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He was an idiot. A fucking idiot. He should have stayed with Gwen and Lance. He should have gotten a cab. He should have found an outlet to charge his stupid fucking useless mobile. He shouldn't have had that farewell shot—though the liquor was likely the only thing keeping the creeping fear from totally paralysing him.
Most of all, he never, ever should have mouthed off to the bloke that had been too intense, too handsy in his flirting.
Because Merlin would bet every paltry pound in his meagre bank account that that bloke was who had been not-so-sneakily following him.
For five blocks.
Even after he'd deliberately made a wrong turn away from the road leading towards his flat. Towards any flats. He was literally walking back towards a shopping district.
He was going to die. The next his friends would see of him was on a cold slab in the morgue, probably missing some favoured body parts. He'd get his own spot on the evening news, maybe. Would they try and pass it off as a hate crime, seeing as he was gay? Or more of a jilted suitor sort of thing? The guy was, at least, fairly remarkable looking, so surely his friends would be able to give the sketch artist a decent description, right? How many baby-faced young men with piercing green eyes and black curly hair could there be, right?
Right?
Merlin realized he was getting slightly hysterical, and made an effort to look around at his surroundings. He never usually walked this way, much less in the dark. Up ahead was a small shopping centre, but it looked like the whole place was shut down for the night. Which, seeing as it was gone three in the morning, was understandable, if not frustrating and incredibly ill-timed.
Then Merlin spotted his salvation: a phone booth. It wasn't quite as much a relief as if it were one of the refurbished Solar ones that let you charge your phone, but it was a bloody fucking phone, and Merlin did not feel the least bit of shame as he rushed into the red booth and shut the door behind him.
Fuck. His mobile had all his numbers in it.
Fuck, he needed change.
Okay, the latter was easy—he'd paid for his last drink with a fiver, so he had some coins.
The other . . . Merlin fumbled at his phone, pressing the on button and praying that it would start up just enough to load the address book and let him get hold of someone—Gwen or Lance would be ideal, but at this point, he'd call call his fucking mum and have her drive from Ealdor just to get him if he had to.
Will.
Oh, god. Will would save him. And he, thanks to his rabid anti-capitalism, had refused to get a smartphone, and had kept his shitty flip for the last six years. If there was one phone number Merlin was sure of, that was it.
And seeing as his mobile was absolutely refusing to boot, it was his only chance.
Merlin risked a look around as he fumbled coins out of the ludicrously tight denims Gwen had insisted he wear, but the dim light inside the booth reflected off of the glass and made it difficult to see very far out. For all he knew, his follower was still hanging back a block away. Maybe watching him.
Maybe creeping closer.
His hands were shaking so badly he almost dropped the money, and as he dialled, he could feel his breath coming nearly in pants.
The moment he heard the ring, he started chanting 'pickuppickuppickup' under his breath, bouncing on the balls of his feet. Please, Will, answer the fucking--
Click. “This better be good.”
Merlin's burst out with “Oh, thank fucking god, it's me; don't hang up--” before realizing that the voice wasn't Will's. Will's accent wasn't fucking plummy private school. “Oh god, please tell me you're with Will. I need Will.”
There was an audible growl. “Good for Will. Why don't you try calling him, then? Some of us have to work in . . . bloody fuck, four hours. Good night-”
“Oh, god, please, don't hang up!” Merlin wailed, fingers clutching at the phone cord like a maiden auntie with her pearls. “I haven't any more change, and there's this guy who's been following me since I left the pub and I need someone to come get me before he kills me and my mum has to find out about it on the Beeb--”
“Whoa—okay, I get it. Calm down—Where are you?”
Merlin named the street, and described the shopping centre. “I . . . I can't tell if he's still out there.”
He heard a muffled curse, and then the sounds of the phone being put on speaker phone and set down. “That's about a ten minute drive from where I'm at, if traffic's not too bad. Will you be all right until I get there?”
Realizing that he was hearing the guy literally getting out of bed and ready to go, Merlin panicked a little. “I . . . god, I'm sorry, I didn't mean for you to—look, if I give you Will's number, can you call him for me?”
“Is Will closer?”
“Well . . . no. Farther, actually. But--”
“Then shut up. I'm coming to get you, all right?”
Unbidden, his ears started to burn—the sure sign of an epic blush. “But. Look, you don't even know me. I don't even know your name, for fuck's sake.”
“It's Arthur.”
The irony was so great he actually laughed—a hysterical, high-pitched giggle, but a laugh, nonetheless. “Oh my god, seriously?”
He could actually feel the glare over the phone. “What's wrong with my name?”
“Nothing! It's just. Well. I'm Merlin.”
There was silence for about three seconds. “Pull the other leg. It's got bells on it.”
He giggled some more, “No really. My name is Merlin. Merlin Emrys. It's on my birth certificate and ID and everything.”
“Well then. I guess it's my destiny to help you.”
“I'm pretty sure the legend has it the other way around, mate.”
Merlin could hear the sound of a car door being shut. “Right. I'm in the car. Once I connect my mobile, we can still talk. Are you going to be okay? I'm assuming your creep isn't exactly standing outside.”
