Sweet and Delectable, Chapter 1
Title: Sweet and Delectable
Author: Phreakycat
Rating: M
Pairing: Arthur/Merlin
Genre: Modern AU, romance, slash, some angst
Warnings: Some violence in future chapters, eventual m/m Sexitimes. Shameless over-use of pastry metaphors. Graphic descriptions of baked goods and sugary concoctions. The very likely possibility that this fic will make you run out of your flat (possibly shoe-less and in a bath robe) searching desperately for the nearest bakery. Weight gain. Cavities. You probably shouldn't read this if you're diabetic.
Summary: Merlin is a talented pastry chef in London. Arthur is a Constable who wanders into his bakery at 3 AM looking for coffee. Merlin determines to seduce him through the fine art of baked goods. Things don't quite go as planned.
Author's Note: Well, this WIP has been in the works for the better part of six months now (with long breaks in between for work, classes, and moving). It's complete except for some editing in later chapters, and I plan to post a chapter roughly every week. Feedback is always welcomed. This is not beta'd, so all mistakes belong solely to me. Bon apetit!
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The first time Merlin meets Constable Arthur Pendragon, it’s three AM and Merlin is putting a batch of fresh lemon blueberry muffins into the display window.
The bakery isn’t open yet, but Merlin always forgets to lock the door behind him when he gets in at two. No one has ever actually come in so early, though, and Merlin’s so used to the sleepy stillness of the shop at this hour that the sudden tinkling of the little brass bell over the door startles him. He fumbles and drops half the batch on the floor, bits of carefully made streusel topping scattering over the tile.
When Merlin looks up from the toppled muffins, he’s treated to the sight of the most striking cop he’s ever seen. The man is absurdly handsome. He has the fine bone structure of an aristocrat, and hair that is the same warm, buttery gold as the scent of baking croissants.
“Are you open?” the man asks, resting a hand on the butt of his gun and glancing around the empty shop. Merlin opens his mouth to say,
“No, sorry, come back at six,” but what comes out instead is: “Apparently.”
The cop quirks an eyebrow and smirks a little.
“Apparently,” he repeats, just a hint of sarcasm in his voice.
“Well,” Merlin says, brushing his hands against his apron and straightening, “technically we don’t open until six. But rozzers get special treatment. Early bird special for law enforcement. What’ll you have?”
Still smirking a little, the cop steps up to the display case and makes a show of perusing the contents. Up close, Merlin can make out the DF on his shoulder badge, as well as his surname on the little velcro tag attached to his breast pocket. Pendragon. His eyes are striking, pale and icy.
“Got coffee?” Constable Pendragon asks.
“Oh, yeah,” Merlin grins. “I’d never be able to get up this early without coffee! How d’you take it?”
“Black. And I’ll take one of those danishes with it.”
Merlin raises his eyebrows a little at the imperious tone, the complete lack of please or thanks you or gee, how kind of you to serve me at such an early hour, despite the many other duties you no doubt must attend to.
Still, the man is gorgeous, and armed, so Merlin fetches him a cup of coffee and presents him with one of the black currant danishes. Constable Pendragon drops a £2 coin on the counter, raises the disposable cup in farewell, and heads back out the door.
“You’re welcome,” Merlin says sarcastically to the empty shop. “What a prat.” He huffs, exasperated, and sets about cleaning up the spilled baked goods. As he moves back to the display window to finish setting out the remaining muffins, he catches a glimpse of Constable Pendragon just on the other side of the glass.
He’s standing still, the Danish raised to his mouth, eyes closed in happiness as he takes a bite. His lips curl into a surprised little smile, sweet like icing, and suddenly Merlin finds it very difficult to be annoyed.
~~~~~
The cop comes back two mornings later, walking without hesitation through the (again) unlocked door.
Merlin’s at his pastry table, rolling out dough for condés and listening to The Smiths on the overhead stereo. He tries not to look too excited at Constable Pendragon’s unexpected arrival. Still, he feels a spark of warm anticipation, like the first bite of warm sfogliatelle, just before the sweet ricotta filling hits the tongue.
“Hey,” he says. “’Nother coffee?”
“That was bloody terrible coffee,” the cop says. “Really. Truly horrid. But, given the lack of any other coffee shops open at this hour, I suppose it’ll do.”
Merlin feels his eyebrows raise in what is no doubt a rather goofy expression of startled offense.
“Well, there’s a reason I don’t usually sell coffee to customers,” he says dryly. “I’m a pastry chef, not a barista.”
Constable Pendragon snorts in what might be amusement or agreement. “The Danish was quite good, at least,” he admits. “Have you got any more of those?”
“Sorry, none of those today,” Merlin says. “I like to change up the menu, you know?”
