Will's pale, pained face, Merlin asks, "Are you positive you won't need me?"
He's answered by a chorus of yeses and then a loud, "Christ. Just go!" from Gwaine.
****
There's a tailback on the M25 and even though Percival is a dab hand at weaving in and out of traffic they haven't moved an inch in the past twenty minutes.
The glass partition between driver's seat and passenger seat goes down noiselessly and Percival says, "I should have gone for the M4, sir."
"It's not your fault, Percival," says Arthur, the leather of the seat creaking under him. "I set out late. Maybe I should just get back to the office."
Percival meets Arthur's eyes in the mirror. "Sir, Mr Knight said I should by no means say yes if you asked that."
"And tell me, Percival," says Arthur, "who pays you?" Though there's an edge to his words he makes his tone kind.
"You, sir," says Percival, tapping his fingers on the steering wheel. "But that's not going to do much good if you die prematurely. So I'm going to listen to Mr Knight, sir." Arthur has to give it to Percival; the man's still holding his gaze in the rear-view mirror.
"Turn the radio on." Arthur leans forward. "Maybe we'll learn if there's a chance of ever getting unstuck."
Percival does. Static comes on and then the presenter says soberly, "On the M25 eastbound between junctions J15 and J14, there are currently delays of up to an hour due to an accident closing one lane. Normal traffic conditions are expected to reprise from 7:15 pm onwards."
"Ah," says Arthur. "I think we need to archive this holiday idea."
"Maybe I can find us a way to get on the M4, sir."
"Percival, sometimes it's just not worth it, you know."
"But Mr Knight--"
Arthur throws his hands up in the air. "Well, Mr Knight is not God, is he?" snaps Arthur. "Nor is he the patron saint of traffic so it seems we'll have to be patient and give up on getting to Heathrow."
As soon as Arthur's said that he hears the sounds of police sirens.
"A police car's made the junction, sir," Percival said. "I can see their lights."
"We could still stay stuck here for hours," Arthur points out, as he believes, not unreasonably. He gets his smart phone out of his pocket and starts going through his mail.
"They're clearing the junction, sir." Percival makes the engine roar, the sound echoing oddly triumphant. "I think the holiday's still on, sir."
****
Merlin barely makes the last Heathrow Express that would be good to get him to the airport in time for his flight. This even though he'd printed the tickets out the evening before.
In a karmic, cosmic balance kind of scenario, he also almost runs into an old lady looking just like the one who had ruined his clothing earlier that morning, mumbles his 'sorrys' at her, and sprints a stretch before he can sink into the first available seat.
Thirty minutes later, Merlin has made it to terminal three and is pleasantly warmed by the festive atmosphere surrounding him. As he lifts his head looking for the display monitor, he notices a giant wreath of mistletoe made up of fluorescent steel tubing and multi-coloured steel balls.
It's suspended a few metres from the ground and couples are kissing under it. A little kid of about two or three, who's wearing replica reindeer antlers, is pointing at it. His mum is cooing down at him, smiling fondly and saying, "Isn't it cute, love?"
"Mistoe," says the boy.
Merlin smiles and hurries along to the check-in counter. He has mainly brought the trolley just so as to be able to stuff it full of souvenirs once he reaches his destination. The happy faces his friends are going to pull when they see they've been showered in tiny presents is certainly worth the hassle of having to check-in instead of making do with cabin luggage.
The operation itself doesn't take too long and Merlin goes through security in a reasonable amount of time (even though he was oddly pawed by the security guy manning the x-ray machine).
Merlin's busy gaping at the snowflake inspired lighting games that are part of the seasonal decorations when a competent female voice makes itself heard over the loudspeakers.
"Due to the unstable weather conditions, some flights are now subject to delay or cancellation. Please check with your airline or at the gate for further information on your flight."
Merlin says, "Oh, come on. This is my first holiday in a loooong time!"
Huffing a little, Merlin does as advised and walks up to the departure gate. He queues up to ask a member of the airline's personnel, the twentieth hopeful passenger to do so. The ground crew lady pulls stiffly on her jacket and says, "I'm sorry. For now most flights are grounded. Keep checking the monitors. We'll update you as soon as we can."
A man shouldering a rucksack asks, "But how long is it going to take? I need to be in Zurich by tonight."
"I don't know, sir," the ground crew lady says. "It depends on Air Traffic Control. They have to clear us first."
"But--"
A lady carrying a laptop says, "It's going to take hours. We can all sit and stay calm in the meanwhile."
"Really mum?" her child asks.
"I fear so."
Merlin can't agree more, especially after looking past the airport windows and at the snow-covered runway and concourses.
A baggage handler is trudging towards one of the baggage carts and mounts on it, fluorescent helmet marking him out even in the blizzard. A pilot is standing on top of the stairs to his plane, shaking his head and waving his hands at the signal man.
Merlin wanders off, though he rings Heathrow just to be on the safe side. The automated message he gets is a little disappointing: "All our lines are busy. For the latest information or to change travel plans, please visit BA.com."
Lower lip sticking out, Merlin determines he should try to kill the time in the best way he can. He visits the loos and then takes to ambling around.
The airport at Christmas is a strange sort of universe, shops and duty frees all decked out as they are to lure potential customers in. The decorations, warm and seasonal, clash with the cold and futuristic terminal architecture. The stranded passengers roam the various areas, some crowding the cafés and eateries, using wifi, others bivouacking on the floor covered by foil sheets because of the scarcity of seats, some others busy shopping to kill the time.
Merlin stops at a WH Smith's, buys himself a magazine and then heads off to the Christmas grotto because the WH Smith employee told him not to miss it.
When he actually locates it, Merlin is delighted to find out that multi-coloured baubles pile high near the wooden sleigh. Snowy Christmas trees and decorations are on display to produce a semi-magical atmosphere that makes Merlin think of Christmases past and childhood and the anticipation he felt when he spent sleepless Christmas Eves waiting for Santa, or at least his elf, to drop by. He remembers positively shaking under the covers, staying huddled in under their weight, knees bent, eyes closed, picturing him as he fought his way down the chimney stack.
It had been a kind of magic. An irreplaceable feeling of... happiness.
In a corner Merlin spies an elf, a five foot four girl wearing a green velvety tunic and a bright red floppy hat from which little silver bells dangle and chime. Santa's there too, ho-ho-hoing for the children, who are pointing at him and asking him to ring his golden bell or to be allowed to take pictures with him. One of them wants to climb into his lap. "I want to make sure he knows what to get me," the little thing, missing a front tooth, says.
Fake snow covers every available surface, holly wreaths hang here and there and a little toy train, looking perfect though miniaturised, is tootling through.
Merlin stays there for quite a long time, snaps a photo, forwards it to Will, Drea and Gwaine and then decides he ought to make it back to the departure gate to check on his flight.
On the way there he almost stumbles into a vending machine, and since this is another instance of destiny at work, he buys himself a cup of hot chocolate.
He makes sure to press the sugar button repeatedly because he needs a bit of recharging and likes sweet things on top. Merlin wraps both hands around the Styrofoam cup and starts blowing on it. It's steaming. Despite that he takes a sip because he can't resist. The liquid scalds him but the after taste is heavenly.
However, balancing rucksack and cup doesn't prove easy. The rucksack, pretty heavy in and of itself, is bouncing on his back, making him walk less than steadily. He keeps his eyes trained on the cup and the liquid sloshing in it, only lifting them to make sure he's close to gate fifteen, but not showering himself in chocolate is proving tricky.
Considering the amount of attention he was paying, it would have been smooth sailing if he hadn't tripped into an over-the-shoulder diaper bag a mum had deposited a few feet away from her and directly into Merlin's path. Still, the situation would have been salvageable if another row of seats hadn't been placed in front of the one the lady was occupying. As it happens, Merlin's feet get tangled in the strap and the contents of his cup go flying, spraying far and wide.
Merlin, for his part, ends up sprawled face down on the floor, Styrofoam cup rolling away from where he's lying. When Merlin props himself up on his elbow and looks up to find out what kind of damages he's wreaked, it's to find himself subjected to the glare of a man whose white Oxford shirt is sort of chocolate stained. Chocolate stained and past salvaging, to be correct.
Before Merlin can apologise, the man, holding the fabric away from his skin, shouts, "It's bloody hot, you cretin!"
Merlin gets to his knees and summons the courage to say, "I'm sorry; I didn't mean to ruin your shirt."
The man's face gets covered in red splotches. "You didn't--" He shakes his head then barks again, "You didn't mean it!"
Merlin gets up and starts foraging inside his rucksack. "I've got a box of Kleenex."