His breath caught. He's somehow nearly forgotten. “Let me see if I can still see him.” Setting the phone down for a moment, he cupped his hands to the glass and looked through so that the light didn't interfere. If he were lucky, maybe his stalker had gone off, or something.
He hadn't.
Merlin could just make out a person standing in the shadows at the edge of the lot.
And he was looking straight at Merlin.
Merlin jerked back from the glass, and scrambled for the phone, adrenalin flooding his system again. “Arthur, Arthur, he's still here. Oh god he's just watching from the edge of the property. Please hurry!”
“I'll be there, soon. I promise.”
“Okay.”
Silence stretched out between them, Merlin's mind going in circles until finally Arthur spoke up again. “Merlin, talk to me. How did you end up stranded in a phone box? Where did this guy come from? Usually people go to the pub to get away from drama, not add to it.”
His breath was getting shorter, “It's not my fault—I was at the pub with my friends, completely minding my own business. I went to go get another round, and there was a bloke at the bar, and he just comes up and tells me I'm beautiful, which was nice, but he kept just staring at me in the weirdest way and then he touched me, and I told him I wasn't on the pull tonight, and that I was just there with my friends, and hell, I even told him that I have a boyfriend, but he just kept on and I'd finally had enough and told him to fuck off and he got angry and--”
“Okay, okay. You talking is good, but breathing is good, too. Take a deep breath for me, Merlin.”
He struggled to comply, wiping his sweaty palms on his trousers.
“That's better. Tell me about your friends. Why didn't you head out with them?”
Merlin chuckled mirthlessly. “Gwen and Lance. They were celebrating their three month. Fell in love at first sight, birds singing, violins playing, cow eyes, the works. I didn't leave with them because one, anniversaries aren't supposed to include third wheels, and two, frankly they make me a touch nauseous. Lovely people, best friends in the world, but the world is not ready for that level of pure, innocent love. It's a fucking fairy tale.”
“You don't believe in fairy tales? You're named after one of the key players in one of the greatest fairy tales ever told!”
“So are you. But at least your name has a decent amount of common usage. My mum might as well have named me Gandalf.”
“I'm sensing some long-held bitterness here.”
“I had a rough childhood. And adolescence. And young adulthood. Fuck, you realize how many people do a double-take when they see my name on my CV?”
“Okay, yes, I suppose that could be a problem. So what kind of work do you--”
A sudden rap on the glass startled Merlin, and he emitted the most girly shriek imaginable.
Oh god. He was there.
“Merlin? Merlin! What happened?”
“Go away! I told you, I'm not interested, you fucking arse!” Merlin yelled, clutching the phone to his chest.
The guy's voice was muffled, but still audible. “Look, maybe you got the wrong impression. My name's Mordred. I just . . . really would like to get to know you better. You're gorgeous and--”
“And I said 'thanks but no thanks,' and then 'fuck off,' neither of which sound even remotely like 'yes!'” he retorted, voice still an octave higher than normal. “And now you've got me cornered in a phone booth after following me for blocks from the pub. Do you not see how that's fucking insane? Go away!”
“Look, can I just give you my number?” Mordred whined.
“No!”
“But--”
“But nothing! No means fucking no!” Merlin suddenly remembered his cover story. “I have a boyfriend! He—he's two metres tall and has about four stone on me and he does sports and he'll absolutely kick your arse on sight, you fucking creep!”
Mordred had lost the pleading look and was starting to look very, very angry again, but before he could say anything else, there was a loud screech of tires as a disgustingly expensive-looking car suddenly pulled up inches away from the kerb.
Merlin wished suddenly that he could turn off the light in the booth so he could properly see his defender as Mordred was spun around, one arm twisted behind his back, and marched off into the night. Merlin crowded close to the glass again, shielding his eyes in time to see the newcomer literally put a booted foot on the guy's arse and shove, sending him sprawling on the asphalt.
Apparently knowing when he was defeated, Mordred finally picked himself up and bolted into the darkness.
Leaving Merlin with his new hero.
Heaving a huge sigh of relief, Merlin hung up the phone, and made sure his mobile was in his pocket before turning back to the booth door to unlock it.
Arthur—for who else could it be?--was leaning against the hood of his car, watching Mordred scramble on down the street, a murderous expression on his face. When Merlin dragged the door open, he shifted his gaze--
And oh, holy hell. The guy was gorgeous. Edibly, tragically, gorgeous. Blonde hair that managed to glow even in the shitty street lighting, intense blue eyes, broad shoulders, the works. Merlin could feel his (tragically ridiculous, as opposed to edible) ears heat up when he realized this was the man who'd heard him babbling like a scared schoolgirl.
“Are you all right?” Oh, bloody buggering shite, and he hadn't taken into account that deep, plummy, public school accent without the phone distortion.
Being the suave, confident, smooth-talker he was, Merlin's mouth promptly blurted, “Wow. I really called it, didn't I?”
Eyebrows raised, “Pardon?”
