Santa Doesn't Visit the Cosmetics Department (1/2)
Title: Santa Doesn’t Visit the Cosmetics Department (Part 1/2)
Author: imigination
Characters/Pairings: Arthur/Gwen, Merlin, Morgana, Vivian
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 7400
Summary: An AU holiday story. Guinevere is an overworked, overburdened shop girl, trying to hold up the world. But even Santa’s best helper deserves a treat for Christmas.
Author’s Note: Written for the holiday crackfest at camelot_love. A big thank you to the lovely purely_distel and dis_netis for brit-picking, and being generally attentive and wonderful. Herein lies a little angst and a lot of crack, some humor and, above all, a bit of romance. I hope you all enjoy, and happy holidays. ♥
Few would consider Gwen’s job ‘dangerous.’ But those who didn’t had never suffered the torment of mothers with famished three-year-olds and unfinished Christmas lists, or panicked fathers, suddenly stricken with the awful realization that their wives would find a new kettle a totally uninspired holiday gift.
Nor could they imagine just how the acoustics of the store meant that high-pitched wailing from the children’s department downstairs filtered up the escalator to her counter. How that screaming - if it reached a particular decibel - could drive a woman as sensible as Guinevere to consider grabbing a handful of tinsel off the nearest display and eat it without second thought or remorse. If she didn’t die straight away, it would mean at least a few good days in the hospital, where she’d be taken care of and able to watch a little television in peace.
No. Such people - blessedly ignorant souls - could never imagine how the holiday season could drive a girl mad, for all the wrong reasons.
Even ‘O Holy Night,’ one of Gwen’s favorite carols, was ruined. The pianist on the third floor apparently counted it amongst the three Christmas themed pieces he knew how to play.
“Hel-Lo?” sniped the woman in front of her, shoulders square and tense.
Gwen blushed guiltily and immediately adopted what she hoped was a sweet smile. “I’m sorry. How can I help you?”
The customer was hardly bowled over by the act. Little wonder; she was flanked by a grumpy teenager, eyes glued to her mobile, and a freckled five-year-old, covered in what looked like the remains of an ice cream sundae. “Where are the ruddy toilets?”
“Round to the left, past menswear,” replied Gwen quickly. The woman granted her one more severe look before she grunted and turned, dragging the little boy behind her. Gwen watched the trio wind their way past the escalator and into a wilderness consisting entirely of suits, ties and golf on flat screen television anchored high above the register.
“Weren’t they just delightful?” drawled a familiar voice at Gwen’s other shoulder.
Gwen chuckled as her gaze fell upon Morgana, looking straight out of a fashion magazine in the midst of the Christmas chaos. “She’s been here at least ten times before, I’m shocked she can’t find the loo.”
“Why think for herself when she’s got you to help?” Morgana shook her head at the bedlam that was Pendragon’s holiday sales.
“Yes, well. This ‘help’ doesn’t much want to help.” Gwen rolled her eyes and swept a few abandoned perfume samples abandoned on her counter off into the rubbish bin. She wasn’t even sure how things from cosmetics seemed to routinely make it into her section - but then nothing in the store seemed in order any more. She’d never looked forward to the lull of late January more.
Pendragon’s was no bargain basement, but the rush seemed to bring out the worst in the store. Gwen had to admire Morgana; she seemed to float above it all. She set her purse down on the display case and leaned over the glass toward Guinevere. "Holding up then?"
“What time is it?”
Morgana’s eyes flitted to the phone she was tinkering with in her hands. “… Half -past noon.”
Gwen bent over and retrieved a dry wipe from beneath the credit card machine, and began wiping down the fingerprints left on the display. “Ask me again in six hours.”
“Six hours? Good lord-”
“I don’t know why this always surprises you,” she teased in retort. When she looked up again, she hesitated; Morgana looked especially stricken. “What?”
“You said you’d help me get ready for the party.”
Gwen cringed. She’d forgotten about Morgana’s holiday party. It was still a week off, which meant Gwen hadn’t flipped to that page in her planner yet. Between work and trying to get her flat in order, she’d been a little overwhelmed lately. “I’m so sorry, Morgana,” she began weakly, “There were extra shifts available, so I picked a few up.”
Morgana put little effort into hiding her pout, and her gaze fell to the glass display, pretty and displeased, much to Gwen’s chagrin. Studiously avoiding the eyes of a few actual customers, Gwen put on her best sales associate smile and fished a key out from beneath her sleeve, around her wrist. “Can I make it up to you?”
“Not sure how you’ll manage that,” scoffed Morgana, but the corners of her mouth were upturned.
Gwen crouched a little to open the counter between them. “I’m pretty sure I need to take a credit card from you just to let you see it,” she began as she reached in and extracted an even smaller glass box. “But since I can’t go to the party store with you, let’s let this be our little secret.”
Morgana’s mood turned on a dime. “Oh, Gwen,” she breathed, straightening up. “You give the best presents.”
They both laughed at that; Gwen could no more give such an expensive piece of jewelry away - even to the owner’s daughter - than Morgana would actually accept such a gift from her friend. But as Gwen fastened the diamond cuff to the pale wrist presented to her, Morgana couldn’t help but gasp.
Gwen was not much of a shop girl, and she knew it. She owned few fine things, made most of her fashion decision based on practicality, and knew about as much about jewelry as the next person. It was only thanks to Morgana that she’d gotten this job to begin with.
Years before her mother’s passing, Gwen’s mother insisted on dance lessons for her daughter at an esteemed school in the city. Gwen hadn’t lasted very long - she wasn’t much of a dancer, and the expense was exorbitant - but her fast friendship with an older girl who sometimes assisted Gwen’s beginner class had. When she’d needed a summer job at sixteen, Morgana helped her secure a position as an associate in lingerie … which had been awkward, but bearable. There was a brief term as a Bobbi Brown representative in cosmetics when she turned eighteen. When a position opened up in jewelry, Gwen transferred. Jewelry was notoriously slow, but with little chance of repercussion. While she was still in school, she’d managed to get some reading in during her shift, and had written more than one paper while still at work.
Of course, she needed the money. For that reason, she remained thankful for her work, and for her glittering friend’s kindness. But some of the wind was sucked out of her sails around the holidays, when Gwen could not avoid the reality of her position: a mere peg in the merchandising machine.
“You going to pay for that?” a cool voice remarked. Gwen gasped and grasped the case tight, cursing herself somewhere deep down for appearing so bloody guilty.
A crimson flush darkened her skin, though when she dared to look up from under her eyelashes, the pounding in her heart took on an entirely new dimension.
At least she wasn’t in trouble.
“Didn’t plan on it,” retorted Morgana lightly, holding out her wrist for him to admire.
Arthur, slow to approach, flicked his gaze briefly to the bracelet before his eyes - shining and amused - found Gwen’s face. “Very nice,” he muttered, coming to stand beside his foster sister. “It distracts from the overall effect-”
“Effect of what?”
“Your face, for starters-”
Gwen grabbed a quick reprieve from their banter, willing the warmth flooding her face to subside. She bent down to straighten an otherwise perfect arrangement of necklaces.
She wasn’t quite sure how to act around Arthur. Of course, she’d known him for years, even before she began working at Pendragon’s. When Morgana still lived at home, Gwen had doubtless just been one of her little friends, a shy girl, hardly worthy of his attention. And that had been fine … Arthur had been downright obnoxious, and Gwen ignored him in turn.
Then, by chance, Arthur hired one of Gwen’s former school friends as an assistant for his recreational football league. How Merlin was able to tolerate Arthur’s ego, Gwen wasn’t sure. But it had been to good effect. It was strange, how after years and years of knowing each other peripherally, they’d exchanged their first words only a few months ago.
Strange, how a fast, odd friendship bloomed.
There were the three nights he crashed at her flat. On the outs with his father, Arthur asked Merlin to let him stay with him until he cooled off - Uther would find him at Morgana’s flat, or any of his other mate’s places, and he had the habit of cutting off Arthur’s credit cards whenever his son refused to heed him. Space was tight in the flat Merlin shared with his great uncle Gaius, so when Merlin begged her, Gwen acquiesced. She had a couch, after all.