The man shoots to his feet. "And you think that is going to do anything?"
Merlin takes another look at the huge main stain and the constellation of other tiny ones that mar the fabric of the man's shirt. The man's pretty shirt. Ouch. Merlin's done it, hasn't he? Ruined someone's holiday and possibly Christmas. Merlin must do something; he must. Guilt gnawing at him, Merlin grimaces and grabs his victim by the wrist. "Come," he says. "It's not as if they're boarding any time soon."
The man splutters, producing a series of noises that would fit in a BBC docu on animal life. "Why are you manhandling me? Where are we going?"
Merlin, marching ahead, makes a duh face, and says, "The loos." He remembers the lavatories are close to his gate, and since he'd almost made it back when he'd showered the man in chocolate, they too must be in the vicinity. He's proved right. He pushes the protesting man whose shirt he'd wrecked into the lavatories, lets go of him and turns the tap. He grabs a handful of tissues from the dispenser, wets them and whips around, trapping the man between himself and the basin.
Their legs get nearly tangled and he can detect the pattern of the man's hurried, angry breathing as he puffs out air. Merlin starts dabbing at the stain as though his life depends on it.
"I can see what you're doing," the man screeches. It's almost like falsetto. "And there's no need to. See, it's even worse now."
"Why, what did you think I was doing?" asks Merlin, sweeping the wet wad of crumbling tissues across the stain. It's less of a dark brown now but its edges are blurring so that it looks larger if a little lighter.
"I don't know," the man huffs, "you're an unknown who's just dragged me into a loo, a solitary loo at that, and--"
Merlin's cheeks puff up and he stops in his attempts at rescuing the shirt from a chocolatey death. "I wasn't trying to assault you, you paranoid wanker. I was trying to help!"
That's when Merlin looks up and really takes in the man's face for the first time. He'd been too mortified to look properly before. And no joke, the man's handsome. He's got a nice jaw and cheekbones, fluffy blond hair that are tousled by now and blue eyes that are a little slanted and resemble those of a spoilt and perceptive Persian cat.
Merlin's eyes rake lower and he considers what the shirt, now wet and sticking to the man's torso, does nothing to hide: the broad shoulders, powerful chest and strong but not overly Rambo-like build. The swell of the man's biceps is interesting, indeed, and Merlin gulps, thinks 'oh shit' and feels the colour rise to his cheeks.
"Oh my God," the man says, fending Merlin off with two raised hands. "I was right."
"No, you bloody twit," Merlin nearly shouts. "I wasn't trying to molest you."
Which is exactly when a burly man walks in and gives Merlin the evil, stinky eye. Fortunately the man shuts himself up in a stall, banging the door as loudly as he possibly can, and leaves Merlin free to defend himself. "I was feeling sorry. I didn't want you to have to throw away your shirt. I just wanted to help!"
The man's expression softens. "All right," he says. "I believe you. But have you taken a look at this shirt?"
Merlin has and is mortified to find that his stain removal attempt has made matters even worse. The stain has faded but spread, tinting most of the shirt an odd khaki colour where it isn't downright bark brown. Tiny lint-like strips of tissue fabric stick to the shirt, making it look as though the man either has a bad case of dandruff or has passed through the car wash in his shirtsleeves – with no car for cover. The wetness of the fabric mustn't be pleasant to experience either, and Merlin can do nothing but lower his lashes contritely and say again, "Sorry."
"Well, yeah."
"You don't have another shirt?"
"I do," says the man. "In the suitcase I checked in."
Merlin can see the man's angry but he can also see that he's trying not to bite Merlin's head off anymore. Well, at least he must believe Merlin's no perv; though on second thought, this man is exactly Merlin's type and Merlin would have said something about that if they hadn't met in the most embarrassing way possible or if the man hadn't suspected him of pawing him to get off.
"Oh," says Merlin, shoulders drooping. Since his flight was supposed to be short – before the delay news – Merlin hadn't put a change of clothes in his rucksack. "I haven't got anything either."
The man looks at him, sweeping his eyes up and down Merlin's body. "Nothing of yours would fit me anyway." It's said haughtily and Merlin snaps, "Hey, I'm taller than you and built okay."
The man's lips twitch. "I wasn't looking to offend you." He studies Merlin then, raking his eyes over him once more. Merlin thinks he could keep the staring to himself if all he's doing is trying to disparage Merlin and his admittedly weak attempts at putting things right. "Look," the man adds, "what's done is done. I'll put my jacket on and change when or if I land in Cyprus."
"Okay," says Merlin. "I guess if there's nothing I can do..."
The burly man from before must have flushed the toilet for it's all Merlin can hear for about ten seconds. When he wobbles out, Merlin's chocolate victim speaks up again. "I should thank you for trying to help but since you ruined my shirt, I'd say we're even."
Merlin sucks on his lower lip and the man takes in a breath. He turns, washes his hands, and when he's done he says, "I'll go back to my seat and wait for my flight."
Merlin watches him walk out and feels a fair bit guilty and a fair bit unsettled.
****
Arthur is trying to settle down again and focus on the open book page before him but it's not so easy. The stained shirt is sticking to him in a way that's driving him mad. He wants to scratch at his skin and undress even though he realises that if he did the former it'd look like he had scabies and if he just stripped in public they'd call airport security.
He considers another trip to the toilets but gives up when he sees that a crowd has gathered around the departure gate's desk. Maybe they're boarding. He ambles towards the ground crew officer but stops in his tracks when he hears one of his fellow would-be passengers say, "So nothing new then."
"No, sir. I'm sorry. Keep your eyes on the monitors."
Arthur trudges back to his seat, head bent. He's very much of a mind to go back home. The only thing stopping him is the knowledge that he would have to go get his case back from the check-in people if he doesn't want it destroyed.
He's about to sit again when he finds that a shadow is darkening the plastic chair he'd been sitting on. He half turns around and is surprised to see the chocolate wielder from before. He's standing there holding a shopping bag by its sides and pushing it towards Arthur. The label on the bag says Reiss.
Arthur arches an eyebrow and says, "What's that?"
Chocolate Guy says, "A replacement shirt."
"You--"
"Bought you a replacement shirt because I was feeling bad."
Chocolate Guy is indeed looking a little bit like a guilty schoolboy except for the fact that he's obviously in his twenties. It's the way he's biting on his lower lip, the way he's shuffling from foot to foot, and the way he's almost using the bag as a shield. He should look like an idiot but he doesn't. He's kind of endearing and his features are more than a little breathtaking. The flush that is spreading across his nose is highlighting his cheekbones and doing something to make him look almost edible, making you think of other kinds of situations when the blood might rise closer to the skin. Arthur is left at a loss for words for a few seconds, then he recovers and says, "But you shouldn't have. I said it was okay."
"Not really," says Chocolate Guy. "You said there was nothing to be done."
"And there wasn't."
"But see," says Chocolate Guy, "there was. I'm sure it'll fit you." He pushes the bag into Arthur's hands, causing him to stumble back and sit to catch himself.
"Well, it might," says Arthur. "But I can't accept your money."
"If I'd caused a fender bender I'd have paid for your new bumper."
"You're comparing this to a fender bender?" asks Arthur, watching as Chocolate Guy reddens some more. He shakes the bag he's been given.
Chocolate Guy nods severely. "Obviously there's no car involved and if there was I'd be worrying over completely different things but it's mostly the same thing. I ruined your shirt. I'm replacing it." He grins and says, "Look at it at least. I think you'll like it. Even though it's not exactly like the one I ruined."
He takes a step closer, smiles in a way that is making Arthur think of saying yes just to see a little more of that smile and then abruptly starts sniffing the air.
"Oh," he goes. "You smell great. Er, of chocolate great. But that's normal cause I did shower you in it. I swear I wasn't coming onto you?"
There's a lilt to Chocolate Guy’s tone as if he's changed his statement to a question. It makes Arthur burst out laughing. He pinches the bridge of his nose to stop himself. His sides hurt a little, muscles straining, and he's going to rupture something if he doesn't.
He can't grasp why he's doing this, but it feels good, so he only checks himself because people have turned around and are looking at him as if he were deranged.
Chocolate Guy doesn't look as if he's too chuffed either. "Because if I was, that would have been totally absurd right, Mr Businessman?"
Arthur shakes his head and raises a hand, fending the accusation off. "No, no it wouldn't."
"It seemed to me you found the idea totally hilarious."
"No," Arthur says. "Look, I'll take the replacement shirt if I can buy you a coffee in exchange for the chocolate you spilled on me."
