Swansong (3)
Aug. 22nd, 2012 11:12 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
casualtheatrics2Gwaine stops once, to buy a coffee from a roadside café. It’s exactly what he needs, strong and black, vaguely reminiscent of road tar. He pours it down his throat and shudders. The kid is asleep on the back seat of the Land Rover - he’d woken once, as they passed Carlisle, and then fallen asleep, exhausted, face tear-streaked.
Gwaine hadn’t dared stop driving until they were well into Scotland. The whole scenario smells fishy to him - and not just because he’s currently parked by a fishing lake. He’s exhausted himself, understands Arthur’s blissful descent into the peace and ignorance of sleep. He rouses his sluggish brain and tries to reason it out.
For some reason, he and Lance were sent to kidnap Arthur, and have since been hunted down by Myror - deadliest weapon in Haligan’s stash. Lance’s bones lie burnt in the wreckage of a cabin belonging to Haligan. Haligan can’t come to a decision about what to do with the kid.
Gwaine forces himself to think that, if the heat doesn’t die down soon, he’ll have to dump the kid and escape with Ellie before the police catch up with them. The kid sleeps so trustingly around him, it won’t be hard to sneak up and put a bullet in his brain.
Tossing his cup into the bin, Gwaine heads back to the Land Rover, and unlocks the doors.
On the far side of the car, the kid pulls the door handle and slithers out onto the concrete of the car park. Gwaine sees him go, and dashes around the back of the car to grab him.
The kid’s bare feet are shaky across the tarmac, but his strides are growing in confidence as he staggers away from the Land Rover. Gwaine has barely rounded the back of the car, when the first shot rings out. Horror spreads through him, as he watches Arthur stagger, red bloodstain appearing across his arm.
The trusty Beretta is in Gwaine’s hand before he can think. He glances over at where the bullet has come from, and sees a dark blue car peeling away.
The kid has sunk to the ground, clutching his arm. Gwaine jogs over to him.
“Gwaine!” the kid is white-faced, gasping again. “Gwaine, my arm!”
“I know, Arthur, I know.” Gwaine glances around. They’ve no choice but to take the Land Rover, but Gwaine is deeply reluctant to get into a car that the shooter will recognise. Arthur is shaking and whimpering in Gwaine’s arms as he helps him to the car.
“It’s OK, it’s OK,” Gwaine soothes, pushing Arthur back into the back seat of the car. He glances at the wrist and ankle restraints the kid had wiggled out of, and reaches for the first aid kit he always carries. “Let go of your arm, Arthur.” He wraps his fingers around Arthur’s hand, and tries to pry them loose. “Let go so I can see.”
Arthur finally releases his arm, and a fresh dribble of blood oozes down his sleeve. He lets out a mewl at the sight of his grazed arm and its scarlet stain, and fixes his eyes firmly on the opposite side of the car.
Gwaine works quickly. Rinsing the wound with saline, he picks the remains of Arthur’s t-shirt sleeve out of the wound, and grabs the pre-threaded needle. “It’s OK, the bullet only grazed you, it’s just a flesh wound,” Gwaine’s voice is low and calming, and Arthur bites his lip as the needle bites through his skin, drawing the raw edges together. Gwaine stitches on, “You know, Lance taught me how to stitch up gunshot wounds.”
“Did he?” Arthur grits out, around his bitten lip.
“Yeah, I got shot in the forearm - bullet went clean through, but missed the important stuff, and the bones. It was a miracle really. Anyway, Lance showed me how to stitch myself up. Healed good as new.”
Arthur nods, and Gwaine ties off the final stitch. “Come on, in the front with you.”
--
Gwaine ditches the Land Rover as soon as possible, feeling horribly exposed as he outright steals a car from a quiet suburban street. He drives into Scotland a little more, and swaps the new car for another stolen vehicle from the dodgy back streets of Glasgow. Arthur transfers quietly from car to car without a murmur of protest. He sleeps between stops, cradling his arm close to his chest. He has stopped being quite so pale, but Gwaine feels compelled to stop somewhere for the night, to let him rest.
They passed an empty building - a ramshackle barn that probably leaks if it rains - a couple of miles back, and Gwaine decides that at the very least, they can get out of the stolen vehicle and find something else. Gwaine pulls the car over into a tiny lay-by, and, whilst Arthur sleeps on, he sorts through their belongings. He abandons almost all the weaponry, saves most of the clothes and transfers the stuff to the rucksacks.