In three short days, they’d found an easy way of being around each other … once Arthur stopped acting like Gwen’s flat was a hotel, and she his maid. And the brief, unexpected kiss …
Of course, they were both young. And Arthur was very handsome. But it was close quarters that did it, Gwen was sure. They barely knew each other after all. Arthur was the owner’s son and technically her boss in his own right, though he never seemed to take his ‘executive associate’ position very seriously, at least not in store. If anything, once he left, she’d looked forward to counting him as a surprising potential friend. Merlin had been Gwen’s kiss, after all.
But that didn’t explain the weird tension that had arisen between them when she ran into him while on a date with her old flame Lancelot. Nor the fact that, after a week of silent treatment and strange avoidance - why come to the employee break room for bad coffee when Gwen knew the executive office on the fourth floor had a great espresso machine? - he began to gravitate toward the jewelry section.
Sometimes he came by with a teasing remark about her productivity on a slow day. Once or twice he came by bearing an extra cup from Starbucks, and a half-hearted expression about Merlin not wanting it. More surprising, he increasingly came by with comment on a new company venture, or to bounce ideas off her.
Mostly, he did it when no one was around, not on a busy day like this … and never when Morgana was around.
Gwen dared to glance up at Morgana and Arthur on the other side of the case. They were sniping about something, she couldn’t hear what, and she took her moment to admire the sleek form he cut in his slacks and black button down.
“Gwen. … Gwen!”
She jerked out of her reverie, “Yes,” she breathed, standing upright once more. “You done?”
A nearby catalogue suddenly distracted Arthur, and Morgana was staring at her with clear, knowing eyes, and a smirk on her face. Gwen reached for her upturned wrist, unfastening the cuff with nimble fingers.
“Gonna keep looking?” asked Gwen as she placed it back in its box, laughing shakily.
Morgana rolled her eyes. “I suppose so.” She glanced at her brother, then back at Gwen. “And I take it there’s no chance you can take a break for lunch?”
Gwen patted Morgana’s hand. “Not a chance.”
Morgana sighed loudly. “Fine. But I’m counting on you after work, we still need to plan the menu.”
“Menu for what?” asked Arthur absently, flipping pages of the look book, and obviously paying its contents no attention.
“My party, you idiot,” she snapped. “Knowing your lot, I’ll have to prepare to feed double-”
“I didn’t ask you to invite the boys,” Arthur replied without missing a beat. Gwen raised an eyebrow and looked to her friend, but Morgana had no real retort. The truth was, as interested as she was in hosting a holiday party, her circle of friends was very limited, and not particularly conducive to a very festive environment. Arthur was picking up some of the slack.
So instead of delivering a cutting remark, Morgana huffed, squeezed Gwen’s hand and disappeared into a wave of people.
Guinevere watched Morgana’s recently vacated spot for a moment, lost to her own thoughts, until Arthur’s forced throat clearing drew her attention back to him. He was standing before her, hands clasped behind his back, brow set, giving him an unreadable expression. He was steadfastly looking down at the place where Gwen’s hands rested on the glass case.
She hesitated, but when he just stood there, struggling to say something, Gwen broke the silence.
“The boys are coming then? To Morgana’s party?”
“Yeah.” He paused, then: “And you?”
He immediately went a little red, and Gwen couldn’t help but smile as she nodded. Of course she would be there - he knew that.
Arthur rocked a little on the balls of his feet, eyeing a pair of women hovering around an earring display. He ceremoniously cleared his throat before his gaze found hers once more.
“If you want, maybe, I could give you a lift.”
Her eyebrows shot up. “To Morgana’s party?”
“Yeah.” Arthur’s mouth was tight, but his eyes were open, clear. Gwen was acutely aware of her pounding heart, her sudden lightheaded feeling. She licked her lips slowly before she found voice enough to reply.
“I’m not working that day-”
“I know. I meant more like, I could pick you up and we could … go together. If you’d like.”
Would I like that?, thought Gwen dimly. Another voice, deeper than her own, resolute and firm, perked up in the back of her mind. Yes! Yes, you idiot, you’d like it very much.
Before she could reply, the one of the two women at the counter was clearing her throat, clearly in no mood to wait out this tentative invitation and response. It wasn’t until the third conspicuous cough that Gwen even thought to turn and look at them, and when her eyes found Arthur’s again, he was smiling, but professional. “Go ahead,” he said softly, tapping the glass in front of him. “I’ll … catch you later.”
She could’ve smacked herself. But instead, she nodded silently and turned to her clients, a little worse for the wear.
***
“Just a minute!” shouted Gwen. She nudged the silverware drawer closed with a hip, her other hand resolutely churning away at the bowl of half-mixed ingredients tucked securely in the nook of her arm.
She was only two steps out of the kitchen when the stove buzzed for the second time. Unwilling to let a second batch of cookies burn, Gwen turned on her heel and went back for it - stopped in her tracks once more by the tune of jingle bells being tapped on her door.
Door be damned, thought Gwen. Whoever was waiting for her had no idea what they were getting into; Gwen was desperately in need of a second pair of hands.
Quickly, she slipped on an oven mitt and placed the tray of gingerbread cookies down on the stovetop, then jogged across her flat to the door, snatching up the television remote as she passed by.
Pausing only to turn down the volume, Gwen turned the handle. “Sorry about that-”
Merlin stood there, both fists raised in mid-chorus and an astonished grin on his face. “Hello!” he greeted her cheerfully.
Overwhelmed though she was, Gwen couldn’t help but return Merlin’s ‘caught’ smile. “Hello!” she laughed.
“Busy, are you?” Merlin scooted past her and into the warmth of her flat, immediately shedding his too-thin winter coat and unzipping his hoodie. “I was out there for ages.”
Gwen closed the door, reaching to take his coat. “Make yourself at home,” she teased, as he had already fallen back onto the middle of the couch, and was reaching for the remote and the blanket Gwen had abandoned there earlier. She made her way back to her work.
One day she would learn to how to say ‘no’ … preferably before a collapse landed her in the hospital. She faced the destruction of her kitchen with her hands on her hips.
Morgana certainly had the money - and the time - to sort out all this party stuff on her own. On the phone the previous evening, she rattled off the hors d’oeuvres she wanted to serve, and Gwen had innocently (and rather stupidly) asked if she was going to have any traditional holiday sweets, not just cheese and crackers and quiche. Morgana barely needed to ask; Gwen assumed her title of pastry chef before she could even consider that she had neither the time nor energy.
“You cooking?” called Merlin.
Gwen raised an eyebrow at him; he was now cocooned to the ears in her quilt. “Yep. Wanna help?”
“Is it lunch?”
She took her cake bowl and began mixing again. “Nope. Treats for Morgana’s party.”
Before she could blink, Merlin was scrambling off the couch. “Treats?” he repeated, and his eyes went wide when he caught sight of the big bowl of chocolate batter in Gwen’s arms. “Oh, I’ll help.”
“I’ll tell you now, we’re not eating any of it.”
“Gwen. One cookie isn’t going to make a difference.”
“It makes a difference to me.”
Merlin pulled out his best ‘kicked puppy’ look, and Gwen huffed loudly. “Fine. But only one.”
Soon enough, she was filling the bundt tin, and Merlin was chopping apples, going on and on about some band playing on New Year’s in a club Gwen had never been to. They’d muted ‘Dawn of the Dead,’ and Gwen - covered in flour, in desperate need of a shower, with a little dried batter in her hair - was finally feeling accomplished.
All the activity was helpful distraction from Arthur’s vague overture. Of course, Gwen would be there … just as he would be there, and inevitably they’d see each other. Why he’d go out of his way to give her a lift was beyond her. Unless he actually had meant for her to come along as his ‘date.’
… Which, despite their burgeoning friendship, would’ve been new.