Grabbing one of his clean ceramic mugs (the pink one that says DRAMA QUEEN and has a chip in the handle), he pours out a measure of his admittedly less-than stellar coffee and passes it over the counter. Constable Pendragon wrinkles his nose a little and gives the ceramic mug an odd look.
Yes, that’s right, Merlin thinks. It’s a regular mug. Stay and drink your coffee here, so that I might seduce you with sugary confections.
“Well, what’s good?” Constable Pendragon asks, eyeing the display case as though he’s staring down an armed suspect.
Merlin tries not to seem offended at the implication that any of his creations might be less than incredible.
“Everything’s good,” he says. “I’m the best pastry chef this side of London, I’ll have you know.”
The cop raises an eyebrow and smiles as he takes a noisy sip of coffee.
“Then what would you recommend,” he says challengingly, grimacing as he swallows the bitter beverage.
Merlin thinks carefully for a moment. The selection of a pastry is a serious issue, not to be taken lightly. He looks over Constable Pendragon again, trying to judge what sort of baked good he would prefer. The man is tall, broad and fit, and clearly a “man’s man,” but Merlin can sense an underlying sort of vulnerability, a tentative sweetness like a hint of raw sugar.
“Well, I’ve got chocolate pithivier that’s still warm,” Merlin says after a moment’s consideration. “It’s one of my specialties - the chocolate almond frangipane filling is amazing, if I do say so myself. But if that’s too rich, I’ve got some lemon brioches, or pumpkin scones.”
“The pithy… pith… Uh, the first one sounds good,” Constable Pendragon says, confirming Merlin’s assessment of his tastes. “The one with the chocolate and the almond stuff.”
“Sweet tooth, eh?” Merlin grins, snagging a pastry sheet and selecting one of the prettier pastries from the pile. “So you liked the Danish the other day?”
“Yeah,” the cops says, fingers brushing Merlin’s as he takes the pastry. “It was good. You made it?”
“Yeah. I make all of it, ‘cept the breads. My Uncle Gaius makes those. I just put it in the ovens in the mornings. He started the bakery way back in the 70’s, but he’s getting on in years now so I’ve sort of taken over. I’m Merlin, by the way.”
Wanna shag and get married and have lots of gun-toting, pastry-lovin’ babies together?
The cop picks an almond sliver off the top of the pithivier and pops it in his mouth. Merlin watches his lips move as he chews.
“I’m Arthur,” the cop says.
“Pleased to meet you, Constable Arthur Pendragon,” Merlin says with a lighthearted air of mock formality.
“Likewise,” Constable Pendragon - Arthur - says. “Hey - do you have a to-go cup for this coffee?”
~~~~~
Merlin doesn’t see Arthur Pendragon for another three days, which is disappointing, since Merlin has been pulling out all the stops, making an array of complicated and beautiful baked goods in anticipation of Arthur’s return. He feels rather like a peacock putting on a display, but rather than exotic feathers he’s got colorful petit fours and glazed fruit tarts, lemon daquois and apple delices.
It’s too bad Arthur isn’t there to see it and taste it (and therefore fall head over heels in love with Merlin, seduced by his magical patisserie skills). Old Mrs. Hubert seems impressed when she comes in for her morning scone, at least.
It figures that when Arthur finally reappears, Merlin has just pulled a torn bag of flour off the shelf and completely doused himself with white powder. He doesn’t even hear the bell over the door chime, its faint sound drowned out by his own colorful cursing.
“Caught you at a bad time, Merlin?” Arthur says from just behind him, and Merlin jumps in alarm, flour puffing out around him in a spectacular cloud.
“Bloody hell!” he shouts, tripping over his own feet as he spins around. Arthur steadies him with a firm hand on Merlin’s arm, looking highly amused. “Where did you come from?” Merlin gasps.
“I walked through the door,” Arthur says, as though speaking to an idiot (which, okay - Merlin might not be presenting his most intelligent side at the moment). “You should probably start locking that.”
“But then I’d miss out on your glowing company,” Merlin says, blowing a steadying breath out through his pursed lips. A puff of flour gusts out towards Arthur’s face. Arthur steps back, looking like he might sneeze, and examines his now-white palm with an expression of distaste.
“Wouldn’t want that,” Arthur says dryly, holding his hand away from his body as though it’s contaminated. “Have you got something I can use to get this off my hand?”
“It’s just flour,” Merlin laughs, even as he goes to grab a towel. “I thought you rozzers dealt with all manner of disgusting things - body fluids and dead bodies and such.”
“Yeah, well, if I get this on my uniform my captain will have my arse,” Arthur says bitterly. “Plus, I’m just a Constable right now - not too many dead bodies or fluids for me. Just lots of drunks and the occasional parking ticket.”
He sounds a little bitter about it, like under-sweetened lemon glaze, and Merlin can sense the story behind the words.