Arthur wakes abruptly when Gwaine rests a hand on his uninjured arm. “What’s going on?” he slurs.
“We’ve got to go. We’ve got to walk. Put these on,” Gwaine hands over a pair of trainers.
It becomes apparent quite quickly that the kid isn’t going to be able to move his arm enough to pull the shoes on. Gwaine sighs and bends down to help the kid. Before they set off, he checks the kid’s arm. It’s bruising, purples and blues, and Arthur winces when Gwaine prods it slightly.
“You’re lucky they were such lousy shots,” Gwaine mutters. “I think they were aiming for your heart.”
Arthur shudders, and wraps his arms tighter around himself. Gwaine jerks his chin in the direction of the empty house. “C’mon. It’s a couple of miles this way.”
--
It takes them far longer than Gwaine is comfortable with to reach the house. Arthur staggers at least twice, and Gwaine has to catch him on both occasions. When they finally get settled, Arthur is moaning in pain, and shivering.
Gwaine shores up the room against the elements, and helps Arthur lay out a sleeping bag and some blankets for them to sleep on. It barely surprises Gwaine when Arthur curls into his side as they lie next to each other in the dark. The kid is freezing, and obviously in shock from the gunshot wound.
“Hey, kid?”
“Y-y-yeah?” Arthur’s teeth are chattering.
“You need to calm down.”
“I-I-I c-c-can’t.”
Gwaine unfolds his arms, turns onto his side and draws the kid against his chest. It seems to quell the shaking somewhat, but Gwaine becomes aware of a new problem. The blonde hair beneath his chin, and the warm body against him...he’s developing a small reaction. He shifts his hips to draw them back, and finds himself brushing up against the kid’s similar problem. They moan in tandem.
Gwaine twists his neck to gaze into Arthur’s face. “It doesn’t mean anything, OK?” he warns. “It’s just comfort, Arthur, get it?”
Arthur nods, shifts uncomfortably, brushing up against Gwaine again.
“On your back, jeans and pants down,” Gwaine commands, and whilst Arthur adjusts himself and pulls out his flushed-red erection, Gwaine pops the button on his jeans and shoves them and his underwear down and off.
He straddles Arthur, grabbing at the younger man’s wrists and pinning them down at his sides. Their hips align perfectly, and Gwaine lets out a moan and the sticky wetness already dripping down Arthur’s shaft. “God,” Arthur moans, and Gwaine snorts, and rolls his hips a little harder. The bruise on Arthur’s cheekbone where Gwaine clocked him one is fading to blue and yellow smears. Gwaine lowers his head and brushes his lips over the marked skin. Arthur’s breath puffs hotly past his ear, and Gwaine presses his lips harder to the bruise.
He loves the slick slide of Arthur’s hardness beneath his, and they thrust sharply against one another for a mere handful of minutes. Arthur groans and his hips stutter, pulsing and jerking beneath Gwaine, who follows him over the edge.
--
Gwaine looks between Arthur’s hands and the restraints in his hand. He knows he should tie the hostage up again - that’s basic Introduction To Kidnapping stuff - but he thinks of how the shooter yesterday aimed directly at Arthur. Not at Gwaine, who had been foolishly exposed for over twenty minutes. Arthur.
He thinks of Myror’s face as the hitman stepped into the bedroom and pointed the gun at what was obviously Arthur - blonde hair on the pillow, hands on the sheets restrained. Myror hadn’t looked confused, hadn’t hesitated, hadn’t even glanced around for Gwaine. Just lifted, levelled and prepared.
He thinks of Lance, who, in his dying moments, had been concerned for Arthur’s safety - “Where’s the kid?”, he’d asked, like he knew something Gwaine didn’t.
Gwaine wonders if it’s possible - then decides it must be the case. He reaches down to Arthur and shakes him awake.
“Kid, we need to talk.”
--
Ten minutes later, Gwaine has helped Arthur wipe the evidence of last night’s pleasure off his stomach - and what had Gwaine been thinking, when he got them both naked? - and they’re sat up on the makeshift bed.
“So, what do we need to talk about?” Arthur can’t quite meet Gwaine’s eye.
“I think they’re after you.”
“Who are?”