She’d watch him grow up, watched girls come and go but never linger. Arthur was restless, full of energy, but no clear purpose as Gwen saw it now. He worked for his father, certainly, but Gwen couldn’t imagine him being very interested in running Pendragon’s. he wasn’t a department store guy; just as she wasn’t a shop girl at heart.
Maybe that’s what brought them together. A mutual loathing of the cosmetics department.
And maybe it didn’t matter anymore, given that she’d bumbled the whole thing by clamming up in the moment.
Something hit Gwen square in the nose and dropped in her lap. She picked up the bit of apple peel like a bug, and gave Merlin her most scornful look. Obviously it wasn’t very good, since he only rolled his eyes at her.
“Head in the clouds?” he joked, shoving an apple slice in his mouth.
Gwen threw it back at him, and was pleased to see it get caught in his hair. “Hardly.”
“Daydreaming about someone?”
Her heart beat a little faster. “No.”
“Not Arthur?”
Bloody hell, was she so obvious? “Make that ‘definitely no.’”
“That’s funny. Because I heard from someone that he asked you to Morgana’s party, as his date.”
Gwen’s face grew hot, and she practically jumped out of her seat to fiddle with the egg timer by the over. “Somebody’s a big liar then,” Gwen lied.
She could hear Merlin’s grin grow. But after a beat, he sighed, “Fine. But it wouldn’t surprise me, seeing how moony you two act when you’re together.” Another crunch, another apple for Gwen’s tart wasted. Whatever it took to stall this particular conversation.
Before Merlin could start up again, Gwen’s mobile began to buzz on the table. “I’ve got to take this,” she mumbled, ducking her head to hide her blush from Merlin’s knowing gaze, and darted out of the kitchenette toward her bedroom, the only place she got decent reception.
It, like the rest of her flat, was a mess. She hated living like this, but between extra shifts at work and the tasks for Morgana, she hadn’t had the time to fold her laundry, put away the wrapping paper rolled out on the floor, or finish separating her father’s old Christmas decorations. With a sigh, she nudged a hatbox full of old holiday cards aside to make a bit of space on her bed.
The caller ID read ‘Restricted.’ Gwen cleared her throat and flipped her phone open. “Hello?” she asked politely.
She was met by a hacking, sputtering cough. Gwen held the phone away from her ear for a moment, as though the germs would jump out at her. The last thing she needed now was a cold as well. She wrinkled her nose, and when the coughing died down, pressed her ear to the receiver again. “Hello?” she repeated.
“Gwen, thank heavens,” rasped a voice on the other end.
“You called me?”
“Of course-” Another, brief, coughing fit. “I’m sorry. It’s me, Anne.”
“Are you all right? You sound horrible.”
Anne blew her nose at the other end of the line. “… I’ve been like this for two days. They’re looking to send me to the morgue.”
Gwen grimaced. Anne - who worked in children’s wear - didn’t know her that well, and the loss of her parents was no longer an open, bleeding wound. But jokes about death would never sit well with Gwen. “I’m sorry,” was all she said, still sympathetic. “Have you been to the doctor?”
“Not yet, but that’s what I’m calling about.” Gwen waited for her to continue. “I can barely make it out of bed, and I saw the schedule posted online. It says you’re not working tonight …”
“Well … no.”
“Vivian says I have to find somebody to cover for me, or this’ll be it, I’ll be canned. And no one else I know is available.”
“But-”
“Gwen,” whined Anne, “I am begging you. Cover for me, just this once.”
Of course, Guinevere couldn’t. She’d just put her cake in the oven. She had a tart to make, decorations to sort, and a tree of her own to trim. She had Merlin at her table - doubtlessly and inexplicably expecting some kind of meal - and she had Morgana depending on her. She had a crappy car that needed an oil change and more wiper fluid, and ten days until Christmas with none of her own shopping done … and she had a ‘maybe’ date with Arthur which demanded a lot of contemplation.
As though she had any choice.
***
Gwen closed the employee closet behind her, taking a moment to draw a deep breath and ready herself for the onslaught of customers. Part of what made jewelry tolerable - that she’d often go long stretches without once having to actually interact with a customer - was about to fly out the window. This would be the children’s department in the peak of the holiday rush, and it would probably be bad.
Not bad, Gwen scolded herself. No sense in thinking of it that way, since she had about six hours to spend there.
She passed through the stock room and toward the door onto the main floor, readying a small smile.
It pleased her to find that children’s was not as chaotic as she expected it to be. In her first thirty minutes after clocking in, she helped a woman roughly her grandmother’s age find a sufficiently tutu-like skirt for her granddaughter, re-racked a few items, and rang up three guests. She was rubbish at finding anything - if she had a down moment, she should take a quick lap around the section just to get a sense of where everything was, decided Gwen - but a Doctor Who Christmas Special starring Nine was on the telly, and she hadn’t seen it in ages. Unexpected bonus.
Gwen came around her counter, holding out a zipped black garment bag, now containing a little coat finer than any Gwen had owned in her entire life. “Thanks so much,” she said, handing it over to the customer, and with a smile, she added: “Happy Christmas.”
The line had diminished, which meant it was the perfect moment for her to take her quick exploration. Straightening her cardigan, Gwen weaved through a few racks - toddlers on the left along the far wall, young girls closest to the register, she noted - and was about to straighten a display littered with ruffled shirts when she was accosted by something small and blonde.
Vivian’s eyes were wide and furious. “What are you doing?” she snapped, stopping just short of Guinevere and teetering dangerously on her heels.
Gwen gaped. “I was going to fold these shirts.”
“You’re filling in for Anne, aren’t you?”
It was a wonder how someone as beautiful as Vivian could manage to look so mean. This wasn’t Gwen’s department, admittedly, but she was no novice. “I am,” replied Gwen carefully, lowering her voice. A few customers were looking their way.
Beautiful, but with enough social grace to fill the head of a pin, thought Gwen shamelessly. Vivian’s voice only grew louder and more irate. “Then what are you doing here?”
“This isn’t where Anne’s working?”
Vivian huffed a loud sigh and turned on the heel of her stiletto. “You haven’t got a clue. Come with me.”
Even with two inches of added height, and in flats, Gwen had trouble keeping pace with Vivian as they traipsed through the store and back into the stock room toward the employee lockers. She was prattling on about something - clueless people on shift, not being paid to do this or that - but Gwen barely registered a word, and stopped just short of crashing right into her when she stopped in front of what could’ve only been Anne’s locker.
Flicking through a few keys, Vivian sighed loudly. “… You’re just lucky Uther isn’t here too witness this oversight.”
The gray locker opened with a loud click, and Gwen peered past Vivian to see the thing hanging inside. And what she saw there, what Vivian presumably intended for her, made her stomach drop.
Some might’ve called it cute. But then they wouldn’t be seeing it for the true horror that it was, the foul torture, a thing that had claimed souls of greater strength than Gwen’s.
On a wire hanger, covered in a thing plastic slip, was a freshly laundered dress. Not any dress, but a little dress that nipped in at the waist, and flared at the hips, helped by a teeny bit of tulle to give it a lovely bell shape that flattered only pencil-thin women. The sleeves were puffed up. If it weren’t for the festive holiday green, it would’ve passed for a slinky Halloween costume, squarely between ‘slutty kitten’ and ‘sexy nurse.’
Well, if it weren’t for the festive green, and the red and white striped candy cane tights dangling from the bottom. Or the little green cap hanging off a coat hook.
Or the green slippers, with bells at each toe.
Gwen didn’t understand why parents thought such a tiny, horrifying outfit was okay to parade around their sons … an objectifying little dress in which Pendragon’s cursed Santa’s helper could show off to their daughters.
“No,” blurted Gwen, before she was asked.
The smile tugging at Vivian’s ever sour face had to be the most self-satisfied look Gwen had ever witnessed. “You don’t have a choice.”
Of course she had a choice; “No,” repeated Gwen firmly.
Vivian tapped her clip board against her hip. “Anne volunteered for this. She’s getting paid extra for it. And you’re covering her shift.”
“Well, then I’m off-”
“In which case you’re fired.”