“You know. Two metres, give or take. And you definitely look like a sporty kind of bloke, going by those calf muscles.” Oh god. Oh god. Merlin literally bit his lip to keep from talking.
Thankfully, Arthur merely smirked a little. “Yes, well. May I offer you a ride home, then?”
Merlin grinned, “So long as you promise I haven't traded one axe murderer for another.”
The blond snorted. “Please. Axes are so clumsy. I assure you my dungeon is much better equipped.” He opened his car door and nodded towards the passenger side before sliding in himself.
Merlin reacted to the dungeon remark with his customary grace—which meant stumbling over his own damn feet as he unwillingly pictured Arthur holding a riding crop and chains. Recovering quickly, he circled around and got in. “Seriously, though. I can't thank you enough. That guy was scary, and if I hadn't spotted that booth, or had change, fuck knows what could have happened.”
Arthur hummed as he unhooked his smartphone from the car's dock and gestured for Merlin to hand his over, quickly hooking it up to charge--the sign of a true modern gentleman. “Think maybe we should call the police anyway?”
He shrugged, “I don't know anything about him aside from his first name, but I'll probably talk to Gwaine tomorrow. He runs the pub most nights, and I know he can keep an eye out for the guy, at the very least.” Merlin frowned at Arthur's mobile phone, which was being held out to him. “What's this for, then?”
“Your boyfriend,” Arthur replied, as though it were obvious. At Merlin's blank look, he sighed. “Will. The one you were trying to call in the first place, remember?”
“Wi—oh. No. No. Will's not my boyfriend. Best friend, yes. Boyfriend, no. I haven't got one of those.” Merlin flushed, realizing he was babbling. “I just said all that to try and discourage him. Not that it worked, but it was worth a try.”
“Really,” Arthur repeated, drily, as he lowered his mobile. “So Will's not a big, burly footie type that's going to kick my arse?”
He snorted. “No, he's more like me. Scrawny. Straight as a board, though. If I had a boyfriend, he'd be your type.” Did I just say that? I just fucking said that. Face on fire, Merlin stared out of the car window as hard as he could. Maybe Mordred was the lesser evil after all. At least he would probably kill me faster.
To his credit, Arthur at least attempted to muffle his laughter into his fist. That said, it took almost a minute before he was able to speak again, while Merlin quietly wished for the earth to swallow him whole. “I . . . see. So. Can I take that as encouragement to ask you out, sometime?”
What?
“What?” Merlin blurted.
Arthur shrugged, as though he hadn't just nonchalantly nudged Merlin's world a few inches off-centre. “Or perhaps a trip to that pub of yours, which would have the benefit of making sure your stalker steps off. But frankly, it's been an interesting night.” He gave Merlin a crooked smile. “There's something about you, Merlin. I can't quite put my finger on it, but I'd like to try anyway. If you're up for it. If not, just say the word—you're clearly capable of telling people to fuck off. And, as you pointed out earlier, we don't know each other at all. Aside from the fact that you have a ridiculous name and an impressive vocal range when stressed.”
Merlin scraped together enough brain cells to stammer, “N—no, I'd love to. And at least I know a little about you. You could have hung up, but you didn't. So yeah. I'd like to get to know you, too.” He could probably replace the heater in this car with his face alone.
He was awarded with a blinding grin, as Arthur turned on the ignition. “Excellent. A proper reward for saving a damsel in distress!”
“I am not a damsel!” Merlin protested, perversely relaxing under the teasing.
Arthur pulled out of the parking lot, and—after Merlin gave him directions—headed towards Merlin's flat. “Of course you are. I'm Arthur, remember? The handsome king who saves the day?”
“I'm still pretty sure the legend has it the other way around.” True to his word, Merlin wasn't too far from home, and he sighed in relief as they approached the building.
Pulling up to the kerb, Arthur parked and gave Merlin another of those devastating smiles. “Last time I checked, legend also has you as an old man with a beard.”
“. . . Well, I suppose a few deviations won't hurt.” Merlin took Arthur's mobile and put in his number, before retrieving his own from the dock. He grinned sheepishly at Arthur, “Thank you. For rescuing me.”
“Is that you admitting to being a damsel?” Arthur teased.
Merlin felt oddly brave. “Depends. Is his royal highness intending to demand a reward from said damsel? Because I've had quite enough of that tonight, in case you didn't notice the entitled stalker?”
Arthur huffed in amusement. “Claiming? No. Asking? Maybe. I was serious. I'd like to get to know you. And your fairy tale friends.”
“Well then. How about you give me a call tomorrow—or whenever, and we'll do just that. In the meantime, you'll just have to settle.”
Arthur's brow wrinkled as he looked at Merlin, confused. “Settle?”
Merlin leaned forward and dropped a kiss on Arthur's cheek, and was gratified to see the other man blush, an embarrassed but pleased grin adorning his face. “Hope to hear from you soon, Arthur.” He let himself out of the car, and made his way up the stairs to his flat, heart lighter than he could believe, given the last hour or so.
If he saw that Mordred jerk again, he might just have to buy him a pint instead of siccing his super fit, gorgeous maybe-future-boyfriend on him.