“The people with guns, who like to kill people. Myror and yesterday’s shooter.”
Arthur looks less terrified than he would have done eleven days earlier. “Why?”
“I don’t know.”
Shrugging and turning his attention to his breakfast (granola bar, juice box - Gwaine’s unparalleled culinary skills), Arthur looks unfazed. “Well, I’ve got you to protect me, haven’t I?”
Gwaine snorts. “Not likely, kid. I’m just delivering the package to my boss.”
The look Arthur shoots Gwaine is bleak. “Your boss sent his best hitman after me. You think he wants me alive? Cos I don’t.”
This thought sticks in Gwaine’s brain. It’s true that if Haligan wanted Arthur alive, he’d have demanded Gwaine bring him back to London. But he didn’t. He told Gwaine to keep moving. To “keep the package safe”. To travel. To stay in touch. Via traceable phones.
Gwaine curses. “Kid, we’ve no transport, no more food, we’re stuck in a falling-down old barn, we have to walk anywhere we want to...” He shakes his head. “I think we’re fucked. I’ll take you a train station and you can get home.”
Arthur’s face melts into alarm. “You can’t leave me!”
“What? Of course I can. I’ll put you on a train to wherever you want, and get out of this country. By the time Haligan realises, you’ll be back with your family and I’ll be somewhere there’s no extradition treaty.”
“You can’t leave me alone,” Arthur insists. “You can’t, Gwaine. You owe me. You kidnapped me, and held me hostage, and now I’ve been shot. If they’re trying to kill me, it’s because they’re following you, and you’ve put me in danger. If you leave me, I’ll have no protection, no security. They’ll pick me off on the train and make it look like an accident. You can’t just dump me and run away!”
On his feet, pacing backwards and forwards, Gwaine runs a hand through his hair. “Arthur, it’s not that simple. I have to get back for Ellie. I have to make sure she’s OK.”
Mulishly, pouting and stubborn-faced, Arthur insists again, “You owe me.”
Gwaine looks down at the kid. Arthur is naked beneath the blanket, never more vulnerable. Gwaine knows he should lull the kid back to sleep, then escape, get himself out of this situation, grab Ellie, escape to Peru or somewhere, and marry the fuck out of his beautiful girl so they can live out their days in peace. Who cares what happens to Arthur next? This whole situation has not been what Gwaine signed up for. His best friend in the whole world is dead, his girlfriend is unprotected in their flat with a sleazy landlord always hovering. He’s been gone nearly two weeks; who knows what creepy Edwin might have tried to do to Ellie by now? He’s committed more petty crime than he ever wanted to again, he’s stolen five cars, burned down two houses. Gwaine wants peace and he wants oblivion.
And Arthur? Arthur just wants to be safe. And safety was the one thing Gwaine had taken away from the kid.
Cursing loudly, Gwaine decides. “Get up, kid. Put your clothes on. We’ll walk to the nearest town. We can buy a cheap car. I need to contact...a friend.”
Arthur, for the first time since being kidnapped, hurries to obey. When Gwaine picks up the restraints, Arthur holds out a hand in protest. “Can you not?” he asks quickly. “I mean, I’m not going to try and get away from you again. I’m safest sticking with you, so...can you leave them off?”
Gwaine hesitates, before nodding sharply and chucking the wrist and ankle restraints into the corner of the room. It’ll be easier for the kid to walk if he’s not restrained.
--
It takes Gwaine precisely twelve minutes to charm the salesgirl into selling him a cheap, old car. It takes him another four to persuade her to lend him her mobile phone whilst she stamps the sales paperwork.
It takes Gwaine a further minute to work out how her phone works, and fifteen seconds to recall the number he has to dial. All of this takes too long as far as he is concerned.
The phone rings four times before it is picked up.
“Hello?”
Gwaine sighs in relief. “Percival? It’s Gwaine.”
“Gwaine.” Percival’s voice is relieved as well. “Are you OK?”
“Fine. Is Ellie OK?”
Percival’s voice is a familiar rumble. “Yes. She’s gone to your place, though. The sailing place? That’s what she called it. She’s hiding there. Edwin got a bit...inappropriate the other day.”
“Fuck.” Gwaine kicks at the door post of the salesgirl’s office. At least Ellie is safe. “Look, I need to know. Pendragon. Haligan. What’s the story there?”