Even Gwen had her limits. She felt her face grow hot with frustration. “You can’t fire me over this.”
“Then Anne will be fired.”
“You can’t do that either.”
“I’m the floor manager, of course I can.” Vivian’s perfectly plucked eyebrows shot up. “Or shall I find Arthur?”
That at least silenced her. Vivian could have no idea what was between her and Arthur, but she didn’t want to give the pretty young supervisor the opportunity to see her sweat in front of him.
Silence was acquiescence; Gwen wondered whether anyone kept a flask on them.
Vivian smirked, delighted. “Santa’s waiting.”
***
If it weren’t for her task - trolling the line of tearful or terrified children, taking names and filling out their photo order forms - Gwen would’ve been mortified. But the job meant there wasn’t too much time to ruminate on her sorry state, to stare into the masses in search of familiar faces, to throw a private pity party. And with all the activity, the hours were beginning to pass quickly; the clock over cosmetics already read 5:14.
Thank heaven for small miracles. It turned out Anne’s feet were about two sizes smaller than Gwen’s, which meant she didn’t have to wear the jingle-bell elfin slippers. She was also able to hide the little hat in the back corner of the locker, out of Vivian’s sight …
Upon first inspection, she had failed to notice the plastic peppermint necklace she was expected to wear, or the Hansel and Gretel type trimming around the collar. Nor had she noticed the green bloomers that accompanied the ensemble (Gwen opted not to wear them).
The tights, she wasn’t able to get out of wearing. In the end, she was thankful for the red and white striped stockings, since they distracted onlookers - and Gwen herself - from the shortness of her dress …
With a small sigh, Gwen tore the slip from the bottom of the photo package order form and handed it the customer at the end of the line. “Here you go,” she said, in the most cheerful voice she could muster … though it admittedly came out slightly exasperated. “When you get to the front of the queue, just hand this to the lady, and your son can take his turn.”
“Are you a real elf?” piped up a small voice. Gwen looked down at the small boy, who was cradling a Nerf gun to his chest and surveying Gwen with a skeptical eye.
She glanced at his father, expecting him to wrangle this issue, but he’d already turned his attention back to his Blackberry.
So much for hands-on parenting. Gwen bent down a little. “… Yes.”
“Then what are you doing here?”
Good question, she thought. “Okay, no,” she corrected. After a beat, and a quick glance to Billy - who Gwen knew to work in footwear, but was presently stroking his thick beard and bouncing a small girl on his red knee - she amended her statement. “I report to Santa, though.”
“By email?”
Gwen hesitated, but that explanation was as good as any. “Yes, by email.”
“-GWEN?”
She was instantly frozen to the spot, and a fleeting image crossed her mind: tackling children and parents alike, making a mad dash for the exit on the other side of the store, her things be damned.
When she looked over her shoulder, she was relieved - if it was possible - to find only Merlin stating a few feet away, mouth agape. She let out the breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding.
They stared at each other, at a complete loss, for a good minute. As Merlin’s face lit up - contorting from shock, to admiration, to pure glee - Gwen only felt hers fall. “Oh, Gwen-”
“Weren’t you supposed to take my cake out of the oven?” she interrupted.
“I did. Gwen, you-”
“And,” she continued, looking down absently at another form on her clipboard, “I thought you were going to eat dinner.”
“Did that too, I finished your roast and watched the end of ‘Dawn of the Dead.’ But … Gwen.”
“Yes, Merlin. Yes.” She was blushing deeply, and cursed herself for smiling despite it all, if only at his expression. “Not a word of this. Ever again. I mean it.”
“Of course, just …” He reached into his pocket and fished out his mobile, flipping it open and holding it up square with Gwen.
She hastily stepped forward, holding up her free hand. “Not on your life!” hissed Gwen.
“Just a quick picture,” he giggled, darting out of her reach. “Please, Gwen, please, please, please-”
“Merlin!”
“I just-” he dodged again, and in the end, Gwen resigned herself to the blurry photo, holding the clipboard up in front of her face as she moved about Pendragon’s centerpiece ‘Winter Wonderland.’ And when Merlin finally stopped giggling and put the phone away, she sighed, shaking her head. At least this was only one day - one miserable and hilarious day.
“The look suits you,” he chuckled, tucking the phone away once more.
Gwen rubbed absently at her temple, resisting another smile. “What are you even doing here?” she demanded as they wandered, side by side, beneath the faux-snow covered archway, up the exit aisle and toward Santa. “My place not entertaining enough?”
“I was on my way to meet Arthur up in his office; we’re heading to the pub.”
She instantly froze, grabbing Merlin’s wrist to stop her from falling over. It was a Saturday, which Gwen had taken to mean Arthur would’ve had the day off. “He’s here?”
Merlin nodded slowly. “Yep. I’m a bit late, actually, so-”
“Merlin, please.” She turned and grasped his shoulders, holding tight. “Do not bring him by here. Do. Not.”
“But … this is the way out.”
“Merlin, if you’re any kind of friend-”
His grin turned especially cheeky. “I dunno, you look rather fetching.”
“Merlin. No.”
“Fine,” he huffed, and Gwen dropped her arms. To her left, a few more people had joined the queue; they would hopefully be her last. As she walked away to check them in, Merlin brushed by her, muttering, “But you’ve completely ruined the Christmas spirit.”
***
True to his word, Merlin never passed the display again. For a half hour, Gwen felt completely paranoid, doing her best to keep her back to the rest of the store as she watched for a skinny dark-haired boy in a hoodie and a well-kept blonde in her periphery. But after a while, certain that they’d left, she was able to relax again and actually enjoy the last few customers in the queue. Billy was doing a bang up job as Santa; it was too bad he couldn’t keep the gig year-round.
She changed back into her normal work clothes - pencil skirt and black sweater - as fast as she could, tucked the elf costume in her own locker since she didn’t have Anne’s key, and threw on her puffy white coat.
Gwen shivered a little as she stepped out into the parking garage. It was already dark, and most of the spaces on the third level were already cleared out. Just beyond the cement walls, the city sparkled light a jewel as far as she could see … maybe she’d stop for a bottle of wine on the way home, turn on a little Christmas music and finish the rest of her cooking earlier enough to trim her tree properly before bed.
She gingerly stepped off the curb, avoiding a puddle of dirty, slushy water, and jogged lightly toward her little silver Ford parked on the far west corner.
Suddenly in brighter spirits, Gwen began humming stray ends of Greensleeves as she fished in her purse for her keys. She forced them in the lock, turned and pulled - but the handle resisted, whether frozen or broken, Gwen couldn’t tell.
She tried it again … and again, with no luck. The handle itself moved, but the mechanism wasn’t clicking, so she couldn’t tell if the door was still locked or just refused to budge for her. As though she needed more car trouble … Gwen yanked forcefully again. “Shit,” she hissed, putting her purse on the roof and pulling with two hands.
“I have never heard you swear. Not once.”
Gasping softly, Gwen whirled around to see Arthur only a few feet away. He looked amused, and that would’ve set her off under normal circumstances, except …
She never felt quite so pleased to see him. He was dressed casually, not in work clothes, in a leather jacket with his hood falling out the back, and his smile was small but genuine. Before Gwen could manage two words, he was walking toward the car, his hand reaching for the stuck handle. “What’s the trouble?”
“This stupid thing …” she muttered, blushing. “It’s not worth its weight. That’s not going to work, by the way-”
But Arthur tugged at the handle anyway, twice, and it gave Gwen a little satisfaction to know that even broad-shouldered, well muscled Arthur couldn’t just tug it open.
He frowned at the offending door, and yanked again, with enough force to elicit a grunt that made Gwen tremble slightly.
“Don’t worry about it, I’ll just call a mechanic …”
Arthur frowned openly at that prospect, making Gwen struggle to suppress a giggle. “Don’t be ridiculous,” he muttered, trying the handle once more. He looked over to the passenger side door. “I’ll get it open.”
“I don’t think it’s unlocking, Arthur.”
“Bet you I can get it open.”