Chocolate Guy's gawping expression changes into a lopsided bright grin that morphs his entire face; his eyes narrow and get crinkles round them, his stance relaxes, and as it does, Arthur can appreciate the perks of the man's greyhound build. The wide set shoulders, slim hips, and long legs are something to write home about.
"I'm Merlin," he says.
****
The man whose shirt Merlin condemned to a death by chocolate is called Arthur.
Arthur is really a businessman, but then he sort of gives off that vibe, and looks good in the new shirt Merlin bought – the one Merlin chose himself, the one Merlin can't really look at without thinking that he'd be buying clothes for Arthur a lot if they were intimate...
As Arthur chases down a glass of bitter, throat working, Merlin catches himself fantasising about running his tongue along the tendons of Arthur's neck. He pictures himself mouthing kisses up his throat till he can nuzzle his jaw and tongue his mouth. He stops focusing on the mundane reality of the airport for long moments before he checks and berates himself for having x-rated thoughts about the man sitting in front of him.
"Hey, I asked you where you were flying off to but if it's a secret you don't have to tell me."
Merlin startles. "Where I was what?" Merlin has a very vivid imagination. It's kinda 3D-like and the vision was enticing so he should be forgiven for his attention lapse.
"Travelling to, Merlin," says Arthur in a tone that sounds both amused and long suffering. "I was asking where you were going."
Merlin tinkers with his cup. "Oh, it's no secret." He waves his hand about. "I was going to Zurich to see the Christmas markets and do some sightseeing."
"Oh no," says Arthur, eyes rounding and expression going a little mock panicked. He just needs to hold his cheeks and open his mouth to get the full Munch effect going. "You're one of those Christmas lovers, aren't you?
"I totally am," Merlin says. "I love everything seasonal. I have seasonal music downloaded, always watch It's A Wonderful Life when it's on the telly, and I actually sort of might have subscribed to a postcard exchange programme. So, yep, I am. And now you hate me."
Arthur finishes his drink, plays with the empty glass, and says, "Can't hate the man who bought me a brand new shirt. I find all that seasonal drivel annoying though."
Merlin flashes back to his childhood, to him and his mum decorating the Christmas tree and having to make do with less than super new and shiny baubles. Having to make do hadn't been bad for him at all; he'd been allowed to make drawings and stick them to the branches, and to use cotton balls instead of the expensive artificial snow specialised shops sold. He'd been happy. "It's not really."
"It's just a commercial bid to empty your pockets." Arthur turns on his stool and studies Merlin a little more intently. "Believe me, I should know. I'm in business."
Merlin frowns. Arthur looks fantastic and he has gentle eyes that would make you think he has a nice soul stashed somewhere but all this talk is unsettling Merlin. It's cynical and Merlin has long ago learnt that cynicism doesn't make him happy. "Now don't go all Scrooge on me," he says. When what he really wants to say is, "Make me like you, please, because I fancy the clothes off you already." Of course he has the self control to stick to the former.
"I'm not being a Scrooge," says Arthur. "All my employees regularly receive fat checks. And if you're religious... I'm not trying to insult that. It's just that I don't like it when people play with my feelings. And harping on the family theme is just like that. It's preying."
Merlin can understand that, though he'd like to see Arthur let go a little. Right now his shoulders are set in a rigid line and his expression is on the bad side of pinched.
So as not to focus on Arthur's Christmas dislike, Merlin rummages into his pockets for his change and pays for their drinks, Arthur protesting that he'd meant to do that himself. "No," says Merlin. "I've got to show you something first."
He starts sprinting down the terminal, only craning his neck to make sure that Arthur's following him. And he is. Which makes Merlin feel a little giddy or as if there's not enough oxygen going to his brain. This should be worrying, as he should be sad about the fact that his holiday might be cancelled any moment, but his heart is beating in his throat in that pleasant way that is all anticipation and not anxiety so he lets all worries go and enjoys both the run and the feeling.
He races past the vending machine, rucksack bumping the small of his back, and skids to a stop before the grotto, nearly running into and bowling over three little kids queuing up for Santa. His breath is coming fast but he smiles through it when he sees Arthur, still looking smart in the new shirt, catch up with him.
"You're bonkers!" says Arthur, wheezing. "Why did you have to run all this way?"
"To get you to see the happy kids and the fake snow."
"When there's real snow on the ground that's making it impossible for us to go on holiday and when you look ten times happier than the bounciest kid?"
Merlin looks at the kids, tries to establish whether he looks more or less enthusiastic than them and shrugs his shoulders when he realises that maybe he's made more noise than they have. "Yeah?"
"Yeah," says Arthur. "It looks good on you though."
Merlin feels the urge to shuffle or bow his head but he fights it and cocking his head to one side, he goes and says, "Yeah?"
"Definitely."
"I didn't mean to push you into doing something you didn't like."
"Merlin, we're stuck here with little to do. Anything goes."
Disappointment bites at Merlin. As it does, he finds that it's because he was expecting a different answer from Arthur. And that's absurd, isn't it? Even though Arthur seemed flirty – in a breath-taking, I-like-you way – a few moments before, it doesn't mean he actually was or that he's gay. Besides, even if he was, which is not a given – Merlin's instincts notwishtanding – it's not as if they know each other. It's just that Merlin feels like moving closer, orbiting nearer Arthur. "Anything to kill the time, eh?"
"Not like that," says Arthur. "I'm enjoying myself."
"Honestly?"
Arthur places a hand on his heart. "Honestly." He studies Merlin out of narrowed eyes and then says, "You're beet red. Is it because you like winter wonderlands so much?"
Merlin sticks his chin out and waggles his head. "Yes."
Arthur tilts his and grins. "Sure?"
"Absolutely," says Merlin. "My heart flutters when I see one."
Arthur takes a step closer so he's in Merlin's personal space. "That the only thing that makes your heart flutter so poetically?"
Merlin swallows but bats at Arthur's arm. "No, there's plenty more that does the trick."
"Really?" Arthur whistles. "I wonder what that is."
"I'll tell you about something I like," Merlin says mischievously, not minding putting himself out there now that he's having a positive reaction. "If you come with me, I'll show you."
"Oh, I'll come."
Part II
Recipient:
fuzzytomato02Author:
rotrudeRating: NC-17
Pairings: Arthur/Merlin; Gwaine/Other, hints of Gwaine/Elena
Word Count: 28,110
Warnings: mentioned past minor character illness, spoilers up to 4x5
Summary: Sometimes the weather conditions work a little like fate. And sometimes you find love in the most improbable circumstances.
Author's Notes:(i) Dear
fuzzytomato02, I used the following prompts: snow, travelling for the holidays, Merlin and Arthur are both stuck in an airport waiting for grounded flights and meet/fall in love/get it on in the toilets as a basis for this story. I hope you find in it some of what you wanted. Merry holidays! (ii) Thanks to the lovely F for her insightful and thorough beta-read. You're as sweet as Eggnog with chocolate sprinkled on top.Disclaimer: The characters depicted herein belong to Shine and BBC. I make no profit from this endeavor.
"And now the CSS is tweaked," Merlin says, rolling back his chair.
"Are you sure?" Freya asks. She's sitting on his desk, too close to Merlin's precariously perched Macbook for comfort. "We've been inundated by complaints."
Merlin holds up both his hands in a defensive gesture. "The app's working. I tested the unit and the whole system. I answered the most serious forum users, not the ones who can't find the sign-in button, and they won't be complaining." He smiles widely. "Really, Freya," he says, "it's all running smoothly now, and it's the 23rd."
"Well, I'd wish you happy holidays if I was sure it won't all go to hell again," Freya says, tapping her pencil against the desk. "The number of hits triples during the holidays, and we can't really do without our best web designer."
Merlin pats her hand and amps up the volume of the song he's had as background on his VLC player. The notes of Auld Lang Syne fill the office.
Two of Merlin's colleagues clap and one shouts, "Way to infuse the proper seasonal spirit, Merlin." Cedric turns up his nose in disgust and another co-worker puts ear buds in his ears to tune Merlin's music out.
Merlin lowers the volume.
Freya just looks at him in that long suffering way of hers.
"Look at this incoming message," says Merlin, moving the mouse and clicking on a forum sub-thread. "Love the new feature. Kudos for making it work on Opera," he quotes. Merlin hits print and when the printer coughs out the sheet, Merlin holds it up for Freya's inspection. "See, everything's under control. I have a plane in seven hours, Frey. Thanks to all this holiday bustle, I'll be lucky if it takes me an hour to get home. Then I'll have to pack and make it to Heathrow. Please?" Merlin bats his eyelashes and then hurries to add, "I spent the whole of yesterday night in here patching up Mordred's coding mistakes."