Percival inhales sharply. “You’re on that job? Fuck, Gwaine. Can’t Lancelot tell you?”
Digging a thumb into his eye, Gwaine mutters, “Got separated.” He can’t bring himself to tell Percival that Lancelot is dead. “Can you just...brief me? I don’t have a lot of time.”
“I don’t know much,” warns Percival, “but I know that Haligan and Pendragon have been in competition for several decades. I know this was the big swansong they planned - take the kid and finish off Pendragon’s business interests, but I guess the second part hasn’t happened yet. Probably why you’re to keep the package moving around. It’s Haligan’s retirement fund.”
“Who’s ‘they’?”
“What?”
“You said ‘they’ planned a swansong. Who’s ‘they’?”
“Haligan isn’t the only person who goes way back with Pendragon. I think...” There’s a crashing noise in the background behind Percival’s voice. “What was that?”
“Percival! Who else is involved?” There is no reply from the other end of the phone. Gwaine can hear Percival moving quietly through his house. There’s a sharp snapping sound, and then a gurgle, and then a bullet ringing out. “Perce?”
“Gwaine...” the voice is faint.
“Perce! Percival!”
The phone clicks off. Gwaine pinches the bridge of his nose and breathes in and out, deeply, trying to quell the nausea wracking his body. First Lance, now Percival. Thank God Elena is safe.
The salesgirl comes back in, and Gwaine thanks her, returns her phone and grabs the keys to his new car. Outside, he glances around for Arthur, and finds him crouching behind a hedge. They throw their bags into the back of the car and drive off, wending their way along country roads until they reach the next town. If the situation wasn’t so fraught, it would almost be like a road trip between friends.
“So, you look like you’re about to puke,” Arthur observes, far too cheerfully.
“I spoke to a friend of mine. About my boss and your dad. He thinks someone else is involved, someone else who goes way back with your dad.”
“What else happened?”
“Whilst I was on the phone to him, he got shot. I think he’s dead.”
Arthur is quiet, then lifts his hand to rest on Gwaine’s shoulder. “I’m really sorry.”
“Yeah, I know.”
They drive on, not speaking for a few miles. Ahead of them, a wood emerges by the side of the road. “Pull in somewhere alone here,” Arthur suggests. “Somewhere concealed?”
Gwaine looks at him quizzically, but finds a short track that passes behind a high hedge a few minutes later. “This do, your Highness?” he asks Arthur mockingly.
“Yeah, perfect,” Arthur says, and leans over, unbuttoning Gwaine’s jeans. His hands slide into Gwaine’s boxers, drawing out his dick before Gwaine realises what’s going on.
“What are you doing?” Gwaine curls his fingers into Arthur’s hair, stopping his mouth from descending onto Gwaine’s flaccid flesh.
“Saying thank you.” Arthur shakes off Gwaine’s hand and lowers his mouth to Gwaine’s crotch. To Gwaine’s surprise, his prick shows remarkable interest, perking up as soon as the breath from Arthur’s mouth gusts over it. Arthur hums in approval and suckles the head.
Gwaine gasps and flings his head back against the seat. Arthur licks, and nuzzles, and presses wet, tonguing kisses to Gwaine’s erection, and it turns out he’s really fucking good at this. Gwaine brushes his fingers over the back of Arthur’s head, coiling his fingers in the short blonde strands and tugging. Arthur moans around Gwaine’s erection and that’s it, that’s the final push and Gwaine is coming in Arthur’s mouth.
It takes Gwaine’s heart rate a few minutes to return to normal, but he focuses and sees Arthur tucking him away and refastening his jeans. “Thanks,” he croaks.
“No problem,” Arthur smirks, adjusting his own trousers. “You can return the favour when we stop for the night.”
--
Gwaine wakes up to the worrying sensation that someone is watching him. He cracks open one eye and sees Arthur sitting at the hotel room desk, watching him via the mirror, whilst he applied brown dye to his blonde hair.
“Oh good, you’re awake,” Arthur says and spins around to look at Gwaine properly, splattering dots of dye across the duvet.
Groaning, Gwaine sits up in bed. “What? And what’s with the hair?”
“I’ve had an idea. And it’s a disguise.”
“Oh God.”
“No, it’s a good idea,” Arthur protests. “We should research your boss, and find out who Percival might have been referring to.”