Gwen raised an eyebrow, meeting his challenging blue gaze as he walked around her tiny car. “Doubt it,” she replied, her voice clear. He grinned.
“Just … turn the key again.”
She did, and proceeded to watch him struggle with the second door for another minute, rocking the car with each tug. Only after a few minutes did Gwen have the heart to stop him from the futile endeavor; this wasn’t the first time her car screwed her, and it wouldn’t be the last. “Forget it, Arthur. It’s a lost cause.”
He was breathing hard, face scrunched up in frustration. Gwen ducked her head to hide her blush. “I’ll just hop on the train.”
“Bullshit,” he grunted. Their eyes met, and his pale cheeks flushed pink. “I mean … there’s no need. My car’s down on the first level.”
“I couldn’t ask you to go out of your way-”
Arthur smiled, walking around the trunk toward her. “Guinevere.”
“Arthur.”
They stood facing each other, each waiting the other out. The truth was, Gwen preferred a ride to the train, but she didn’t want to take him out of his way, and the thought of him even being in close proximity to her flat made her stomach twist uncomfortably.
He turned and took a few steps away from her, before turning and looking back at her. “Look, if you take the train that means I’m going to have to take the train. So let’s just avoid it and ride in a warm car instead?”
Gwen looked back down at her car, before patting a window tenderly. “I give up,” she murmured, “You win.” Feigning reluctance as best she could, she grabbed her purse and trudged forward after him. Arthur let out a laugh loud enough to echo off the garage’s stone walls.
Instead of going back into the store, they walked along the concrete perimeter and down the gentle slope of the aisle, passing rows and rows of more faithful vehicles than Gwen’s, careful to avoid anyone backing out.
After a moment of awkward quiet between them, Gwen looked up at him. “What were you doing here? I thought you didn’t work Saturdays.”
He reached up and ran a hand through his bangs, making his hair stand up a little unevenly. “We ran a charity this year, and I had to see it off today,” replied Arthur, and Gwen smacked herself for not remembering.
When she’d first heard about it, she’d found it a little odd - Pendragon’s was not known in the media for its corporation’s charitable donations - this year, they ran a campaign collecting winter clothes for the needy … and additionally offered to match double the value of each item, as appraised new, in cash. The total - money and clothing - was being distributed to a shelter in an underdeveloped quarter of the city.
“Oh,” she murmured, then louder: “Was it successful?”
Arthur ducked his head, but there was no hiding the smile on his face. “Yes, very.”
“Your father must be pleased, then.”
“He doesn’t care, actually,” confessed Arthur, and his hand found her wrist and pulled her to a stop as a driver jerkily pulled out of a space. “He let me run it - I haven’t even reported what we earned.”
Gwen’s eyebrows shot up in surprise. In the relative dark of the parking garage, she was pleased that Arthur couldn’t see her blushing, the way he was scrutinizing her reaction just then. And when she couldn’t tamp down her inexplicably proud little smile, he looked away to hide his own. “It doesn’t matter,” he mumbled, shrugging. “’Tis the season and all that rubbish, right?”
“Indeed,” Gwen murmured. Without thinking, she reached up and squeezed his arm.
She instantly regretted it, the way she felt him tense beneath her grip, even through the layers of his clothes.
He stopped, and Gwen’s heart began to race as she imagined him saying all sorts of things … mostly about how maybe it would be better for her to catch the train after all.
But Arthur looked at her, lips pressed into a tight line, eyes inscrutable. He reached up and rubbed the back of his neck, clearly contemplating the best way to let her know he hadn’t meant to lead her on - if he had.
“About Morgana’s party-” he began slowly, gaze catching Gwen’s again.
Gwen’s eyes widened in surprise. “Oh! Yes.”
“I didn’t mean to corner you, before.”
She raised an eyebrow, “You didn’t ‘corner’ me.”
He stared at her openly for a moment, until Gwen glanced away, uncertain. Out the corner of her eye, she saw Arthur shiver as he buried his hands deep into his pockets. He took a deep breath, readying himself to say something.
There’s no need for this, thought Gwen. They were both adults; and it wasn’t as if she didn’t like Arthur. She had been surprised by his overture, but she wasn’t thick. Gwen looked back up at him and prepared to speak.
“It doesn’t seem like it’s going to be one of those kinds of things,” blurted Arthur.
A little, weak puff of air was all that made it past Gwen’s lips. She looked up at him, wide eyed and shocked. “I’m sorry?” she managed after a beat.
He scuffed the toe of his shoe on the ground. “It just … seems like a group thing. So, I probably … What I mean to say is, we should-”
Gwen felt as though her heart was suddenly beating very slowly; she was once again grateful for the dark. “Yes. Oh, of course,” she replied slowly, her voice false bright, “I agree.”
Arthur cocked his head to the side just slightly. “You do …”
She shrugged limply. “We’ll both be there anyway.”
He nodded slightly, and Gwen looked away before he could see the disappointment register on her face. When she looked back up, she smiled … the same smile she donned for each and every one of his customers. It felt a little easier than calling him a prat for putting the notion of them, together, in her head in the first place. “You know, I think I forgot something in my locker. I’ve got to run back in.”
Arthur frowned, “Oh … well, let’s go get it.”
“No,” Gwen shook her head firmly. “No, I’m going to run back in there. You go on.”
She wondered if she could be more transparent. “Guinevere,” Arthur started.
But Gwen was already two cars away, back to him. She gave a little wave over her shoulder. “Go on,” she called brightly, “Merlin’s waiting for you.”
The sound of steps didn’t trail her; Gwen was thankful for a small reprieve.
***
Comments are ♥!
Part Two
Author: imigination
Characters/Pairings: Arthur/Gwen, Merlin, Morgana, Vivian
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 7400
Summary: An AU holiday story. Guinevere is an overworked, overburdened shop girl, trying to hold up the world. But even Santa’s best helper deserves a treat for Christmas.
Author’s Note: Written for the holiday crackfest at camelot_love. A big thank you to the lovely purely_distel and dis_netis for brit-picking, and being generally attentive and wonderful. Herein lies a little angst and a lot of crack, some humor and, above all, a bit of romance. I hope you all enjoy, and happy holidays. ♥
Few would consider Gwen’s job ‘dangerous.’ But those who didn’t had never suffered the torment of mothers with famished three-year-olds and unfinished Christmas lists, or panicked fathers, suddenly stricken with the awful realization that their wives would find a new kettle a totally uninspired holiday gift.
Nor could they imagine just how the acoustics of the store meant that high-pitched wailing from the children’s department downstairs filtered up the escalator to her counter. How that screaming - if it reached a particular decibel - could drive a woman as sensible as Guinevere to consider grabbing a handful of tinsel off the nearest display and eat it without second thought or remorse. If she didn’t die straight away, it would mean at least a few good days in the hospital, where she’d be taken care of and able to watch a little television in peace.
No. Such people - blessedly ignorant souls - could never imagine how the holiday season could drive a girl mad, for all the wrong reasons.
Even ‘O Holy Night,’ one of Gwen’s favorite carols, was ruined. The pianist on the third floor apparently counted it amongst the three Christmas themed pieces he knew how to play.
“Hel-Lo?” sniped the woman in front of her, shoulders square and tense.
Gwen blushed guiltily and immediately adopted what she hoped was a sweet smile. “I’m sorry. How can I help you?”
The customer was hardly bowled over by the act. Little wonder; she was flanked by a grumpy teenager, eyes glued to her mobile, and a freckled five-year-old, covered in what looked like the remains of an ice cream sundae. “Where are the ruddy toilets?”
“Round to the left, past menswear,” replied Gwen quickly. The woman granted her one more severe look before she grunted and turned, dragging the little boy behind her. Gwen watched the trio wind their way past the escalator and into a wilderness consisting entirely of suits, ties and golf on flat screen television anchored high above the register.
“Weren’t they just delightful?” drawled a familiar voice at Gwen’s other shoulder.
Gwen chuckled as her gaze fell upon Morgana, looking straight out of a fashion magazine in the midst of the Christmas chaos. “She’s been here at least ten times before, I’m shocked she can’t find the loo.”