Freya pats Merlin on the top of his head and ruffles his hair. "All right," she says. "I was only nervous because our paper's gonna be bought out by a finance mogul I don't trust one bit. Annis is worried, though her strong editor front hasn't given yet. You can go and enjoy your holiday."
Merlin rises, switches off his two computers, and puts on his padded jacket. "Thank you."
Freya tuts and wraps Merlin's scarf around his neck, making two loops. "I want to be sure you won't catch a chill. It's been snowing all morning and it's subpolar out there."
Merlin reddens, feeling all eyes on him. Freya coddles him way too much. "Why, thank you," he says and draws himself up a bit, "but I'm way tougher than I look."
Freya smiles sweetly. "I know," she says. "I'm just looking out for you. I hope you're going somewhere warm."
Merlin plays with the ends of his scarf. "Well, not exactly," he says, grinning and picturing the sights he would see. "Switzerland. Gwaine booked me this holiday package he got cheap on e-dreams. I'm going to spend Christmas and the New Year there."
As Merlin piles up his two laptops one on top of the other and puts them in his messenger bag, Freya asks, "And who are you going with?"
Merlin doesn't miss the raised eyebrow or the nudging tone. He laughs and waves his hands about. "None of that. It's not that kind of a holiday." He's thought about pulling someone just for the occasion, and Gwaine had certainly suggested he do so, inviting him to the club he works at, offering him special passes and a go at the VIP area, but Merlin would rather share this holiday – the first in quite some time – with someone he genuinely likes. "Will's coming. His girlfriend has to spend the holidays at home in Gloucestershire and he's on the loose."
Freya is shaking with gentle laughter. "Poor Merlin, saddled with Will. Maybe you'll find a nice boy to kiss on New Year's Eve."
Merlin shakes his head in denial. "Nah," he says, nose wrinkling. "That kind of thing only happens in films or to other people."
Freya sidles closer as Merlin shoulders his bag. "Hey, none of that defeatist talk," she murmurs in his ear. "You're quite a catch."
Merlin's lips twist up a little. He pulls on the strap of his bag and puffs his chest out. "What defeatist talk? I'm very handsome in a non-muscly, completely understated way." He grins though this isn't one of his best grins.
Freya slaps his chest. "I'm serious, Merlin," she says. "You're sweet and clever and amazingly thoughtful."
There's not much Merlin can say to that without sounding either too much in need of comfort or obnoxiously smug, so he just taps the glass of his blue Ice Watch and says, "Really got to go now. I'll have to face Paddington on the day before Christmas Eve and I'd like to buy an extra sized Cornish Pasty on the way."
"Just go," says Freya and Merlin does, waving on his way out. So as to gain on the lost time he skips the lift, which always takes too long to respond, and opts for the stairs. He's taking them two at a time and nearly slips twice.
One of the first floor editors calls out to him, "Watch out, Merlin. You don't want to spend Christmas in hospital, do you?"
Merlin doesn't stop and chirps out a flying answer. "Absolutely not! Zurich's waiting for me."
Despite his confidence, he does stumble and slip on a frozen section of pavement right outside the newspaper offices. He ends up arse first on the chilly pavement, snowflakes crowning his head and settling on his nose. Despite the momentary shock, he pats himself down and finds that he's all right. He's broken nothing.
An old gentleman stops by and asks, "Are you all right, young man?"
Merlin smiles tentatively as the old man helps him up. "Yeah."
"Rotten weather."
"Yeah," Merlin agrees as he checks himself for damage once more. The back of his jeans is all wet and the cold is creeping into his bones, but everything else is okay. "Thank you, though."
"It's nothing," the old man says. "I was glad to be of help. But this is crap weather, so you'd better get home."
Merlin makes sure his laptops weren't damaged in the fall – they seem to have survived – and says, "Oh, no. I'm off on holiday."
"Good luck, then," the old man says. "I hope you can get where you need to be."
Still hollering his good-bye, Merlin dashes off towards the nearest tube station only to hear the announcer say, "Due to a signal failure, the Northern Line is partly suspended with no service between..."
"Crap," Merlin says, as he fishes his oyster card out of his wallet and waves it a little manically at the turnstile.
****
Leon is bent over Arthur's desk, leafing through the pages of the various documents stacked on Arthur's desk and pointing to the dotted lines so Arthur can sign. Leon has already gone through all the ins and outs of those files but Arthur can't stop from asking, "We have an agreement with Suntech in place; this won't be implemented till the second quarter, right?"
"Nothing has changed from the draft."
"Good," says Arthur signing with a flourish. "And all the papers for the buy-out of Blackday Publishing and the Evening Gazette are ready, I think?"
"Yes," says Leon, turning another page for Arthur. "But we sounded the board and there were a few unhappy members. Especially as regards the Evening Gazette's acquisition. They think..."
"--that the Gazette's revenues have declined and that they've gone through some losses," Arthur says a little tiredly. He puts down his pen and rubs the bridge of his nose. "I went through all the data myself and I still find that their equity value is more than enough and their ads revenue is promising. Aside from that they are read by a wide group of people, which is very attractive when it comes to selling ad spaces."
Leon puts all the signed papers into one column, parting them from the stack of to-be-signed ones. "Arthur, I didn't mean to add fuel to that."
"But," says uncle Agravaine, walking in and leaning against the door to Arthur's office, "you should have made all that clearer to the board."
"I mean to strengthen the newspaper’s competitiveness," says Arthur quickly. "I explained my views."
"As a king would," says Agravaine in a soft voice. He's lifting his eyebrows. "You get that from your father. I would recommend a softer approach."
Leon places a hand on Arthur's shoulder in a gesture Arthur can't quite make heads or tails of. "I--" he starts but Leon interrupts him. "Sign the last three. Percival's got the car ready for you downstairs."
Arthur swivels in his chair and looks up at Leon. "Perhaps I should stay and call a board meeting for tomorrow."
"Arthur," says Leon, trying to hide the initial gaping fish expression that had come across his face at Arthur's proposition. "I hardly think it necessary. Tomorrow's Christmas Eve." He points at the calendar and at its reindeer theme of the month.
Arthur looks to Agravaine, cocking an eyebrow.
Agravaine crosses his arms over his chest and smiles. "Your PA is right, Arthur," he says. He sounds calm and soothing, and Arthur finds he's glad Agravaine bought some of the shares Arthur's father had sold upon retiring.
Having him there lends the business an aura of the familiar he's not averse to. If anything he's very appreciative, feeling he can relax better having a relative with a solid business background to help him hold the reins of the company. "Nobody will listen kindly if they're focusing on their holidays. This is not a good time to press your points. Besides, you need to relax."
Leon makes a noise Arthur reads as agreement and when Arthur settles his gaze on him, he says, "You have been working non-stop for the past year and a half. And you do need a break."
Arthur knows that and knows that Leon needs one too. If Arthur takes a few days off, Leon will be able to spend some quality time with his family. He hasn't had the chance to do much of that lately.
"You're near break-down," Agravaine says gently. "The dark circles under your eyes have dark circles underneath."
Arthur makes an effort to loosen the muscles in his shoulder. Moving hurts. He's always taken care of his body, but the long office hours have done nothing to help the perpetual crick in his neck.
"Cyprus will do you good," says Leon.
"I'll mail you the address of some friends of mine who're over there," says Agravaine. "Expatriates. They have a beautiful daughter."
Arthur groans and buries his head in his arms. He looks up very reluctantly and grits out a very laconic, "I'm not looking for company."
Leon pats his tie and Agravaine says, "As you wish. She's a clever girl but I understand your need for solitude and relaxation."
Arthur doesn't say anything to that. Uncle Agravaine has only recently made a come-back into his life, and Arthur hasn't felt like acquainting him with every little detail of his life.
There's no need to equivocate, though, because the blinking red led on his phone display alerts them to an incoming call. Leon takes it and the oft repeated words, "Arthur Pendragon's office, Leon Knight speaking," roll easily off his tongue.
After having hemmed and hummed, Leon puts the receiver back in its cradle. "The car's ready, Arthur."
"What about my luggage? I don't have any luggage."
Leon opens a drawer, closes it, hands him a vinyl travel wallet, and says, "I printed off the boarding pass. You're travelling Business. I took the liberty of packing up for you. You'll find Percy has already stowed your suitcase in the limo."
Arthur gets to his feet, takes the wallet, and doesn't even bother to check his tickets or rental vouchers. Leon never makes mistakes of that kind.