Merlin wants to ask him about it.
Instead, he tosses him the towel, then steps away to shake the flour out of his clothes. He runs his fingers through his hair, scrubbing them forward from the nape of his neck to dislodge the powder. When he blinks the last of the flour from his eyes and looks up, Arthur is watching him with poorly-hidden amusement.
“Have you composed yourself sufficiently to get me a cup of your toxic coffee, or do you need another minute or so?” Arthur asks, sprawling in one of the two booths that occupy the bakery’s tiny dining area. His whole demeanor is slightly arrogant, haughty but somehow lovely, like a well-made croquembouche.
“So sorry to keep you waiting, your Highness,” Merlin says mockingly, dropping a little curtsy with his apron. “I’ll get that for you, straight-away.”
“What’ve you got for pastries this morning?” Arthur says, completely ignoring Merlin’s sarcastic display (the prat).
“Well,” Merlin sighs, continuing to brush flour out of the creases in his jeans, “I’ve got périgord walnut tarts, apricot vanilla jalousie, cinnamon prussien, and some raspberry lemon scones.”
“What’s the jealousy thing?”
“Ja-lou-sie,” Merlin says, pulling one from the case. “It’s a flaky pastry with a lattice top, filled with almond paste and preserves. In this case apricot preserves, plus I’ve added some fresh vanilla bean to the almond paste.”
“Sounds good,” Arthur says.
“It’s great,” Merlin insists.
This time, Merlin pours the coffee in a ceramic Gallifrey University mug and forgoes the pastry paper for a china plate. Arthur shoots him a slightly consternated look, but stays long enough to eat half his pastry before he asks for a to-go cup and a pastry napkin.
Merlin decides to count it as a victory.
~~~~~
There’s another cop with Arthur the next time he come in, a stunning dark-haired woman with an air of authority. She looks like she was born to be a cop - like someone you should never, ever fuck with. Like a spectacular marzipan sculpture - something too well-crafted to even think about eating. She gives Merlin the immediate sensation that he’s done something wrong and is about to be caught out.
He tries to ignore the odd, aching sort of resentment over having to share Arthur for the brief fifteen minutes he’s likely to have him in the shop.
“Still not locking up after yourself, eh Merlin?” Arthur says by way of a greeting. The female cop shoots him a look that says God, you’re rude, and Merlin manages to resent her a little less.
“Wouldn’t want to keep you from these delicious pastries,” Merlin grins. “Just think how empty your mornings would be without them.”
“Not to mention your belly,” the woman says, stepping forward and sticking out a slim hand. “I’m Morgana, Arthur’s partner.”
“Merlin. Nice to meet you,” Merlin dusts off his palm and shakes her hand, trying not to wince at the pressure of her strong grip. “Can I get you some coffee?”
“Don’t do it, Morgana,” Arthur says in a stage whisper. “It’s dreadful.”
“That’d be lovely, thanks,” Morgana says, ignoring Arthur and peering into the pastry counter. “I know you’re not open yet, but Arthur said you don’t mind a couple of early bird customers?”
“Not a problem,” Merlin says, passing them each a mug. “Breaks up the boredom a little. What’ll you have this morning?”
“Surprise me,” Arthur says, sliding into a booth and cradling the coffee mug in both hands. Morgana smiles at him and shrugs.
“Whatever you’d recommend,” she says, settling in across from Arthur.
Merlin prepares a plate with a selection of baked goods - chocolate hazelnut biscotti, bienenstich, and blackberry turnovers. After a moment of thought, he adds an apple caramel muffin. Something classic and simple, but with a hidden sweetness and a jolt of spice. Morgana makes a pleased sound and snatches up the muffin when Merlin puts the plate down, plucking a bit of crumb topping off the top and nibbling happily, and Merlin beams at having guessed her tastes correctly. Arthur takes his time, looking over each item with a thoughtful expression before finally settling on a square of bienenstich.
“This is delicious, Merlin,” Morgana says warmly. “Thank you.”
Merlin flushes under the praise, sensing that Morgana does not give out compliments lightly. He can’t help darting a look at Arthur, hoping despite himself that the other man will chime in with some comment of his own. Arthur simply gives him a strained smile and takes a large bite of bienenstich. A bit of buttercream filling sticks to his upper lip and he slips a finger into his mouth to suck off the melted honey topping. Merlin’s own mouth goes a little dry, and he realizes he’s staring.
“Well, I’ll just - uh… I’ve got some scones in the oven I should check on,” he manages to stammer. “Let me know if you need a refill on your coffees, yeah?”
“Not bloody likely,” Arthur mutters. “ A second round would probably kill us.” He winces when Morgana kicks him sharply under the table.
“Thank you, Merlin. Don’t let us keep you from your duties,” she says, glaring at her partner. Arthur raises his bienenstich in a casual salute, the other hand massaging his shin.