“Why think for herself when she’s got you to help?” Morgana shook her head at the bedlam that was Pendragon’s holiday sales.
“Yes, well. This ‘help’ doesn’t much want to help.” Gwen rolled her eyes and swept a few abandoned perfume samples abandoned on her counter off into the rubbish bin. She wasn’t even sure how things from cosmetics seemed to routinely make it into her section - but then nothing in the store seemed in order any more. She’d never looked forward to the lull of late January more.
Pendragon’s was no bargain basement, but the rush seemed to bring out the worst in the store. Gwen had to admire Morgana; she seemed to float above it all. She set her purse down on the display case and leaned over the glass toward Guinevere. "Holding up then?"
“What time is it?”
Morgana’s eyes flitted to the phone she was tinkering with in her hands. “… Half -past noon.”
Gwen bent over and retrieved a dry wipe from beneath the credit card machine, and began wiping down the fingerprints left on the display. “Ask me again in six hours.”
“Six hours? Good lord-”
“I don’t know why this always surprises you,” she teased in retort. When she looked up again, she hesitated; Morgana looked especially stricken. “What?”
“You said you’d help me get ready for the party.”
Gwen cringed. She’d forgotten about Morgana’s holiday party. It was still a week off, which meant Gwen hadn’t flipped to that page in her planner yet. Between work and trying to get her flat in order, she’d been a little overwhelmed lately. “I’m so sorry, Morgana,” she began weakly, “There were extra shifts available, so I picked a few up.”
Morgana put little effort into hiding her pout, and her gaze fell to the glass display, pretty and displeased, much to Gwen’s chagrin. Studiously avoiding the eyes of a few actual customers, Gwen put on her best sales associate smile and fished a key out from beneath her sleeve, around her wrist. “Can I make it up to you?”
“Not sure how you’ll manage that,” scoffed Morgana, but the corners of her mouth were upturned.
Gwen crouched a little to open the counter between them. “I’m pretty sure I need to take a credit card from you just to let you see it,” she began as she reached in and extracted an even smaller glass box. “But since I can’t go to the party store with you, let’s let this be our little secret.”
Morgana’s mood turned on a dime. “Oh, Gwen,” she breathed, straightening up. “You give the best presents.”
They both laughed at that; Gwen could no more give such an expensive piece of jewelry away - even to the owner’s daughter - than Morgana would actually accept such a gift from her friend. But as Gwen fastened the diamond cuff to the pale wrist presented to her, Morgana couldn’t help but gasp.
Gwen was not much of a shop girl, and she knew it. She owned few fine things, made most of her fashion decision based on practicality, and knew about as much about jewelry as the next person. It was only thanks to Morgana that she’d gotten this job to begin with.
Years before her mother’s passing, Gwen’s mother insisted on dance lessons for her daughter at an esteemed school in the city. Gwen hadn’t lasted very long - she wasn’t much of a dancer, and the expense was exorbitant - but her fast friendship with an older girl who sometimes assisted Gwen’s beginner class had. When she’d needed a summer job at sixteen, Morgana helped her secure a position as an associate in lingerie … which had been awkward, but bearable. There was a brief term as a Bobbi Brown representative in cosmetics when she turned eighteen. When a position opened up in jewelry, Gwen transferred. Jewelry was notoriously slow, but with little chance of repercussion. While she was still in school, she’d managed to get some reading in during her shift, and had written more than one paper while still at work.
Of course, she needed the money. For that reason, she remained thankful for her work, and for her glittering friend’s kindness. But some of the wind was sucked out of her sails around the holidays, when Gwen could not avoid the reality of her position: a mere peg in the merchandising machine.
“You going to pay for that?” a cool voice remarked. Gwen gasped and grasped the case tight, cursing herself somewhere deep down for appearing so bloody guilty.
A crimson flush darkened her skin, though when she dared to look up from under her eyelashes, the pounding in her heart took on an entirely new dimension.
At least she wasn’t in trouble.
“Didn’t plan on it,” retorted Morgana lightly, holding out her wrist for him to admire.
Arthur, slow to approach, flicked his gaze briefly to the bracelet before his eyes - shining and amused - found Gwen’s face. “Very nice,” he muttered, coming to stand beside his foster sister. “It distracts from the overall effect-”
“Effect of what?”
“Your face, for starters-”
Gwen grabbed a quick reprieve from their banter, willing the warmth flooding her face to subside. She bent down to straighten an otherwise perfect arrangement of necklaces.
She wasn’t quite sure how to act around Arthur. Of course, she’d known him for years, even before she began working at Pendragon’s. When Morgana still lived at home, Gwen had doubtless just been one of her little friends, a shy girl, hardly worthy of his attention. And that had been fine … Arthur had been downright obnoxious, and Gwen ignored him in turn.
Then, by chance, Arthur hired one of Gwen’s former school friends as an assistant for his recreational football league. How Merlin was able to tolerate Arthur’s ego, Gwen wasn’t sure. But it had been to good effect. It was strange, how after years and years of knowing each other peripherally, they’d exchanged their first words only a few months ago.
Strange, how a fast, odd friendship bloomed.
There were the three nights he crashed at her flat. On the outs with his father, Arthur asked Merlin to let him stay with him until he cooled off - Uther would find him at Morgana’s flat, or any of his other mate’s places, and he had the habit of cutting off Arthur’s credit cards whenever his son refused to heed him. Space was tight in the flat Merlin shared with his great uncle Gaius, so when Merlin begged her, Gwen acquiesced. She had a couch, after all.
In three short days, they’d found an easy way of being around each other … once Arthur stopped acting like Gwen’s flat was a hotel, and she his maid. And the brief, unexpected kiss …
Of course, they were both young. And Arthur was very handsome. But it was close quarters that did it, Gwen was sure. They barely knew each other after all. Arthur was the owner’s son and technically her boss in his own right, though he never seemed to take his ‘executive associate’ position very seriously, at least not in store. If anything, once he left, she’d looked forward to counting him as a surprising potential friend. Merlin had been Gwen’s kiss, after all.
But that didn’t explain the weird tension that had arisen between them when she ran into him while on a date with her old flame Lancelot. Nor the fact that, after a week of silent treatment and strange avoidance - why come to the employee break room for bad coffee when Gwen knew the executive office on the fourth floor had a great espresso machine? - he began to gravitate toward the jewelry section.
Sometimes he came by with a teasing remark about her productivity on a slow day. Once or twice he came by bearing an extra cup from Starbucks, and a half-hearted expression about Merlin not wanting it. More surprising, he increasingly came by with comment on a new company venture, or to bounce ideas off her.
Mostly, he did it when no one was around, not on a busy day like this … and never when Morgana was around.
Gwen dared to glance up at Morgana and Arthur on the other side of the case. They were sniping about something, she couldn’t hear what, and she took her moment to admire the sleek form he cut in his slacks and black button down.
“Gwen. … Gwen!”
She jerked out of her reverie, “Yes,” she breathed, standing upright once more. “You done?”
A nearby catalogue suddenly distracted Arthur, and Morgana was staring at her with clear, knowing eyes, and a smirk on her face. Gwen reached for her upturned wrist, unfastening the cuff with nimble fingers.
“Gonna keep looking?” asked Gwen as she placed it back in its box, laughing shakily.
Morgana rolled her eyes. “I suppose so.” She glanced at her brother, then back at Gwen. “And I take it there’s no chance you can take a break for lunch?”
Gwen patted Morgana’s hand. “Not a chance.”
Morgana sighed loudly. “Fine. But I’m counting on you after work, we still need to plan the menu.”
“Menu for what?” asked Arthur absently, flipping pages of the look book, and obviously paying its contents no attention.
“My party, you idiot,” she snapped. “Knowing your lot, I’ll have to prepare to feed double-”
“I didn’t ask you to invite the boys,” Arthur replied without missing a beat. Gwen raised an eyebrow and looked to her friend, but Morgana had no real retort. The truth was, as interested as she was in hosting a holiday party, her circle of friends was very limited, and not particularly conducive to a very festive environment. Arthur was picking up some of the slack.