Gwaine scrubs a hand over his face. The thought has occurred to him too. He’s not sure how much information there would be about Haligan out there, but he suspects it’s at least worth a shot. Arthur pooh-poohs Gwaine’s concerns, and before Gwaine is really sure what’s happening, Arthur’s bundled him into the shower to wash and dress, insisting he needs “five more minutes for the dye to take hold”.
As he rinses shampoo from his hair, Gwaine makes a mental note to never get this close to a hostage again.
--
The public library is closed, so Arthur- newly brunette, and doesn’t Gwaine just fucking hate that colour on him - declares that they will break in. Gwaine stares at him for a whole minute before saying ‘No’ in a decisive and irritated voice.
“Why not? You’re already going to jail for at least eight years. What’s a little breaking and entering?” With that, Arthur begins to slink around the building, looking for a way in.
Gwaine grits his teeth and follows him. Round the back, a window is half-open, and Arthur is already halfway through. “Fucking hell, Arthur!” hisses Gwaine, and races forward to pull him back. He’s too late, and his goddamn kidnap victim is through the window and into the body of the library.
Never mind getting close to a kidnap victim, Gwaine is pretty sure he’s never going back to a life of crime after this is all over.
Arthur’s face appears around the doorframe. “Come on, Gwaine. I’ve found a computer. And some newspapers.”
Gwaine hefts the rucksack through the window and clambers in.
--
The newspapers prove useless - no-one has pointed the finger at Haligan in relation to Arthur’s kidnapping, so although there are follow-up stories about Kanan’s arrest and subsequent remanding, there’s no information on Haligan. Gwaine isn’t surprised, however; he would be shocked if Haligan had so much as a parking ticket on his record. You don’t become the criminal overlord of an international crime ring by getting caught.
Arthur wanders away, picking up a copy of ‘Great Expectations’ and opening it to the first page. Gwaine feels secure enough to turn on the computer and google “Gordon Haligan”.
Apparently, today is the day for surprises, because the first article that comes up is a story from twenty years earlier:
BUSINESSMAN CALLED IN FOR QUESTIONING IN THE MURDER OF MARY VALIANT
Gordon Haligan, 41, arrived at Hoxworth Police Station yesterday afternoon, to help police in relation to the murder of Mary Valiant. Haligan, a local businessman dealing in cars and scrap metal, is suspected of being the last person to see Mrs Valiant alive. The police have confirmed that Haligan is helping them with their enquiries.
Mrs Valiant was found dead two weeks ago, outside ‘Velvet and Silk’, a new club opened just four months ago by Uther Pendragon.
Gwaine reads the article quickly. The name ‘Mary Valiant’ means nothing to him, and he has never heard the scandal attached to Haligan’s name. He returns to the search results. There’s a brief article that acknowledges the failure to convict Haligan for Mary’s murder. Another article deals with the closing of ‘Velvet and Silk’, and another article states that a business “formerly connected to Gordon Haligan” had purchased the building.
The next article is the original account of the murder. Gwaine scans over it, but something catches his eye and he returns to the beginning to read it more closely.
CLUB WORKER FOUND DEAD IN ALLEYWAY
A young woman has been found dead in an alleyway behind the club where she worked.
Mary Valiant, 24, was a barmaid at ‘Velvet and Silk’, a newly opened club in the Hoxworth area. She was found stabbed to death behind the club at 04:23BST, by her colleague, Katie Alvarr.
Mrs Valiant had been due to leave work at 04:00BST, but was discovered to be missing at 04:10BST when her husband, Colin Valiant, 29, arrived to collect her. A brief search of the premises then ensued, before the discovery of her body.
Colleagues say Mrs Valiant was efficient and friendly, and had attracted no untoward attention in the bar that night. Bouncer Jonas Wilson reported that no-one had access to the alleyway behind the club, and that the only people who used the back entrance were employees at the club.
Police are treating the death as suspicious.
Gwaine can’t work out why the names seem so familiar. The picture captioned “Mr Valiant” is blurry and indistinct, but he can make out a sharp nose, and jawline, and black, brooding eyes. He jumps when he feels warm breath gust down his neck. “Jeez, Arthur!”
“Sorry,” Arthur’s voice is absent-minded, as he too scans the article on the screen. “I remember my dad telling me about this. It was terrible. He had to sell that club.”