Merlin retreats hastily behind the counter, pulling his scones from the oven before settling in to roll out some dough for cheese burekas.
Morgana and Arthur chat in low tones for awhile, the cadence of their conversation familiar and affectionate beneath a layer of sarcasm - like siblings. Merlin can’t help but feel a little disappointed that he’s missing out on a chance to talk with Arthur, pouting a little as he thumps the dough against the pastry table, kneading it a little rougher than is strictly necessary.
It helps his mood significantly when he looks up to find Arthur watching his hands work the dough, a thoughtful quirk to his lips.
~~~~~
They develop a sort of routine after that - Arthur works the 3p-3a shift four times a week, stopping in at the bakery at the end of each shift. Morgana comes with him sometimes, but more often than not it’s just Arthur and Merlin, on either side of a case full of sugar and fruit and pastry, exchanging half-hearted barbs about bad coffee and stuffy cops.
Merlin begins to watch the clock on the days he knows to expect Arthur, tracking the minute hand’s progress and waiting for the familiar chime of the door, timing the baking so that there’s something new and fresh from the oven when Arthur arrives. He keeps a running mental list of the things Arthur seems to like best: chocolate cherry shortbreads, orange choux fancies, cream victorias, pasticiotti custard with nutmeg, strawberry en croûte. He uses the list like a psychological profile of sorts, narrowing down Arthur’s specific tastes in order to find that perfect pastry - the one that will fit Arthur like a missing piece and make him fall madly in love with Merlin. Everyone’s got one - that perfect construction of ingredients that hits all the right notes and moves the soul - and Merlin is utterly determined to find Arthur’s.
With each subsequent step towards that lofty goal, Merlin savors little signs of victory - Arthur’s eyes crinkling at the corners when he tries a guava chausson for the first time, or the genuine grin that lights up his face when he tastes Merlin’s pain au chocolate.
After a few weeks of here, try this, and how do you like these, Arthur begins to complain that Merlin is fattening him up.
“How the hell do you stay so bloody skinny, surrounded by all this butter and sugar every day?” he moans theatrically over his coffee one morning. “I’ve had to let my belt out a notch. Pretty soon I won’t fit into my uniform. I’ll have to requisition a new one, and then my father will make me do basic PT over again to work off all your fattening concoctions.”
Merlin is sitting across from Arthur in what is now Arthur’s regular booth, carefully spreading mango mascarpone icing onto coconut cupcakes.
“Wait-“ he says, pausing with his spatula poised halfway between the bowl and a naked cupcake. “Your father?”
Arthur grimaces, realizing he’s said more than he intended to, and leans back against the red vinyl of the seat. Merlin spares a moment to consider how much the color suits Arthur - It’s a shame he only sees Arthur in his black uniform.
“Yeah - my dad’s the Deputy Commissioner,” Arthur sighs.
“Wow. That must be pretty… uh… cool?”
Arthur snorts bitterly.
“Not so great, actually,” he says. “He’s determined that he not be accused of showing me any preferential treatment, which means I’ve got to prove myself twice as much as the other Constables.”
“That’s bollocks,” Merlin says angrily. “Isn’t that a little hypocritical, to say he’s not giving you special treatment, then treat you differently?”
Arthur laughs, a genuine smile that cracks the resentful expression on his face.
“Very true,” he agrees. “You’re not quite as daft as you look, Merlin.”
“You sure know how to compliment a fellow,” Merlin says, dipping a finger into the bowl of icing and popping it in his mouth. Sweet creamy mango flavor blossoms on his tongue and he smiles dreamily, closing his eyes to appreciate the subtle hints of vanilla and orange zest. When he opens them again, Arthur is staring at him with something akin to fondness.
“Enjoying yourself?” Arthur asks, running a fingertip along the rim of his HAVE YOU SEEN MY TARDIS? mug.
“It’s very good icing,” Merlin insists.
“I’m sure.”
They stare at each other for a moment, silent. Merlin knows there’s something happening here, but hell if he knows what it is. Arthur Pendragon is frustratingly hard to read sometimes. The way he’s looking at Merlin now - it’s like a subtle flavor that Merlin can’t identify.
Something a little sweet, a little afraid, delicate like spun sugar.
“I should probably go,” Arthur says at last.
“You can stay,” Merlin blurts, feeling his ears heat up. “You know, if you like.”
Arthur looks away, then back, his eyes intent. “Yeah,” he says softly. “Okay.”
So he stays, helping Merlin ice the cupcakes, then licking the leftover icing from the spatulas.
Arthur declares that it’s the best icing he’s ever tasted.
Merlin decides he’s never seen anything quite as beautiful as Arthur Pendragon with a smudge of orange icing on his cheek, a fine dust of sugar sparkling on his lips like ice.