So instead of delivering a cutting remark, Morgana huffed, squeezed Gwen’s hand and disappeared into a wave of people.
Guinevere watched Morgana’s recently vacated spot for a moment, lost to her own thoughts, until Arthur’s forced throat clearing drew her attention back to him. He was standing before her, hands clasped behind his back, brow set, giving him an unreadable expression. He was steadfastly looking down at the place where Gwen’s hands rested on the glass case.
She hesitated, but when he just stood there, struggling to say something, Gwen broke the silence.
“The boys are coming then? To Morgana’s party?”
“Yeah.” He paused, then: “And you?”
He immediately went a little red, and Gwen couldn’t help but smile as she nodded. Of course she would be there - he knew that.
Arthur rocked a little on the balls of his feet, eyeing a pair of women hovering around an earring display. He ceremoniously cleared his throat before his gaze found hers once more.
“If you want, maybe, I could give you a lift.”
Her eyebrows shot up. “To Morgana’s party?”
“Yeah.” Arthur’s mouth was tight, but his eyes were open, clear. Gwen was acutely aware of her pounding heart, her sudden lightheaded feeling. She licked her lips slowly before she found voice enough to reply.
“I’m not working that day-”
“I know. I meant more like, I could pick you up and we could … go together. If you’d like.”
Would I like that?, thought Gwen dimly. Another voice, deeper than her own, resolute and firm, perked up in the back of her mind. Yes! Yes, you idiot, you’d like it very much.
Before she could reply, the one of the two women at the counter was clearing her throat, clearly in no mood to wait out this tentative invitation and response. It wasn’t until the third conspicuous cough that Gwen even thought to turn and look at them, and when her eyes found Arthur’s again, he was smiling, but professional. “Go ahead,” he said softly, tapping the glass in front of him. “I’ll … catch you later.”
She could’ve smacked herself. But instead, she nodded silently and turned to her clients, a little worse for the wear.
***
“Just a minute!” shouted Gwen. She nudged the silverware drawer closed with a hip, her other hand resolutely churning away at the bowl of half-mixed ingredients tucked securely in the nook of her arm.
She was only two steps out of the kitchen when the stove buzzed for the second time. Unwilling to let a second batch of cookies burn, Gwen turned on her heel and went back for it - stopped in her tracks once more by the tune of jingle bells being tapped on her door.
Door be damned, thought Gwen. Whoever was waiting for her had no idea what they were getting into; Gwen was desperately in need of a second pair of hands.
Quickly, she slipped on an oven mitt and placed the tray of gingerbread cookies down on the stovetop, then jogged across her flat to the door, snatching up the television remote as she passed by.
Pausing only to turn down the volume, Gwen turned the handle. “Sorry about that-”
Merlin stood there, both fists raised in mid-chorus and an astonished grin on his face. “Hello!” he greeted her cheerfully.
Overwhelmed though she was, Gwen couldn’t help but return Merlin’s ‘caught’ smile. “Hello!” she laughed.
“Busy, are you?” Merlin scooted past her and into the warmth of her flat, immediately shedding his too-thin winter coat and unzipping his hoodie. “I was out there for ages.”
Gwen closed the door, reaching to take his coat. “Make yourself at home,” she teased, as he had already fallen back onto the middle of the couch, and was reaching for the remote and the blanket Gwen had abandoned there earlier. She made her way back to her work.
One day she would learn to how to say ‘no’ … preferably before a collapse landed her in the hospital. She faced the destruction of her kitchen with her hands on her hips.
Morgana certainly had the money - and the time - to sort out all this party stuff on her own. On the phone the previous evening, she rattled off the hors d’oeuvres she wanted to serve, and Gwen had innocently (and rather stupidly) asked if she was going to have any traditional holiday sweets, not just cheese and crackers and quiche. Morgana barely needed to ask; Gwen assumed her title of pastry chef before she could even consider that she had neither the time nor energy.
“You cooking?” called Merlin.
Gwen raised an eyebrow at him; he was now cocooned to the ears in her quilt. “Yep. Wanna help?”
“Is it lunch?”
She took her cake bowl and began mixing again. “Nope. Treats for Morgana’s party.”
Before she could blink, Merlin was scrambling off the couch. “Treats?” he repeated, and his eyes went wide when he caught sight of the big bowl of chocolate batter in Gwen’s arms. “Oh, I’ll help.”
“I’ll tell you now, we’re not eating any of it.”
“Gwen. One cookie isn’t going to make a difference.”
“It makes a difference to me.”
Merlin pulled out his best ‘kicked puppy’ look, and Gwen huffed loudly. “Fine. But only one.”
Soon enough, she was filling the bundt tin, and Merlin was chopping apples, going on and on about some band playing on New Year’s in a club Gwen had never been to. They’d muted ‘Dawn of the Dead,’ and Gwen - covered in flour, in desperate need of a shower, with a little dried batter in her hair - was finally feeling accomplished.
All the activity was helpful distraction from Arthur’s vague overture. Of course, Gwen would be there … just as he would be there, and inevitably they’d see each other. Why he’d go out of his way to give her a lift was beyond her. Unless he actually had meant for her to come along as his ‘date.’
… Which, despite their burgeoning friendship, would’ve been new.
She’d watch him grow up, watched girls come and go but never linger. Arthur was restless, full of energy, but no clear purpose as Gwen saw it now. He worked for his father, certainly, but Gwen couldn’t imagine him being very interested in running Pendragon’s. he wasn’t a department store guy; just as she wasn’t a shop girl at heart.
Maybe that’s what brought them together. A mutual loathing of the cosmetics department.
And maybe it didn’t matter anymore, given that she’d bumbled the whole thing by clamming up in the moment.
Something hit Gwen square in the nose and dropped in her lap. She picked up the bit of apple peel like a bug, and gave Merlin her most scornful look. Obviously it wasn’t very good, since he only rolled his eyes at her.
“Head in the clouds?” he joked, shoving an apple slice in his mouth.
Gwen threw it back at him, and was pleased to see it get caught in his hair. “Hardly.”
“Daydreaming about someone?”
Her heart beat a little faster. “No.”
“Not Arthur?”
Bloody hell, was she so obvious? “Make that ‘definitely no.’”
“That’s funny. Because I heard from someone that he asked you to Morgana’s party, as his date.”
Gwen’s face grew hot, and she practically jumped out of her seat to fiddle with the egg timer by the over. “Somebody’s a big liar then,” Gwen lied.
She could hear Merlin’s grin grow. But after a beat, he sighed, “Fine. But it wouldn’t surprise me, seeing how moony you two act when you’re together.” Another crunch, another apple for Gwen’s tart wasted. Whatever it took to stall this particular conversation.
Before Merlin could start up again, Gwen’s mobile began to buzz on the table. “I’ve got to take this,” she mumbled, ducking her head to hide her blush from Merlin’s knowing gaze, and darted out of the kitchenette toward her bedroom, the only place she got decent reception.
It, like the rest of her flat, was a mess. She hated living like this, but between extra shifts at work and the tasks for Morgana, she hadn’t had the time to fold her laundry, put away the wrapping paper rolled out on the floor, or finish separating her father’s old Christmas decorations. With a sigh, she nudged a hatbox full of old holiday cards aside to make a bit of space on her bed.
The caller ID read ‘Restricted.’ Gwen cleared her throat and flipped her phone open. “Hello?” she asked politely.
She was met by a hacking, sputtering cough. Gwen held the phone away from her ear for a moment, as though the germs would jump out at her. The last thing she needed now was a cold as well. She wrinkled her nose, and when the coughing died down, pressed her ear to the receiver again. “Hello?” she repeated.
“Gwen, thank heavens,” rasped a voice on the other end.
“You called me?”
“Of course-” Another, brief, coughing fit. “I’m sorry. It’s me, Anne.”
“Are you all right? You sound horrible.”
Anne blew her nose at the other end of the line. “… I’ve been like this for two days. They’re looking to send me to the morgue.”