Gwaine nods and reads the article for a third time.
Arthur’s voice interrupts him, and Gwaine is about to snap at the kid and ask him to shut up, when he hears what Arthur’s saying. “Colin Valiant was apparently a really nasty piece of work. He’d done some security work for Dad, but Dad had to let him go, because he had a really short temper. A dodgy couple all round, really; apparently, Mary, the wife, had stolen some money from the club just before she was killed.”
“What happened after she stole the money?”
“Nothing. I mean, she was dead. Dad couldn’t press charges.”
Gwaine stares at Arthur like he’s stupid - and for a moment, Gwaine wonders if the kid will really idolise his bastard father in the face of such obvious evil. “When Ellie, my girlfriend, got caught up in financial problems with your father, she ended up working as a prostitute.”
Arthur’s face freezes, and Gwaine can almost see the shutters slamming down behind his eyes. “I told you...”
“I know what you told me. ‘My father’s a good man’, blah blah blah. I know what Ellie was doing when I met her. Do you think it’s possible that Mary Valiant was moved across to prostitution work when her theft was discovered?”
Arthur frowns and shakes his head. “The money was better for her as a barmaid.”
“Better than what?”
“Her salary in the typing pool. Dad moved her across himself.” Arthur pauses, and his face falls. “Oh, God,” he looks nauseous as the realisation sinks in.
Gwaine glances at the clock. “Come on, we’ve got to go. The librarian will be here soon.”
--
Gwaine wakes abruptly in the middle of the night. He thinks at first it’s because Arthur is draped across him like an electric blanket, making him sweaty and aroused, but he soon realises that it was his dream that woke him.
He’d been in the bowling alley, laughing across at Lance, and then suddenly, he’d been staring down at Lance’s broken body. He’d looked up from his friend to see Val sneering at him, waving the manifesto about kidnapping the kid...
It takes Gwaine two seconds to realise that Val Collins, despite a blurry dream-state, was the spitting image of Colin Valiant. And that, if his memory was correct, on the day he’d last seen Val, the man had been wearing an old, tarnished wedding ring, engraved with a single name.
‘Mary’.
--
Gwaine dozes fitfully for the rest of the night. When dawn breaks, he abandons the pretence and gets up to shower. It all seems so obvious now - Val Collins is Colin Valiant and there is more going on here than Gwaine first suspected.
He needs answers. Answers that only someone who knows Haligan well can provide. That leaves him with little choice. He is only half-surprised that Arthur joins him in the shower, naked and lean and sporting a morning erection that makes Gwaine’s mouth water.
As their mingled come washes down the drain, Gwaine outlines his plan to Arthur. “We need to go see someone about Haligan and Valiant. We should leave as soon as possible.” He steps out of the shower and catches sight of his shoulder in the mirror. “Fuck, Arthur.”
“What?” Arthur’s smile is mischievious.
“You bit me, you little shit,” Gwaine fingers the mark and hopes it fades before he sees Ellie again.
“It was the heat and passion of the moment?”
“My girlfriend will see this,” Gwaine snaps. “I don’t mind the fucking - it’s nice - but my girlfriend is waiting for me at home.”
Arthur’s face does that shutters-slamming-down thing again. “Sorry,” he mutters. “Wasn’t thinking.”
Gwaine looks at Arthur. “Look, kid, I said the first time. This is just comfort. OK? Just whilst we’re figuring stuff out.” He lifts a hand and rests it on Arthur’s shoulder. “I love Ellie, I’m going to marry her. And you love Merlin. There’s still hope for the two of you. Don’t think a few orgasms changes that, OK?”
Arthur nods and, snatching a towel from the towel rail, sweeps regally out of the bathroom. Gwaine feels inexplicably like a solid gold shit. He looks at the mark on his shoulder again, sighs, and walks naked into the main bedroom. Arthur is rummaging through their limited clothes to find something to wear.
Gwaine drops to his knees behind Arthur, and pulls the terrycloth away from Arthur’s waist. “Sorry, kid. Wasn’t thinking,” he mutters, sliding his fingers over the globes of Arthur’s ass and pulling the cheeks apart to expose the dusky pink clench within. “Just relax.” His tongue flickers out over the clean skin, and Arthur gasps, moans and thrusts back onto Gwaine’s talented tongue.