"Go, Arthur," says his uncle, sauntering over and placing both hands on his shoulders. "Unwinding will do you good."
Arthur can only put on his coat, scarf and gloves and pick up the briefcase he never leaves without. "Well, see you after New Year's then."
A lift ride later, Arthur walks out of the company building and makes his way to the company limo.
Percival is standing at attention next to the open passenger door, snowflakes covering him, cap in place, looking for all the world like an SAS officer instead of a chauffeur.
"To Heathrow, Percival," says Arthur as he brushes off snowflakes and folds himself into the back seat.
****
Leon's sending out holiday card mails to all of Camelot's shareholders, staff, clients, associates and family members. They're all signed with a stylish Arthur Pendragon at the bottom, though of course, Arthur has had nothing to do with them from the idea's original inception to their delivery.
There are different personalised bunches Leon himself has designed with the help of their tech expert, Elyan from IT, and Leon is overall satisfied with them. He rubs at his bearded chin and smiles.
The smile fades somewhat when he remembers the files sitting next to his elbow. "Sod it all to hell!" He glances at the clock and finds that it's nearly five. He closes his mail client and pushes back his chair. He picks up the incriminating folders and looks at the door. Arthur's well on his way to Heathrow now and if Leon texts him, he'll come back, miss his plane, spend his holidays at home, which really means in his office, and come back more stressed than he was before.
Berating himself for having forgotten, Leon sighs and pushes his chair back. He tucks the folders under his arm and makes for the corridor. He just needs a board member's signature to get the staff bonuses approved and he needn't wreck Arthur's holiday for that.
He's so preoccupied, he almost doesn't notice Browne from acquisitions until the man stops and says, "Hello, Leon. Happy Holidays."
"Thank you, sir," Leon answers. "Likewise."
"Is Arthur working you into the ground as usual?"
Leon grimaces. "Not without doing the same to himself, unfortunately."
"That's what working for the boss is all about, eh?" Mr Browne says. "Especially such a one as Pendragon!"
Leon's not sure how to take the statement. Mr Browne is winking and his lips are tightly pursed. The muscle in his jaw looks set and he's playing with his tie in a nervous fashion though the expression in his eyes is benevolent enough. He could be yanking Leon's chain or he could be slinging barbs at Arthur. After all, Arthur's work ethic borders on the obsessive compulsive and he asks as much from others as he does out of himself. This makes a number of people less than happy.
Browne might be one of them. "Well, Arthur certainly is tough to please but working for him is an honour."
Mr Browne straightens and he claps a hand on Leon's arm. "Your diligence does you honour too."
They part over more "Happy Holidays" wishes, Leon hastening down the corridor and rounding a corner fast in the hopes of still catching Agravaine du Bois in his office.
He heaves a sigh of relief when he sees a short, stocky man exiting du Bois' office. "Pardon," Leon says when the man nearly walks into him, but the man doesn't apologise, opting for turning, ducking his head and hurrying towards the lifts.
Leon doesn't curse him only because he's made an art form of politeness.
Shaking his head, Leon slips into Mr du Bois' office. Mr du Bois is standing in his shirtsleeves next to the safe. When he sees Leon, he whips round, his lips tighten so that small wrinkles form around them, making him appear older and more severe, and slams the door to the safe shut.
He quickly punches in the lock code numbers, shading the keypad with his hand as he does so. Quite brusquely, given his usually gentle tone, he asks, "Was there something you wanted?"
Very odd, thinks Leon, but aloud he says, "Just needed you to sign a few papers now that Arthur's away."
Du Bois smiles tightly. "But of course." He makes for his desk and picks up a pen. "But of course."
****
One hour and a half, three too packed trains and an encounter with an umbrella-wielding old lady who'd spewed potting soil from a couple of freshly bought begonias all over him, Merlin finds himself on the landing before his flat's door.
He pats his pockets and searches his messenger bag only to realise that he hasn't got his keys. Like the idiot he is, he's locked himself out. He pushes the doorbell repeatedly and with a certain intent, hoping Gwaine is in. If Merlin remembers Gwaine's schedule, he should be, but then again Gwaine and timetables don't really mesh well.
He's practically rang the doorbell into performing a morse code version of the Radeztky March, when the door opens.
A tall leggy blonde leans against it and flashes him a bright smile. She's dressed in a Sexy Santa outfit, made up of a fur trimmed red mini-dress, wide black belt, striped stockings and Santa hat from which perfect ringlets escape. Merlin hasn't got the least idea as to who she is.
"I guess you’re Gwaine's friend?" he says.
The blonde smiles at him, showing a perfect, toothpaste-commercial-worthy row of pearly whites. "Yes, I'm Heather."
"Hello, Heather," Merlin says. "I'm Gwaine's--"
She doesn't let him finish but drags him in. "His flatmate. Of course. Gwaine's talked about his flatmate. He wanted to know if I have a hot friend to introduce you to. I know a Tai Chi instructor, if you're interested. We could have a foursome."
As befits all of Gwaine's friends, Heather is bubbly, so bubbly she's managed to say all that in under thirty seconds and before the door could fall shut. Which means that old Mrs Cailleach has heard everything because of course she's chosen that moment to run her morning errands. Merlin despairs of ever getting respect from his neighbours for as long as he shares living quarters with Gwaine. Pity that Gwaine is such a good friend because that means the neighbours will forever look askance at him.
When the door finally closes, Merlin asks, "Where's Gwaine? I wanted to say good-bye."
Heather bites her nails. "He's gone to buy the whipped cream. You've run out."
Merlin puts his messenger bag in the storage cupboard and says, lips twitching, "I don't want to know, do I?"
Heather prowls closer to him, running her fingers down his arm and whispering in his ear. "You might want to."
The key turns in the lock and Gwaine waltzes in, holding a carrier bag full of whipped cream bottles and what look to be frozen strawberries and mono-dose packets.
Heather licks Merlin's earlobe, Merlin jumps, and Gwaine says, "That's quite interesting," throwing Merlin an odd look.
Merlin holds up his hands in a gesture of surrender. "I'm not poaching on your territory, mate."
Gwaine shrugs. "You know I'm open to all kind of experiences."
"Sure, yeah." Merlin's face goes hot. "Because you're so-"
Gwaine smirks and Merlin just knows he's about to discuss all the kinky things he's done and could initiate Merlin to.
So as not to embarrass himself further with clear hints as to his wide-eyed innocence, Merlin dives into his own room. He's got some packing to do.
He puts his iPod in its dock and cranks up the music so he won't have to listen to the goings on outside his room. He's downloaded himself a nice Christmas medley and as he counts underwear pieces and socks, makes a ball of them, and throws them basketball style into his trolley, he listens to the lyrics to the first song. "It doesn't show signs of stopping, And I've bought some corn for popping." He can't help feeling as though for once the lyrics match the weather conditions.
He's moved to placing toiletries into the trolley's side compartment when the doorbell rings.
Before he's out of his room and back into the hall he hears Gwaine say, "What the fuck, Will!"
Which is right about the time Merlin's heart acquaints itself with Merlin's stomach. When Merlin makes the hall, the picture he takes in is all kinds of odd indeed and can only be a tableau out of his sometimes epically shitty life.
To the left, Gwaine is standing shirtless while Heather's peeking out of his bedroom. Now this is par for the course; it's not as if Gwaine doesn't pull a lot and the people he attracts tend to not to be shy.
Will and his girlfriend are huddled together by the door; Will's arm is draped over her shoulder. The problem, though, is that Will's arm isn't draped over Drea's shoulders out of sheer and pure affection – though Merlin entertains no doubts as to Will being arse over tit in love with Drea – but because he needs the support. As a matter of fact, Will's leg is encased in plaster from foot to knee and he's using one of a pair of crutches. Drea is brandishing the other one.
"What happened?" Merlin gawps, as do Gwaine and Heather.
"I woke up a bit late this morning."
"It was past ten!" says Drea.
"And I thought to myself that if I drove here I'd never really make it. Not if I wanted to have time to do my packing."
Dreya sighs. "Cause you couldn't do it yesterday while I did?"
"No," says Will, balancing on his lone crutch. "Because doing things at the same time when you're a couple is stupid."
"Some things work out well when you do them at the same time," Gwaine puts in, tossing his head because his hair's blinding him.
Drea blushes while Will puffs his chest out, opening his mouth to challenge Gwaine.
Merlin has no time for that. "So?"
"So I took out my scooter but the ground was frozen, the wheels had no grip and I sort of crashed."
"Right outside our driveway," says Drea mournfully.