~~~~~
Chapter Two
Author: Phreakycat
Rating: M
Pairing: Arthur/Merlin
Genre: Modern AU, romance, slash, some angst
Warnings: Some violence in future chapters, eventual m/m Sexitimes. Shameless over-use of pastry metaphors. Graphic descriptions of baked goods and sugary concoctions. The very likely possibility that this fic will make you run out of your flat (possibly shoe-less and in a bath robe) searching desperately for the nearest bakery. Weight gain. Cavities. You probably shouldn't read this if you're diabetic.
Summary: Merlin is a talented pastry chef in London. Arthur is a Constable who wanders into his bakery at 3 AM looking for coffee. Merlin determines to seduce him through the fine art of baked goods. Things don't quite go as planned.
Author's Note: Well, this WIP has been in the works for the better part of six months now (with long breaks in between for work, classes, and moving). It's complete except for some editing in later chapters, and I plan to post a chapter roughly every week. Feedback is always welcomed. This is not beta'd, so all mistakes belong solely to me. Bon apetit!
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The first time Merlin meets Constable Arthur Pendragon, it’s three AM and Merlin is putting a batch of fresh lemon blueberry muffins into the display window.
The bakery isn’t open yet, but Merlin always forgets to lock the door behind him when he gets in at two. No one has ever actually come in so early, though, and Merlin’s so used to the sleepy stillness of the shop at this hour that the sudden tinkling of the little brass bell over the door startles him. He fumbles and drops half the batch on the floor, bits of carefully made streusel topping scattering over the tile.
When Merlin looks up from the toppled muffins, he’s treated to the sight of the most striking cop he’s ever seen. The man is absurdly handsome. He has the fine bone structure of an aristocrat, and hair that is the same warm, buttery gold as the scent of baking croissants.
“Are you open?” the man asks, resting a hand on the butt of his gun and glancing around the empty shop. Merlin opens his mouth to say,
“No, sorry, come back at six,” but what comes out instead is: “Apparently.”
The cop quirks an eyebrow and smirks a little.
“Apparently,” he repeats, just a hint of sarcasm in his voice.
“Well,” Merlin says, brushing his hands against his apron and straightening, “technically we don’t open until six. But rozzers get special treatment. Early bird special for law enforcement. What’ll you have?”
Still smirking a little, the cop steps up to the display case and makes a show of perusing the contents. Up close, Merlin can make out the DF on his shoulder badge, as well as his surname on the little velcro tag attached to his breast pocket. Pendragon. His eyes are striking, pale and icy.
“Got coffee?” Constable Pendragon asks.
“Oh, yeah,” Merlin grins. “I’d never be able to get up this early without coffee! How d’you take it?”
“Black. And I’ll take one of those danishes with it.”
Merlin raises his eyebrows a little at the imperious tone, the complete lack of please or thanks you or gee, how kind of you to serve me at such an early hour, despite the many other duties you no doubt must attend to.
Still, the man is gorgeous, and armed, so Merlin fetches him a cup of coffee and presents him with one of the black currant danishes. Constable Pendragon drops a £2 coin on the counter, raises the disposable cup in farewell, and heads back out the door.
“You’re welcome,” Merlin says sarcastically to the empty shop. “What a prat.” He huffs, exasperated, and sets about cleaning up the spilled baked goods. As he moves back to the display window to finish setting out the remaining muffins, he catches a glimpse of Constable Pendragon just on the other side of the glass.
He’s standing still, the Danish raised to his mouth, eyes closed in happiness as he takes a bite. His lips curl into a surprised little smile, sweet like icing, and suddenly Merlin finds it very difficult to be annoyed.
~~~~~
The cop comes back two mornings later, walking without hesitation through the (again) unlocked door.
Merlin’s at his pastry table, rolling out dough for condés and listening to The Smiths on the overhead stereo. He tries not to look too excited at Constable Pendragon’s unexpected arrival. Still, he feels a spark of warm anticipation, like the first bite of warm sfogliatelle, just before the sweet ricotta filling hits the tongue.
“Hey,” he says. “’Nother coffee?”
“That was bloody terrible coffee,” the cop says. “Really. Truly horrid. But, given the lack of any other coffee shops open at this hour, I suppose it’ll do.”
Merlin feels his eyebrows raise in what is no doubt a rather goofy expression of startled offense.
“Well, there’s a reason I don’t usually sell coffee to customers,” he says dryly. “I’m a pastry chef, not a barista.”
Constable Pendragon snorts in what might be amusement or agreement. “The Danish was quite good, at least,” he admits. “Have you got any more of those?”
“Sorry, none of those today,” Merlin says. “I like to change up the menu, you know?”
