Tally [1/?]
Title: Tally [1/?]
Author: somerdaye
Pairings: Arthur/Merlin, some Gwaine/Merlin and Lancelot/Gwen
Rating: PG-13
Summary: When Gwaine Stanford is your only friend, you know it's time to switch things up a little. Old and new and more-thans.
Word Count: 1800+
Notes: Not only is this unbeta'd, but it was hashed out in an hour around five in the morning, so, apologies if sense is not quite made. First shot at a Merlin fic, anyway, so kind words would be appreciated. Lots of love! <333
---
Merlin really doesn't like the way Gwaine's looking at him.
Sure, yeah, there's his usual let's-get-Merlin-drunk-steal-cars-and-seduce-pretty-girls gleam in his eye, but there's an unfamiliar glint that makes Merlin very very much want to stay home and play World of Warcraft until he forgets Gwaine ever existed.
"Come on," he says, a corner of his mouth upturned in a way Merlin's come to know as the signal to run away fast and far. "Just one drink."
Just one drink. That's what he always says, always has said, for two thousand, one hundred and sixty-two days. Merlin's kept score. It's a weird habit to be sure, and it's scared away many potential friends and maybe-more-thans, but the little blue book he keeps under his pillow isn't filled with doodles or phone numbers or innermost thoughts - it's filled with tallies.
There're names at the top of every page. Black ink threatens to seep through the paper in perfect lines. Under some names, like Freya, there are only a handful of marks; twenty-four if he remembers correctly. Under others, like Will, there's an entire page-full.
And damn it all if he can't wait to stop waking up each and every morning to a new day, a new lewd text, and a new pen-line under Gwaine. Because, really, all the man does is get him in trouble, and has ever since they were sixteen and fellow outcasts. Merlin never would have tried vodka or cigarettes or snogging a random stranger if Gwaine hadn't been by his side, grinning and endlessly repeating, 'Come on! It'll be fun.'
As if on cue, the man currently blocking Merlin's view of Doctor Who (he's finally on the tenth doctor and is ready to rip Gwaine's head off if he misses another second of David Tennant's marvelousness) spreads his arms wide and says; "Come on! It'll be fun!"
"No, it won't," Merlin deadpans, leaning perilously to the left because he's certain it's a close-up and damn if the Doctor didn't have sexy eyes. "You're going to drag me to some disgusting pub, buy me seven shots of whiskey, all of which you will then drink, and then cavort off with some blonde slag, leaving me alone with the bartender who will most likely be named Joe, completely sober and wondering why the hell I'm still friends with you."
There's a single beat of silence. Well, not entirely silence, as Merlin's lucky enough to live within a hundred yards of a train station and a highway, but as silent as it ever gets around Gwaine.
Then he laughs. "Should I wait for you to get ready, or are you good like that?"
Merlin's completely given up by now. As always. "No, I'm good. Though I do need a couple of minutes to brush my teeth since I highly doubt scotch will mix well with orange juice."
"Merlin, my boy," Gwaine says with a wink. "You'd be surprised."
---
Merlin's pretty sure he should be considered a prophet or something as he watches his friend (God help them both) make a beeline for a pretty girl with blonde hair piled loosely on her head and breasts conspiring to break out of their cotton prison.
At least this time Gwaine actually left him a glass of scotch. He swirls it in the cup while he plays his favorite game at pubs like this - Where Are They Going?
The sexy, dangerous-looking woman a couple of stools beside him is raising a perfect eyebrow at the bartender, leaning forward ever-so-slightly to give him a nice view down her red - is that velvet? - dress. Unsurprisingly, he gives her a martini on the house.
She's going: straight home, alone, after giving every guy within a mile radius a smirk and a flash of long, milky legs. Burning all of the numbers she's gotten and calling only her friends for a good laugh about it all.
There's a quiet guy by the bathrooms. His entire appearance screams trouble, from his dark skin and black hooded sweater to the glint of silver in his belt. Knife? Gun? Nobody knows, nor do they want to find out. His face is hard, his eyes quick and calculating.
He's going: to another pub. Then another. And another. Never drinking anything, never talking to anyone. Just watching. Sleeping in the alley outside of the last one, the silver in his belt the only protection against muggers and other unsavory creatures.
And, there, in the booth by the door, is a girl who looks heartwrenchingly sad and - and -
Wind rushes through his ears. He shoves his way through the throng of drunken people, aiming for the booth. He reaches her, grabbing her shoulder a little too roughly with panic.
She turns, startled, and oh my God it is her.
"Gwen?" Merlin asks, hardly believing his own eyes. Gwen: one thousand, eight hundred and seventeen days that he spent in her presence.
And over twenty-seven hundred consecutively that he didn't.
"Merlin!" she exclaims, surprise etched in every one of her features. "Oh - oh my goodness - is it really you?"
Though why she has to ask, he'll never know. If the ears weren't enough of a give-away, the red scarf around his neck most definitely was.
"Yeah, it's me," he says, his mouth dry.