--
They check out of the hotel as soon as they finish dressing, Arthur carrying the bags to the car whilst Gwaine pays and flirts pointedly with the receptionist. She knocks ten percent off their bill and asks them to come back soon.
Gwaine promises they will. He’s getting so good at lying to people these days.
Arthur doesn’t ask where they’re going, but he seems surprised when Gwaine directs the car back into the North of England. Gwaine toys with the upper speed limit whenever possible, weaving the little car in and out of traffic. He knows if they arrive after dark, Aredian will already be drunk and incoherent.
They reach the outskirts of the small town shortly before four o’clock, leaving the car in a safe place, vaguely hidden from view. Arthur doesn’t ask where they are, who they’re visiting. He just obediently follows Gwaine along the high street, newly dyed hair a more effective disguise than Gwaine had anticipated.
Aredian’s cottage should be charming, but the garden is overgrown and an enthusiastic crow is pulling away part of the thatching in the roof. It looks tumbledown.
“Don’t say anything,” Gwaine warns Arthur. “Don’t make too much eye contact and don’t let on who you are. Just...just let me do the talking, OK?”
Arthur nods fervently, and moves to stand behind Gwaine as Gwaine bangs the door knocker.
There’s a pause, then a shuffling, then the door creaks open. Half-hidden behind the door, it’s obvious Aredian is well on his way to black-out drunk. His hair hangs straggling around his face, and his yellowing skin looks wrinkled. Gwaine remembers him as a tall, well-built, confident man - this alcoholic wreck before him is uncomfortable and unfamiliar.
“What do you want?” snarls Aredian, and at least his voice isn’t changed.
“Aredian, I need to talk to you. About Haligan.”
Aredian goes to slam the door in Gwaine’s face, and both men are surprised when Arthur catches it, prevents it from closing. “Please,” begs Arthur. “Please talk to us.”
Aredian stares at Arthur, taking in his face, his eyes, his figure. He seems to unbend, straightening slightly; he steps back from the door. “Come in.” He disappears into the bowels of the house - a murky, dank place.
Gwaine pushes past Arthur, and the two men trail inside.
Aredian has settled himself down into a threadbare armchair. There are no other seats in the room. He pours himself another whiskey, and, glass in hand, uses his index finger to point at Arthur. “You’re the Pendragon boy.” It isn’t a question.
Arthur nods. “Can you tell us something about Haligan?” he asks.
Aredian looks between Gwaine and Arthur. He shrugs. “What do you want to know?”
Arthur opens his mouth, but snaps it closed at a glare from Gwaine.
“Mary Valiant.” Gwaine speaks quickly.
“What of her?” Aredian drains his glass and pours another one.
“Was she working for Uther Pendragon as a prostitute?”
Aredian snorts. “Of course she was. They always are.”
Arthur makes a noise in his throat, and Aredian glares at him. “I know he’s your father, lad, but trust me, Pendragon makes his money by any means necessary. And women are a commodity to him.”
Gwaine presses on. “Was she killed by a client?”
Aredian nods, and tips his head back, chasing the last drops in his glass. “No-one knows which client.” The bottle of whiskey is nearly empty, and he pours the dregs into his glass. He is quiet for a moment, swirling the orangey liquid in his glass. He looks up at Gwaine, eyes bleak. “It was a tragedy.”
“Her death?”
“All of it,” Aredian closes his eyes against unwanted memories and then opens them again. “She wasn’t very old. Twenty-two. She’d been supporting her lousy husband. God, he was a waste of space. Got fired a few weeks before her death. She stole some money for the gas bill. Pendragon didn’t hesitate when he found out. She was behind that bar and on her back before anyone could defend her.” Aredian finishes his whiskey, shuddering against the burn. “Pass me that bottle,” he points behind Arthur to an unopened bottle of Teachers.
Fresh bottle in hand, he pours a fourth glass. “No-one knows who tipped off the police about Haligan, but there was no evidence against him. He was good to Mary’s husband anyway. Gave him a job. He’s done well for himself now.”
“So Colin Valiant is Val Collins?”
“Stupid git changed his name after Mary’s death. Haligan took on that bouncer too, you know. Gave him a job as his personal bouncer. He’s a slimy fellow.”
Gwaine nods. He knows Jonas well. “So do you think Haligan killed Mary?”