Grabbing one of his clean ceramic mugs (the pink one that says DRAMA QUEEN and has a chip in the handle), he pours out a measure of his admittedly less-than stellar coffee and passes it over the counter. Constable Pendragon wrinkles his nose a little and gives the ceramic mug an odd look.
Yes, that’s right, Merlin thinks. It’s a regular mug. Stay and drink your coffee here, so that I might seduce you with sugary confections.
“Well, what’s good?” Constable Pendragon asks, eyeing the display case as though he’s staring down an armed suspect.
Merlin tries not to seem offended at the implication that any of his creations might be less than incredible.
“Everything’s good,” he says. “I’m the best pastry chef this side of London, I’ll have you know.”
The cop raises an eyebrow and smiles as he takes a noisy sip of coffee.
“Then what would you recommend,” he says challengingly, grimacing as he swallows the bitter beverage.
Merlin thinks carefully for a moment. The selection of a pastry is a serious issue, not to be taken lightly. He looks over Constable Pendragon again, trying to judge what sort of baked good he would prefer. The man is tall, broad and fit, and clearly a “man’s man,” but Merlin can sense an underlying sort of vulnerability, a tentative sweetness like a hint of raw sugar.
“Well, I’ve got chocolate pithivier that’s still warm,” Merlin says after a moment’s consideration. “It’s one of my specialties - the chocolate almond frangipane filling is amazing, if I do say so myself. But if that’s too rich, I’ve got some lemon brioches, or pumpkin scones.”
“The pithy… pith… Uh, the first one sounds good,” Constable Pendragon says, confirming Merlin’s assessment of his tastes. “The one with the chocolate and the almond stuff.”
“Sweet tooth, eh?” Merlin grins, snagging a pastry sheet and selecting one of the prettier pastries from the pile. “So you liked the Danish the other day?”
“Yeah,” the cops says, fingers brushing Merlin’s as he takes the pastry. “It was good. You made it?”
“Yeah. I make all of it, ‘cept the breads. My Uncle Gaius makes those. I just put it in the ovens in the mornings. He started the bakery way back in the 70’s, but he’s getting on in years now so I’ve sort of taken over. I’m Merlin, by the way.”
Wanna shag and get married and have lots of gun-toting, pastry-lovin’ babies together?
The cop picks an almond sliver off the top of the pithivier and pops it in his mouth. Merlin watches his lips move as he chews.
“I’m Arthur,” the cop says.
“Pleased to meet you, Constable Arthur Pendragon,” Merlin says with a lighthearted air of mock formality.
“Likewise,” Constable Pendragon - Arthur - says. “Hey - do you have a to-go cup for this coffee?”
~~~~~
Merlin doesn’t see Arthur Pendragon for another three days, which is disappointing, since Merlin has been pulling out all the stops, making an array of complicated and beautiful baked goods in anticipation of Arthur’s return. He feels rather like a peacock putting on a display, but rather than exotic feathers he’s got colorful petit fours and glazed fruit tarts, lemon daquois and apple delices.
It’s too bad Arthur isn’t there to see it and taste it (and therefore fall head over heels in love with Merlin, seduced by his magical patisserie skills). Old Mrs. Hubert seems impressed when she comes in for her morning scone, at least.
It figures that when Arthur finally reappears, Merlin has just pulled a torn bag of flour off the shelf and completely doused himself with white powder. He doesn’t even hear the bell over the door chime, its faint sound drowned out by his own colorful cursing.
“Caught you at a bad time, Merlin?” Arthur says from just behind him, and Merlin jumps in alarm, flour puffing out around him in a spectacular cloud.
“Bloody hell!” he shouts, tripping over his own feet as he spins around. Arthur steadies him with a firm hand on Merlin’s arm, looking highly amused. “Where did you come from?” Merlin gasps.
“I walked through the door,” Arthur says, as though speaking to an idiot (which, okay - Merlin might not be presenting his most intelligent side at the moment). “You should probably start locking that.”
“But then I’d miss out on your glowing company,” Merlin says, blowing a steadying breath out through his pursed lips. A puff of flour gusts out towards Arthur’s face. Arthur steps back, looking like he might sneeze, and examines his now-white palm with an expression of distaste.
“Wouldn’t want that,” Arthur says dryly, holding his hand away from his body as though it’s contaminated. “Have you got something I can use to get this off my hand?”
“It’s just flour,” Merlin laughs, even as he goes to grab a towel. “I thought you rozzers dealt with all manner of disgusting things - body fluids and dead bodies and such.”
“Yeah, well, if I get this on my uniform my captain will have my arse,” Arthur says bitterly. “Plus, I’m just a Constable right now - not too many dead bodies or fluids for me. Just lots of drunks and the occasional parking ticket.”
He sounds a little bitter about it, like under-sweetened lemon glaze, and Merlin can sense the story behind the words.
Merlin wants to ask him about it.