"I'm so sorry, Will," says Merlin. "How on-- He passes a hand over his face. "Does it hurt?"
"They gave me morphine and ibuprofen at the A&E, so I'm sort of mellow."
Merlin goes to help Will move over to the sofa. As they wobble over, he says, "I think we can get a refund, don't worry."
"Huh?" says Will as he manoeuvres himself onto the sofa. "We? You're going, Merlin!"
"What? No!" says Merlin, gesticulating at Will's plaster encased leg. "I'll stay."
"No, I'll file a claim for my refund but you can still go."
"But you'll need help."
Drea is still intent on disposing of the crutches, propping them vertically against the wall. They keep sliding sideways, leaving indents in the wall. She's getting a bit frantic since they refuse to stay in place, so Gwaine just stalks over, grabs them and tosses them on the armchair. "Merlin can stand."
Free from the encumbrance, Drea mutters a thank you to Gwaine and then spins around to tell Merlin, "I rang me mum and told her I'm not visiting anymore. I'm looking after Will."
"But--"
"Really, Merlin, you shouldn't miss your holiday," says Will. "When was the last time you went on one? When was the last time you didn't pull that long face of yours?"
"I'm extremely cheerful, I'll have you know."
"Really, Merlin," says Will. "You have two functional legs right now. If you waste this chance, I'll make sure you'll have only one before the evening's out. We'll be called the broken limbs twins."
Gwaine shuffles closer. "That or I'll ask Heather to set you up on a series of New Year blind dates. I hear her Tai Chi instructor is hot if a bit dim."
Merlin raises both hands. "I just want to help my friend!"
"And your friend just wants you out of his hair," says Will, flinging a cushion at him. "Really, Merlin, I'll have all the comfort I need from my hot girl here."
"That's not very kind."
"But oh so true," says Gwaine.
"Okay, Gwaine's officially a plonker," Merlin says, "but you do need me!"
"No, I don't."
"Yes, you do."
"Merlin, it's not as if I run on micro-chips and wi-fi. You can't fix me."
Merlin makes a face. That's kind of true. "What if you're in pain?"
Will laughs. "They gave me morphine, remember? And if that's not enough I'll take the A&E by storm. It's not as if you can forge me prescriptions."
"I so wouldn't."
"There, see?"
Gwaine slips out of the living room and into Merlin's bedroom, Merlin's music drifting out incongruously as he opens the door. He comes back lugging Merlin's trolley. "Just go have fun, Merlin. You deserve it."
Flicking a glance at Will's pale, pained face, Merlin asks, "Are you positive you won't need me?"
He's answered by a chorus of yeses and then a loud, "Christ. Just go!" from Gwaine.
****
There's a tailback on the M25 and even though Percival is a dab hand at weaving in and out of traffic they haven't moved an inch in the past twenty minutes.
The glass partition between driver's seat and passenger seat goes down noiselessly and Percival says, "I should have gone for the M4, sir."
"It's not your fault, Percival," says Arthur, the leather of the seat creaking under him. "I set out late. Maybe I should just get back to the office."
Percival meets Arthur's eyes in the mirror. "Sir, Mr Knight said I should by no means say yes if you asked that."
"And tell me, Percival," says Arthur, "who pays you?" Though there's an edge to his words he makes his tone kind.
"You, sir," says Percival, tapping his fingers on the steering wheel. "But that's not going to do much good if you die prematurely. So I'm going to listen to Mr Knight, sir." Arthur has to give it to Percival; the man's still holding his gaze in the rear-view mirror.
"Turn the radio on." Arthur leans forward. "Maybe we'll learn if there's a chance of ever getting unstuck."
Percival does. Static comes on and then the presenter says soberly, "On the M25 eastbound between junctions J15 and J14, there are currently delays of up to an hour due to an accident closing one lane. Normal traffic conditions are expected to reprise from 7:15 pm onwards."
"Ah," says Arthur. "I think we need to archive this holiday idea."
"Maybe I can find us a way to get on the M4, sir."
"Percival, sometimes it's just not worth it, you know."
"But Mr Knight--"
Arthur throws his hands up in the air. "Well, Mr Knight is not God, is he?" snaps Arthur. "Nor is he the patron saint of traffic so it seems we'll have to be patient and give up on getting to Heathrow."
As soon as Arthur's said that he hears the sounds of police sirens.
"A police car's made the junction, sir," Percival said. "I can see their lights."
"We could still stay stuck here for hours," Arthur points out, as he believes, not unreasonably. He gets his smart phone out of his pocket and starts going through his mail.
"They're clearing the junction, sir." Percival makes the engine roar, the sound echoing oddly triumphant. "I think the holiday's still on, sir."
****
Merlin barely makes the last Heathrow Express that would be good to get him to the airport in time for his flight. This even though he'd printed the tickets out the evening before.
In a karmic, cosmic balance kind of scenario, he also almost runs into an old lady looking just like the one who had ruined his clothing earlier that morning, mumbles his 'sorrys' at her, and sprints a stretch before he can sink into the first available seat.
Thirty minutes later, Merlin has made it to terminal three and is pleasantly warmed by the festive atmosphere surrounding him. As he lifts his head looking for the display monitor, he notices a giant wreath of mistletoe made up of fluorescent steel tubing and multi-coloured steel balls.
It's suspended a few metres from the ground and couples are kissing under it. A little kid of about two or three, who's wearing replica reindeer antlers, is pointing at it. His mum is cooing down at him, smiling fondly and saying, "Isn't it cute, love?"
"Mistoe," says the boy.
Merlin smiles and hurries along to the check-in counter. He has mainly brought the trolley just so as to be able to stuff it full of souvenirs once he reaches his destination. The happy faces his friends are going to pull when they see they've been showered in tiny presents is certainly worth the hassle of having to check-in instead of making do with cabin luggage.
The operation itself doesn't take too long and Merlin goes through security in a reasonable amount of time (even though he was oddly pawed by the security guy manning the x-ray machine).
Merlin's busy gaping at the snowflake inspired lighting games that are part of the seasonal decorations when a competent female voice makes itself heard over the loudspeakers.
"Due to the unstable weather conditions, some flights are now subject to delay or cancellation. Please check with your airline or at the gate for further information on your flight."
Merlin says, "Oh, come on. This is my first holiday in a loooong time!"
Huffing a little, Merlin does as advised and walks up to the departure gate. He queues up to ask a member of the airline's personnel, the twentieth hopeful passenger to do so. The ground crew lady pulls stiffly on her jacket and says, "I'm sorry. For now most flights are grounded. Keep checking the monitors. We'll update you as soon as we can."
A man shouldering a rucksack asks, "But how long is it going to take? I need to be in Zurich by tonight."
"I don't know, sir," the ground crew lady says. "It depends on Air Traffic Control. They have to clear us first."
"But--"
A lady carrying a laptop says, "It's going to take hours. We can all sit and stay calm in the meanwhile."
"Really mum?" her child asks.
"I fear so."
Merlin can't agree more, especially after looking past the airport windows and at the snow-covered runway and concourses.
A baggage handler is trudging towards one of the baggage carts and mounts on it, fluorescent helmet marking him out even in the blizzard. A pilot is standing on top of the stairs to his plane, shaking his head and waving his hands at the signal man.
Merlin wanders off, though he rings Heathrow just to be on the safe side. The automated message he gets is a little disappointing: "All our lines are busy. For the latest information or to change travel plans, please visit BA.com."
Lower lip sticking out, Merlin determines he should try to kill the time in the best way he can. He visits the loos and then takes to ambling around.
The airport at Christmas is a strange sort of universe, shops and duty frees all decked out as they are to lure potential customers in. The decorations, warm and seasonal, clash with the cold and futuristic terminal architecture. The stranded passengers roam the various areas, some crowding the cafés and eateries, using wifi, others bivouacking on the floor covered by foil sheets because of the scarcity of seats, some others busy shopping to kill the time.
Merlin stops at a WH Smith's, buys himself a magazine and then heads off to the Christmas grotto because the WH Smith employee told him not to miss it.
When he actually locates it, Merlin is delighted to find out that multi-coloured baubles pile high near the wooden sleigh. Snowy Christmas trees and decorations are on display to produce a semi-magical atmosphere that makes Merlin think of Christmases past and childhood and the anticipation he felt when he spent sleepless Christmas Eves waiting for Santa, or at least his elf, to drop by. He remembers positively shaking under the covers, staying huddled in under their weight, knees bent, eyes closed, picturing him as he fought his way down the chimney stack.
It had been a kind of magic. An irreplaceable feeling of... happiness.