Gwen smiles - like really, truly smiles - and he sees her again, the awkward fourteen-year-old girl across the street with her untameable hair and frequent skinned knees and everything she was to him. His first kiss was when they were young, hiding from her brother in a linen closet, trying to muffle their laughter with each other's lips. That third week of freshman year meant teasing and grins lined with braces and coming out. Every Saturday night, watching Star Wars or The Matrix or one of those indie films she liked so much, topped off by the traditional rocky road ice cream and butterscotch syrup.
He hasn't seen her in so long. Not since they were fourteen and best friends. She had to go - of course she had to go, what with her dad in the military and Elyan constantly getting expelled and all - but why did she have to go so far? She was either in West Germany or East Bulgaria, Merlin doesn't remember, and with no long-distance phone calls and her family lacking a computer, they lost touch fairly quickly.
"Sit down! How are you? Oh my good God, it's been so long, hasn't it? Years and years - I'm amazed you even recognised me! Oh, but of course, you never forget a face, right, right, oh my, this is just. I mean, it's. God, how are you?" Gwen gushes, pulling him into the booth across from her with surprising force. She looks close to tears, and he can't really deny that if he wasn't in complete and total shock, he would be, too.
Frankly, he's amazed he recognised her, too. Her hair's in perfect ringlets, spilling out of the loose braid; her teeth are pearly white and unencumbered by metal; and, for God's sake, she's wearing makeup.
(Granted, yes, she's a grown woman and a little eyeshadow and lipgloss isn't really a cause for an ulcer, but Merlin always has tended to take a turn for the overdramatic.)
But she's smiling at him still, so brightly, and it's so Gwen that he can't help but smile back at her.
"God, Gwen, it's been way too long!" He wants to hug her, but there's a table in the way and the other occupants of the pub might get the wrong idea if he dives across it to glomp her, so he settles with clasping her hands tightly. "I've been all right, could be better. I'd say I can't complain but I really, really can."
She laughs, and the sound is so familiar it warms Merlin's cynical heart like it's warm butter.
"You always could," she teases, giving his hands a squeeze.
He shakes his head, grinning like an idiot. "But how are you? How's your dad - and Elyan? Please tell me he's not in jail."
"Er, he's spent a couple of nights in a cell, but nothing too serious. And my dad's fine - retired now! He's back in Surrey."
"Oh, wow, really? That's so great!"
The excitement is positively contagious. They catch up on everything at the speed of a bullet, from embarrassing college stories to tales of what their old classmates are up to nowadays to news about their families.
Nothing can ruin this moment for Merlin, not even when Gwaine looks over and gives him an enthusiastic thumbs-up among other gestures. Nor when Gwen notices the hammered man pelvic-thrusting the air and stares in astonished recognition.
"Don't tell me - is that - Gwaine?" she asks, laughter bubbling from her lips as he falls over a stool. "Gwaine I'm-Too-Cool-For-The-Law Stanford?"
"The one and only," Merlin says with an exasperated sigh. He jerks his head in the general direction of the twat and continues with, "He's actually kind of my best friend now."
Her eyebrows raise, but that's all she manages before Gwaine stumbles over and collapses beside Merlin. He's grinning and slumping on Merlin's shoulders and is about half a drink away from belting Natasha Bedingfield and snogging the fuck out of the closest living soul.
"Gwen!" he hollers, spreading his arms out and smacking Merlin in the nose. "It's been ages, love! And don't you look a treat tonight, hm?" He leers at her, somehow managing to undress her with his eyes while looking directly into hers. Merlin's never understood how Gwaine manages that - when he's checking out a fit guy, he never seems to be able to convince them he's paying attention to their face.
For some ungodly reason, Gwen giggles and buys him a shot of vodka. Either she didn't notice Merlin's oh-so-subtle Do Not Do That gestures, or she simply enjoys watching his pain.
"Innit she pretty, Mer?" Gwaine slurs as the shot is placed in front of him. "Like a...like a flower. Or some other poetic shit."
Then he tips back the vodka before Merlin can properly panic about being stuck between a drunk Gwaine and a wall. He seriously considers smashing the window to escape, but he's pretty sure he'd have to pay for that.
Besides, it's too late.
"Yer pretty too, Mer, have I e'er toldja that?"
Merlin sighs, putting his hands up to keep Gwaine at bay. "Yes, Gwaine, you have. At least seven times in the past month."
"Well, y'are."
And that's the end of that, since Gwaine always has been stronger than Merlin, and it doesn't take much effort for him to rather forcefully grab Merlin's neck and collide their mouths together in a mess of teeth and tongue.
He really, really shouldn't be used to this. But he pinches the back of Gwaine's right hand without so much as a blink, and smiles apologetically at Gwen, whose eyes are so wide they may or may not pop out of her skull.
"I should get this one home before he defiles me," Merlin attempts to joke, pushing Gwaine out of the booth and supporting him with difficulty. "Again," he adds in a dark mutter.
"Well, call me," she says, slightly bewildered. She searches her purse and, after a moment, draws out a Sharpie. Scribbling her number on his arm, she smiles a knowing smile. "I've got a couple of friends you might like to meet."
Gwaine's weight is now being entirely supported by Merlin's left shoulder. The latter says, "I could use some new ones," before practically dragging his friend out of the pub.
---
chapter two here