Aredian opens his mouth, but before he can speak, there’s the tinkle of shattering glass, and Aredian’s head is lolling on his chest, blood pouring from a bullet wound above his heart. Another bullet whistles into the room and embeds itself above Gwaine’s head.
“Fuck,” Gwaine shouts, and dragging Arthur by the wrist - “Keep low, keep down!”, they flee the cottage. They sprint down the street, expecting a bullet in the spine before they can reach the car and safety. By some miracle, they make it.
Gwaine is peeling out of the small town before he can fasten his seatbelt. He drives quickly, furious and frightened, turning down winding roads, until he can be sure they haven’t been followed. He eventually pulls over in a layby, and stumbles from the car. He staggers around the passenger door and flings it open, pulling Arthur out to stand next to him.
He pushes a breathless Arthur up against the car. Arthur opens his mouth, and Gwaine claps a hand over his mouth. “Don’t. Speak,” he spits out, furious.
Arthur’s eyebrows raise in surprise. Gwaine ignores him, kicking the passenger door shut and using his free hand to push the slighter man against the car again. “What did I say to you, Arthur? What did I say?” He lifts his hand away from Arthur’s mouth.
“I’m sorry!”
“What did I say?”
“Not to speak. Not to make eye contact. Not to tell him who I am.”
“And what did you do?”
“I spoke. I made eye contact. I told him who I was.”
Gwaine sighs “You nearly got shot, Arthur. Again.” To make his point, he slides his hand over the bandage on Arthur’s bicep and squeezes. Arthur yelps in pain and pulls away. “Do you understand,” Gwaine growls, “that I am trying to keep you safe? I am trying to keep you alive, Arthur!”
It is quiet for a few moments, before Arthur says, “I know.” His voice is small and shaky.
Gwaine gathers Arthur into his arms. The embrace is for himself as much as for Arthur. “Just...stop risking it, Arthur. Stop it. I can’t keep you alive if you won’t let me. Please.”
Arthur presses his damp face - when did he start crying - against Gwaine’s neck and nods. “I’m sorry,” he says.
Gwaine rocks him, back and forth, gently, “I know, I know.” His mouth works against Arthur’s temple, pressing kisses into the clammy skin.
--
The motel is cheap, and slightly crummy, but it’ll serve their purposes for now. Gwaine and Arthur stagger through the door. Arthur’s face is still tear-streaked, and Gwaine’s shirt is stained over the shoulder. When the door is closed and locked, they stare at each other for a whole minute, before stripping off their clothes as quickly as possible.
They crash together, skin against skin and sending sparks up their spines. Mouths wide open against each other, their tongues duelling, they fall sideways onto the bed, knocking the remote control to the floor and accidentally switching on the TV. They kiss for long minutes, ignoring everything else for the thrum of desire in their blood.
Gwaine flips Arthur over and presses kisses down his spine. He doesn’t notice at first that Arthur has frozen in place, lying still, not moving. “Arthur?” he mumbles into warm skin.
“Merlin.”
“No, Gwaine.”
“Merlin’s on the TV.” Arthur’s voice is thick with tears.
Gwaine peels his lips off Arthur’s back and sits up, to see a pale young man with messy black hair and large ears speaking into a police microphone. He scrabbles about for the remote control and turns up the volume.
“...my best friend. I miss him a lot. If you have him, please don’t hurt him. I don’t know why you’ve taken him, but please...give him back. I don’t know what I’ll do without him.”
Arthur lets out a sob and gropes for Gwaine’s hand. Gwaine laces their fingers together and presses a kiss to Arthur’s knuckles.
On the television, Merlin talks on. “If anyone sees Arthur, please call the police immediately. He’s tall, and blonde, and has blue eyes. He’s the best looking man I’ve ever seen, so you’ll notice him, I’m sure. Please...just...please.”
Gwaine watches as Merlin stands up from the microphone and staggers off the small stage, tears coursing down his face. A girl with long brown wavy hair reaches for him as he steps down, but he shakes her off and disappears behind the backdrop, shoulders heaving.
Arthur seems bewildered by the scene he has just witnessed. Gwaine feels his own erection wilt, and resigns himself to a night of cuddling. He manhandles Arthur between the sheets and enfolds him in his arms. Arthur doesn’t speak; he just clutches Gwaine tightly and drifts off to sleep, lips forming the word ‘Merlin’ in his dreams.