In a corner Merlin spies an elf, a five foot four girl wearing a green velvety tunic and a bright red floppy hat from which little silver bells dangle and chime. Santa's there too, ho-ho-hoing for the children, who are pointing at him and asking him to ring his golden bell or to be allowed to take pictures with him. One of them wants to climb into his lap. "I want to make sure he knows what to get me," the little thing, missing a front tooth, says.
Fake snow covers every available surface, holly wreaths hang here and there and a little toy train, looking perfect though miniaturised, is tootling through.
Merlin stays there for quite a long time, snaps a photo, forwards it to Will, Drea and Gwaine and then decides he ought to make it back to the departure gate to check on his flight.
On the way there he almost stumbles into a vending machine, and since this is another instance of destiny at work, he buys himself a cup of hot chocolate.
He makes sure to press the sugar button repeatedly because he needs a bit of recharging and likes sweet things on top. Merlin wraps both hands around the Styrofoam cup and starts blowing on it. It's steaming. Despite that he takes a sip because he can't resist. The liquid scalds him but the after taste is heavenly.
However, balancing rucksack and cup doesn't prove easy. The rucksack, pretty heavy in and of itself, is bouncing on his back, making him walk less than steadily. He keeps his eyes trained on the cup and the liquid sloshing in it, only lifting them to make sure he's close to gate fifteen, but not showering himself in chocolate is proving tricky.
Considering the amount of attention he was paying, it would have been smooth sailing if he hadn't tripped into an over-the-shoulder diaper bag a mum had deposited a few feet away from her and directly into Merlin's path. Still, the situation would have been salvageable if another row of seats hadn't been placed in front of the one the lady was occupying. As it happens, Merlin's feet get tangled in the strap and the contents of his cup go flying, spraying far and wide.
Merlin, for his part, ends up sprawled face down on the floor, Styrofoam cup rolling away from where he's lying. When Merlin props himself up on his elbow and looks up to find out what kind of damages he's wreaked, it's to find himself subjected to the glare of a man whose white Oxford shirt is sort of chocolate stained. Chocolate stained and past salvaging, to be correct.
Before Merlin can apologise, the man, holding the fabric away from his skin, shouts, "It's bloody hot, you cretin!"
Merlin gets to his knees and summons the courage to say, "I'm sorry; I didn't mean to ruin your shirt."
The man's face gets covered in red splotches. "You didn't--" He shakes his head then barks again, "You didn't mean it!"
Merlin gets up and starts foraging inside his rucksack. "I've got a box of Kleenex."
The man shoots to his feet. "And you think that is going to do anything?"
Merlin takes another look at the huge main stain and the constellation of other tiny ones that mar the fabric of the man's shirt. The man's pretty shirt. Ouch. Merlin's done it, hasn't he? Ruined someone's holiday and possibly Christmas. Merlin must do something; he must. Guilt gnawing at him, Merlin grimaces and grabs his victim by the wrist. "Come," he says. "It's not as if they're boarding any time soon."
The man splutters, producing a series of noises that would fit in a BBC docu on animal life. "Why are you manhandling me? Where are we going?"
Merlin, marching ahead, makes a duh face, and says, "The loos." He remembers the lavatories are close to his gate, and since he'd almost made it back when he'd showered the man in chocolate, they too must be in the vicinity. He's proved right. He pushes the protesting man whose shirt he'd wrecked into the lavatories, lets go of him and turns the tap. He grabs a handful of tissues from the dispenser, wets them and whips around, trapping the man between himself and the basin.
Their legs get nearly tangled and he can detect the pattern of the man's hurried, angry breathing as he puffs out air. Merlin starts dabbing at the stain as though his life depends on it.
"I can see what you're doing," the man screeches. It's almost like falsetto. "And there's no need to. See, it's even worse now."
"Why, what did you think I was doing?" asks Merlin, sweeping the wet wad of crumbling tissues across the stain. It's less of a dark brown now but its edges are blurring so that it looks larger if a little lighter.
"I don't know," the man huffs, "you're an unknown who's just dragged me into a loo, a solitary loo at that, and--"
Merlin's cheeks puff up and he stops in his attempts at rescuing the shirt from a chocolatey death. "I wasn't trying to assault you, you paranoid wanker. I was trying to help!"
That's when Merlin looks up and really takes in the man's face for the first time. He'd been too mortified to look properly before. And no joke, the man's handsome. He's got a nice jaw and cheekbones, fluffy blond hair that are tousled by now and blue eyes that are a little slanted and resemble those of a spoilt and perceptive Persian cat.
Merlin's eyes rake lower and he considers what the shirt, now wet and sticking to the man's torso, does nothing to hide: the broad shoulders, powerful chest and strong but not overly Rambo-like build. The swell of the man's biceps is interesting, indeed, and Merlin gulps, thinks 'oh shit' and feels the colour rise to his cheeks.
"Oh my God," the man says, fending Merlin off with two raised hands. "I was right."
"No, you bloody twit," Merlin nearly shouts. "I wasn't trying to molest you."
Which is exactly when a burly man walks in and gives Merlin the evil, stinky eye. Fortunately the man shuts himself up in a stall, banging the door as loudly as he possibly can, and leaves Merlin free to defend himself. "I was feeling sorry. I didn't want you to have to throw away your shirt. I just wanted to help!"
The man's expression softens. "All right," he says. "I believe you. But have you taken a look at this shirt?"
Merlin has and is mortified to find that his stain removal attempt has made matters even worse. The stain has faded but spread, tinting most of the shirt an odd khaki colour where it isn't downright bark brown. Tiny lint-like strips of tissue fabric stick to the shirt, making it look as though the man either has a bad case of dandruff or has passed through the car wash in his shirtsleeves – with no car for cover. The wetness of the fabric mustn't be pleasant to experience either, and Merlin can do nothing but lower his lashes contritely and say again, "Sorry."
"Well, yeah."
"You don't have another shirt?"
"I do," says the man. "In the suitcase I checked in."
Merlin can see the man's angry but he can also see that he's trying not to bite Merlin's head off anymore. Well, at least he must believe Merlin's no perv; though on second thought, this man is exactly Merlin's type and Merlin would have said something about that if they hadn't met in the most embarrassing way possible or if the man hadn't suspected him of pawing him to get off.
"Oh," says Merlin, shoulders drooping. Since his flight was supposed to be short – before the delay news – Merlin hadn't put a change of clothes in his rucksack. "I haven't got anything either."
The man looks at him, sweeping his eyes up and down Merlin's body. "Nothing of yours would fit me anyway." It's said haughtily and Merlin snaps, "Hey, I'm taller than you and built okay."
The man's lips twitch. "I wasn't looking to offend you." He studies Merlin then, raking his eyes over him once more. Merlin thinks he could keep the staring to himself if all he's doing is trying to disparage Merlin and his admittedly weak attempts at putting things right. "Look," the man adds, "what's done is done. I'll put my jacket on and change when or if I land in Cyprus."
"Okay," says Merlin. "I guess if there's nothing I can do..."
The burly man from before must have flushed the toilet for it's all Merlin can hear for about ten seconds. When he wobbles out, Merlin's chocolate victim speaks up again. "I should thank you for trying to help but since you ruined my shirt, I'd say we're even."
Merlin sucks on his lower lip and the man takes in a breath. He turns, washes his hands, and when he's done he says, "I'll go back to my seat and wait for my flight."
Merlin watches him walk out and feels a fair bit guilty and a fair bit unsettled.
****
Arthur is trying to settle down again and focus on the open book page before him but it's not so easy. The stained shirt is sticking to him in a way that's driving him mad. He wants to scratch at his skin and undress even though he realises that if he did the former it'd look like he had scabies and if he just stripped in public they'd call airport security.
He considers another trip to the toilets but gives up when he sees that a crowd has gathered around the departure gate's desk. Maybe they're boarding. He ambles towards the ground crew officer but stops in his tracks when he hears one of his fellow would-be passengers say, "So nothing new then."
"No, sir. I'm sorry. Keep your eyes on the monitors."
Arthur trudges back to his seat, head bent. He's very much of a mind to go back home. The only thing stopping him is the knowledge that he would have to go get his case back from the check-in people if he doesn't want it destroyed.
He's about to sit again when he finds that a shadow is darkening the plastic chair he'd been sitting on. He half turns around and is surprised to see the chocolate wielder from before. He's standing there holding a shopping bag by its sides and pushing it towards Arthur. The label on the bag says Reiss.
Arthur arches an eyebrow and says, "What's that?"
Chocolate Guy says, "A replacement shirt."