Instead, he tosses him the towel, then steps away to shake the flour out of his clothes. He runs his fingers through his hair, scrubbing them forward from the nape of his neck to dislodge the powder. When he blinks the last of the flour from his eyes and looks up, Arthur is watching him with poorly-hidden amusement.
“Have you composed yourself sufficiently to get me a cup of your toxic coffee, or do you need another minute or so?” Arthur asks, sprawling in one of the two booths that occupy the bakery’s tiny dining area. His whole demeanor is slightly arrogant, haughty but somehow lovely, like a well-made croquembouche.
“So sorry to keep you waiting, your Highness,” Merlin says mockingly, dropping a little curtsy with his apron. “I’ll get that for you, straight-away.”
“What’ve you got for pastries this morning?” Arthur says, completely ignoring Merlin’s sarcastic display (the prat).
“Well,” Merlin sighs, continuing to brush flour out of the creases in his jeans, “I’ve got périgord walnut tarts, apricot vanilla jalousie, cinnamon prussien, and some raspberry lemon scones.”
“What’s the jealousy thing?”
“Ja-lou-sie,” Merlin says, pulling one from the case. “It’s a flaky pastry with a lattice top, filled with almond paste and preserves. In this case apricot preserves, plus I’ve added some fresh vanilla bean to the almond paste.”
“Sounds good,” Arthur says.
“It’s great,” Merlin insists.
This time, Merlin pours the coffee in a ceramic Gallifrey University mug and forgoes the pastry paper for a china plate. Arthur shoots him a slightly consternated look, but stays long enough to eat half his pastry before he asks for a to-go cup and a pastry napkin.
Merlin decides to count it as a victory.
~~~~~
There’s another cop with Arthur the next time he come in, a stunning dark-haired woman with an air of authority. She looks like she was born to be a cop - like someone you should never, ever fuck with. Like a spectacular marzipan sculpture - something too well-crafted to even think about eating. She gives Merlin the immediate sensation that he’s done something wrong and is about to be caught out.
He tries to ignore the odd, aching sort of resentment over having to share Arthur for the brief fifteen minutes he’s likely to have him in the shop.
“Still not locking up after yourself, eh Merlin?” Arthur says by way of a greeting. The female cop shoots him a look that says God, you’re rude, and Merlin manages to resent her a little less.
“Wouldn’t want to keep you from these delicious pastries,” Merlin grins. “Just think how empty your mornings would be without them.”
“Not to mention your belly,” the woman says, stepping forward and sticking out a slim hand. “I’m Morgana, Arthur’s partner.”
“Merlin. Nice to meet you,” Merlin dusts off his palm and shakes her hand, trying not to wince at the pressure of her strong grip. “Can I get you some coffee?”
“Don’t do it, Morgana,” Arthur says in a stage whisper. “It’s dreadful.”
“That’d be lovely, thanks,” Morgana says, ignoring Arthur and peering into the pastry counter. “I know you’re not open yet, but Arthur said you don’t mind a couple of early bird customers?”
“Not a problem,” Merlin says, passing them each a mug. “Breaks up the boredom a little. What’ll you have this morning?”
“Surprise me,” Arthur says, sliding into a booth and cradling the coffee mug in both hands. Morgana smiles at him and shrugs.
“Whatever you’d recommend,” she says, settling in across from Arthur.
Merlin prepares a plate with a selection of baked goods - chocolate hazelnut biscotti, bienenstich, and blackberry turnovers. After a moment of thought, he adds an apple caramel muffin. Something classic and simple, but with a hidden sweetness and a jolt of spice. Morgana makes a pleased sound and snatches up the muffin when Merlin puts the plate down, plucking a bit of crumb topping off the top and nibbling happily, and Merlin beams at having guessed her tastes correctly. Arthur takes his time, looking over each item with a thoughtful expression before finally settling on a square of bienenstich.
“This is delicious, Merlin,” Morgana says warmly. “Thank you.”
Merlin flushes under the praise, sensing that Morgana does not give out compliments lightly. He can’t help darting a look at Arthur, hoping despite himself that the other man will chime in with some comment of his own. Arthur simply gives him a strained smile and takes a large bite of bienenstich. A bit of buttercream filling sticks to his upper lip and he slips a finger into his mouth to suck off the melted honey topping. Merlin’s own mouth goes a little dry, and he realizes he’s staring.
“Well, I’ll just - uh… I’ve got some scones in the oven I should check on,” he manages to stammer. “Let me know if you need a refill on your coffees, yeah?”
“Not bloody likely,” Arthur mutters. “ A second round would probably kill us.” He winces when Morgana kicks him sharply under the table.
“Thank you, Merlin. Don’t let us keep you from your duties,” she says, glaring at her partner. Arthur raises his bienenstich in a casual salute, the other hand massaging his shin.