"You--"
"Bought you a replacement shirt because I was feeling bad."
Chocolate Guy is indeed looking a little bit like a guilty schoolboy except for the fact that he's obviously in his twenties. It's the way he's biting on his lower lip, the way he's shuffling from foot to foot, and the way he's almost using the bag as a shield. He should look like an idiot but he doesn't. He's kind of endearing and his features are more than a little breathtaking. The flush that is spreading across his nose is highlighting his cheekbones and doing something to make him look almost edible, making you think of other kinds of situations when the blood might rise closer to the skin. Arthur is left at a loss for words for a few seconds, then he recovers and says, "But you shouldn't have. I said it was okay."
"Not really," says Chocolate Guy. "You said there was nothing to be done."
"And there wasn't."
"But see," says Chocolate Guy, "there was. I'm sure it'll fit you." He pushes the bag into Arthur's hands, causing him to stumble back and sit to catch himself.
"Well, it might," says Arthur. "But I can't accept your money."
"If I'd caused a fender bender I'd have paid for your new bumper."
"You're comparing this to a fender bender?" asks Arthur, watching as Chocolate Guy reddens some more. He shakes the bag he's been given.
Chocolate Guy nods severely. "Obviously there's no car involved and if there was I'd be worrying over completely different things but it's mostly the same thing. I ruined your shirt. I'm replacing it." He grins and says, "Look at it at least. I think you'll like it. Even though it's not exactly like the one I ruined."
He takes a step closer, smiles in a way that is making Arthur think of saying yes just to see a little more of that smile and then abruptly starts sniffing the air.
"Oh," he goes. "You smell great. Er, of chocolate great. But that's normal cause I did shower you in it. I swear I wasn't coming onto you?"
There's a lilt to Chocolate Guy’s tone as if he's changed his statement to a question. It makes Arthur burst out laughing. He pinches the bridge of his nose to stop himself. His sides hurt a little, muscles straining, and he's going to rupture something if he doesn't.
He can't grasp why he's doing this, but it feels good, so he only checks himself because people have turned around and are looking at him as if he were deranged.
Chocolate Guy doesn't look as if he's too chuffed either. "Because if I was, that would have been totally absurd right, Mr Businessman?"
Arthur shakes his head and raises a hand, fending the accusation off. "No, no it wouldn't."
"It seemed to me you found the idea totally hilarious."
"No," Arthur says. "Look, I'll take the replacement shirt if I can buy you a coffee in exchange for the chocolate you spilled on me."
Chocolate Guy's gawping expression changes into a lopsided bright grin that morphs his entire face; his eyes narrow and get crinkles round them, his stance relaxes, and as it does, Arthur can appreciate the perks of the man's greyhound build. The wide set shoulders, slim hips, and long legs are something to write home about.
"I'm Merlin," he says.
****
The man whose shirt Merlin condemned to a death by chocolate is called Arthur.
Arthur is really a businessman, but then he sort of gives off that vibe, and looks good in the new shirt Merlin bought – the one Merlin chose himself, the one Merlin can't really look at without thinking that he'd be buying clothes for Arthur a lot if they were intimate...
As Arthur chases down a glass of bitter, throat working, Merlin catches himself fantasising about running his tongue along the tendons of Arthur's neck. He pictures himself mouthing kisses up his throat till he can nuzzle his jaw and tongue his mouth. He stops focusing on the mundane reality of the airport for long moments before he checks and berates himself for having x-rated thoughts about the man sitting in front of him.
"Hey, I asked you where you were flying off to but if it's a secret you don't have to tell me."
Merlin startles. "Where I was what?" Merlin has a very vivid imagination. It's kinda 3D-like and the vision was enticing so he should be forgiven for his attention lapse.
"Travelling to, Merlin," says Arthur in a tone that sounds both amused and long suffering. "I was asking where you were going."
Merlin tinkers with his cup. "Oh, it's no secret." He waves his hand about. "I was going to Zurich to see the Christmas markets and do some sightseeing."
"Oh no," says Arthur, eyes rounding and expression going a little mock panicked. He just needs to hold his cheeks and open his mouth to get the full Munch effect going. "You're one of those Christmas lovers, aren't you?
"I totally am," Merlin says. "I love everything seasonal. I have seasonal music downloaded, always watch It's A Wonderful Life when it's on the telly, and I actually sort of might have subscribed to a postcard exchange programme. So, yep, I am. And now you hate me."
Arthur finishes his drink, plays with the empty glass, and says, "Can't hate the man who bought me a brand new shirt. I find all that seasonal drivel annoying though."
Merlin flashes back to his childhood, to him and his mum decorating the Christmas tree and having to make do with less than super new and shiny baubles. Having to make do hadn't been bad for him at all; he'd been allowed to make drawings and stick them to the branches, and to use cotton balls instead of the expensive artificial snow specialised shops sold. He'd been happy. "It's not really."
"It's just a commercial bid to empty your pockets." Arthur turns on his stool and studies Merlin a little more intently. "Believe me, I should know. I'm in business."
Merlin frowns. Arthur looks fantastic and he has gentle eyes that would make you think he has a nice soul stashed somewhere but all this talk is unsettling Merlin. It's cynical and Merlin has long ago learnt that cynicism doesn't make him happy. "Now don't go all Scrooge on me," he says. When what he really wants to say is, "Make me like you, please, because I fancy the clothes off you already." Of course he has the self control to stick to the former.
"I'm not being a Scrooge," says Arthur. "All my employees regularly receive fat checks. And if you're religious... I'm not trying to insult that. It's just that I don't like it when people play with my feelings. And harping on the family theme is just like that. It's preying."
Merlin can understand that, though he'd like to see Arthur let go a little. Right now his shoulders are set in a rigid line and his expression is on the bad side of pinched.
So as not to focus on Arthur's Christmas dislike, Merlin rummages into his pockets for his change and pays for their drinks, Arthur protesting that he'd meant to do that himself. "No," says Merlin. "I've got to show you something first."
He starts sprinting down the terminal, only craning his neck to make sure that Arthur's following him. And he is. Which makes Merlin feel a little giddy or as if there's not enough oxygen going to his brain. This should be worrying, as he should be sad about the fact that his holiday might be cancelled any moment, but his heart is beating in his throat in that pleasant way that is all anticipation and not anxiety so he lets all worries go and enjoys both the run and the feeling.
He races past the vending machine, rucksack bumping the small of his back, and skids to a stop before the grotto, nearly running into and bowling over three little kids queuing up for Santa. His breath is coming fast but he smiles through it when he sees Arthur, still looking smart in the new shirt, catch up with him.
"You're bonkers!" says Arthur, wheezing. "Why did you have to run all this way?"
"To get you to see the happy kids and the fake snow."
"When there's real snow on the ground that's making it impossible for us to go on holiday and when you look ten times happier than the bounciest kid?"
Merlin looks at the kids, tries to establish whether he looks more or less enthusiastic than them and shrugs his shoulders when he realises that maybe he's made more noise than they have. "Yeah?"
"Yeah," says Arthur. "It looks good on you though."
Merlin feels the urge to shuffle or bow his head but he fights it and cocking his head to one side, he goes and says, "Yeah?"
"Definitely."
"I didn't mean to push you into doing something you didn't like."
"Merlin, we're stuck here with little to do. Anything goes."
Disappointment bites at Merlin. As it does, he finds that it's because he was expecting a different answer from Arthur. And that's absurd, isn't it? Even though Arthur seemed flirty – in a breath-taking, I-like-you way – a few moments before, it doesn't mean he actually was or that he's gay. Besides, even if he was, which is not a given – Merlin's instincts notwishtanding – it's not as if they know each other. It's just that Merlin feels like moving closer, orbiting nearer Arthur. "Anything to kill the time, eh?"
"Not like that," says Arthur. "I'm enjoying myself."
"Honestly?"
Arthur places a hand on his heart. "Honestly." He studies Merlin out of narrowed eyes and then says, "You're beet red. Is it because you like winter wonderlands so much?"
Merlin sticks his chin out and waggles his head. "Yes."
Arthur tilts his and grins. "Sure?"
"Absolutely," says Merlin. "My heart flutters when I see one."
Arthur takes a step closer so he's in Merlin's personal space. "That the only thing that makes your heart flutter so poetically?"
Merlin swallows but bats at Arthur's arm. "No, there's plenty more that does the trick."
"Really?" Arthur whistles. "I wonder what that is."
"I'll tell you about something I like," Merlin says mischievously, not minding putting himself out there now that he's having a positive reaction. "If you come with me, I'll show you."
"Oh, I'll come."
Part II
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