Merlin retreats hastily behind the counter, pulling his scones from the oven before settling in to roll out some dough for cheese burekas.
Morgana and Arthur chat in low tones for awhile, the cadence of their conversation familiar and affectionate beneath a layer of sarcasm - like siblings. Merlin can’t help but feel a little disappointed that he’s missing out on a chance to talk with Arthur, pouting a little as he thumps the dough against the pastry table, kneading it a little rougher than is strictly necessary.
It helps his mood significantly when he looks up to find Arthur watching his hands work the dough, a thoughtful quirk to his lips.
~~~~~
They develop a sort of routine after that - Arthur works the 3p-3a shift four times a week, stopping in at the bakery at the end of each shift. Morgana comes with him sometimes, but more often than not it’s just Arthur and Merlin, on either side of a case full of sugar and fruit and pastry, exchanging half-hearted barbs about bad coffee and stuffy cops.
Merlin begins to watch the clock on the days he knows to expect Arthur, tracking the minute hand’s progress and waiting for the familiar chime of the door, timing the baking so that there’s something new and fresh from the oven when Arthur arrives. He keeps a running mental list of the things Arthur seems to like best: chocolate cherry shortbreads, orange choux fancies, cream victorias, pasticiotti custard with nutmeg, strawberry en croûte. He uses the list like a psychological profile of sorts, narrowing down Arthur’s specific tastes in order to find that perfect pastry - the one that will fit Arthur like a missing piece and make him fall madly in love with Merlin. Everyone’s got one - that perfect construction of ingredients that hits all the right notes and moves the soul - and Merlin is utterly determined to find Arthur’s.
With each subsequent step towards that lofty goal, Merlin savors little signs of victory - Arthur’s eyes crinkling at the corners when he tries a guava chausson for the first time, or the genuine grin that lights up his face when he tastes Merlin’s pain au chocolate.
After a few weeks of here, try this, and how do you like these, Arthur begins to complain that Merlin is fattening him up.
“How the hell do you stay so bloody skinny, surrounded by all this butter and sugar every day?” he moans theatrically over his coffee one morning. “I’ve had to let my belt out a notch. Pretty soon I won’t fit into my uniform. I’ll have to requisition a new one, and then my father will make me do basic PT over again to work off all your fattening concoctions.”
Merlin is sitting across from Arthur in what is now Arthur’s regular booth, carefully spreading mango mascarpone icing onto coconut cupcakes.
“Wait-“ he says, pausing with his spatula poised halfway between the bowl and a naked cupcake. “Your father?”
Arthur grimaces, realizing he’s said more than he intended to, and leans back against the red vinyl of the seat. Merlin spares a moment to consider how much the color suits Arthur - It’s a shame he only sees Arthur in his black uniform.
“Yeah - my dad’s the Deputy Commissioner,” Arthur sighs.
“Wow. That must be pretty… uh… cool?”
Arthur snorts bitterly.
“Not so great, actually,” he says. “He’s determined that he not be accused of showing me any preferential treatment, which means I’ve got to prove myself twice as much as the other Constables.”
“That’s bollocks,” Merlin says angrily. “Isn’t that a little hypocritical, to say he’s not giving you special treatment, then treat you differently?”
Arthur laughs, a genuine smile that cracks the resentful expression on his face.
“Very true,” he agrees. “You’re not quite as daft as you look, Merlin.”
“You sure know how to compliment a fellow,” Merlin says, dipping a finger into the bowl of icing and popping it in his mouth. Sweet creamy mango flavor blossoms on his tongue and he smiles dreamily, closing his eyes to appreciate the subtle hints of vanilla and orange zest. When he opens them again, Arthur is staring at him with something akin to fondness.
“Enjoying yourself?” Arthur asks, running a fingertip along the rim of his HAVE YOU SEEN MY TARDIS? mug.
“It’s very good icing,” Merlin insists.
“I’m sure.”
They stare at each other for a moment, silent. Merlin knows there’s something happening here, but hell if he knows what it is. Arthur Pendragon is frustratingly hard to read sometimes. The way he’s looking at Merlin now - it’s like a subtle flavor that Merlin can’t identify.
Something a little sweet, a little afraid, delicate like spun sugar.
“I should probably go,” Arthur says at last.
“You can stay,” Merlin blurts, feeling his ears heat up. “You know, if you like.”
Arthur looks away, then back, his eyes intent. “Yeah,” he says softly. “Okay.”
So he stays, helping Merlin ice the cupcakes, then licking the leftover icing from the spatulas.
Arthur declares that it’s the best icing he’s ever tasted.
Merlin decides he’s never seen anything quite as beautiful as Arthur Pendragon with a smudge of orange icing on his cheek, a fine dust of sugar sparkling on his lips like ice.
~~~~~
Chapter Two