Gwen grimaced. Anne - who worked in children’s wear - didn’t know her that well, and the loss of her parents was no longer an open, bleeding wound. But jokes about death would never sit well with Gwen. “I’m sorry,” was all she said, still sympathetic. “Have you been to the doctor?”
“Not yet, but that’s what I’m calling about.” Gwen waited for her to continue. “I can barely make it out of bed, and I saw the schedule posted online. It says you’re not working tonight …”
“Well … no.”
“Vivian says I have to find somebody to cover for me, or this’ll be it, I’ll be canned. And no one else I know is available.”
“But-”
“Gwen,” whined Anne, “I am begging you. Cover for me, just this once.”
Of course, Guinevere couldn’t. She’d just put her cake in the oven. She had a tart to make, decorations to sort, and a tree of her own to trim. She had Merlin at her table - doubtlessly and inexplicably expecting some kind of meal - and she had Morgana depending on her. She had a crappy car that needed an oil change and more wiper fluid, and ten days until Christmas with none of her own shopping done … and she had a ‘maybe’ date with Arthur which demanded a lot of contemplation.
As though she had any choice.
***
Gwen closed the employee closet behind her, taking a moment to draw a deep breath and ready herself for the onslaught of customers. Part of what made jewelry tolerable - that she’d often go long stretches without once having to actually interact with a customer - was about to fly out the window. This would be the children’s department in the peak of the holiday rush, and it would probably be bad.
Not bad, Gwen scolded herself. No sense in thinking of it that way, since she had about six hours to spend there.
She passed through the stock room and toward the door onto the main floor, readying a small smile.
It pleased her to find that children’s was not as chaotic as she expected it to be. In her first thirty minutes after clocking in, she helped a woman roughly her grandmother’s age find a sufficiently tutu-like skirt for her granddaughter, re-racked a few items, and rang up three guests. She was rubbish at finding anything - if she had a down moment, she should take a quick lap around the section just to get a sense of where everything was, decided Gwen - but a Doctor Who Christmas Special starring Nine was on the telly, and she hadn’t seen it in ages. Unexpected bonus.
Gwen came around her counter, holding out a zipped black garment bag, now containing a little coat finer than any Gwen had owned in her entire life. “Thanks so much,” she said, handing it over to the customer, and with a smile, she added: “Happy Christmas.”
The line had diminished, which meant it was the perfect moment for her to take her quick exploration. Straightening her cardigan, Gwen weaved through a few racks - toddlers on the left along the far wall, young girls closest to the register, she noted - and was about to straighten a display littered with ruffled shirts when she was accosted by something small and blonde.
Vivian’s eyes were wide and furious. “What are you doing?” she snapped, stopping just short of Guinevere and teetering dangerously on her heels.
Gwen gaped. “I was going to fold these shirts.”
“You’re filling in for Anne, aren’t you?”
It was a wonder how someone as beautiful as Vivian could manage to look so mean. This wasn’t Gwen’s department, admittedly, but she was no novice. “I am,” replied Gwen carefully, lowering her voice. A few customers were looking their way.
Beautiful, but with enough social grace to fill the head of a pin, thought Gwen shamelessly. Vivian’s voice only grew louder and more irate. “Then what are you doing here?”
“This isn’t where Anne’s working?”
Vivian huffed a loud sigh and turned on the heel of her stiletto. “You haven’t got a clue. Come with me.”
Even with two inches of added height, and in flats, Gwen had trouble keeping pace with Vivian as they traipsed through the store and back into the stock room toward the employee lockers. She was prattling on about something - clueless people on shift, not being paid to do this or that - but Gwen barely registered a word, and stopped just short of crashing right into her when she stopped in front of what could’ve only been Anne’s locker.
Flicking through a few keys, Vivian sighed loudly. “… You’re just lucky Uther isn’t here too witness this oversight.”
The gray locker opened with a loud click, and Gwen peered past Vivian to see the thing hanging inside. And what she saw there, what Vivian presumably intended for her, made her stomach drop.
Some might’ve called it cute. But then they wouldn’t be seeing it for the true horror that it was, the foul torture, a thing that had claimed souls of greater strength than Gwen’s.
On a wire hanger, covered in a thing plastic slip, was a freshly laundered dress. Not any dress, but a little dress that nipped in at the waist, and flared at the hips, helped by a teeny bit of tulle to give it a lovely bell shape that flattered only pencil-thin women. The sleeves were puffed up. If it weren’t for the festive holiday green, it would’ve passed for a slinky Halloween costume, squarely between ‘slutty kitten’ and ‘sexy nurse.’
Well, if it weren’t for the festive green, and the red and white striped candy cane tights dangling from the bottom. Or the little green cap hanging off a coat hook.
Or the green slippers, with bells at each toe.
Gwen didn’t understand why parents thought such a tiny, horrifying outfit was okay to parade around their sons … an objectifying little dress in which Pendragon’s cursed Santa’s helper could show off to their daughters.
“No,” blurted Gwen, before she was asked.
The smile tugging at Vivian’s ever sour face had to be the most self-satisfied look Gwen had ever witnessed. “You don’t have a choice.”
Of course she had a choice; “No,” repeated Gwen firmly.
Vivian tapped her clip board against her hip. “Anne volunteered for this. She’s getting paid extra for it. And you’re covering her shift.”
“Well, then I’m off-”
“In which case you’re fired.”
Even Gwen had her limits. She felt her face grow hot with frustration. “You can’t fire me over this.”
“Then Anne will be fired.”
“You can’t do that either.”
“I’m the floor manager, of course I can.” Vivian’s perfectly plucked eyebrows shot up. “Or shall I find Arthur?”
That at least silenced her. Vivian could have no idea what was between her and Arthur, but she didn’t want to give the pretty young supervisor the opportunity to see her sweat in front of him.
Silence was acquiescence; Gwen wondered whether anyone kept a flask on them.
Vivian smirked, delighted. “Santa’s waiting.”
***
If it weren’t for her task - trolling the line of tearful or terrified children, taking names and filling out their photo order forms - Gwen would’ve been mortified. But the job meant there wasn’t too much time to ruminate on her sorry state, to stare into the masses in search of familiar faces, to throw a private pity party. And with all the activity, the hours were beginning to pass quickly; the clock over cosmetics already read 5:14.
Thank heaven for small miracles. It turned out Anne’s feet were about two sizes smaller than Gwen’s, which meant she didn’t have to wear the jingle-bell elfin slippers. She was also able to hide the little hat in the back corner of the locker, out of Vivian’s sight …
Upon first inspection, she had failed to notice the plastic peppermint necklace she was expected to wear, or the Hansel and Gretel type trimming around the collar. Nor had she noticed the green bloomers that accompanied the ensemble (Gwen opted not to wear them).
The tights, she wasn’t able to get out of wearing. In the end, she was thankful for the red and white striped stockings, since they distracted onlookers - and Gwen herself - from the shortness of her dress …
With a small sigh, Gwen tore the slip from the bottom of the photo package order form and handed it the customer at the end of the line. “Here you go,” she said, in the most cheerful voice she could muster … though it admittedly came out slightly exasperated. “When you get to the front of the queue, just hand this to the lady, and your son can take his turn.”
“Are you a real elf?” piped up a small voice. Gwen looked down at the small boy, who was cradling a Nerf gun to his chest and surveying Gwen with a skeptical eye.
She glanced at his father, expecting him to wrangle this issue, but he’d already turned his attention back to his Blackberry.
So much for hands-on parenting. Gwen bent down a little. “… Yes.”
“Then what are you doing here?”
Good question, she thought. “Okay, no,” she corrected. After a beat, and a quick glance to Billy - who Gwen knew to work in footwear, but was presently stroking his thick beard and bouncing a small girl on his red knee - she amended her statement. “I report to Santa, though.”
“By email?”
Gwen hesitated, but that explanation was as good as any. “Yes, by email.”
“-GWEN?”
She was instantly frozen to the spot, and a fleeting image crossed her mind: tackling children and parents alike, making a mad dash for the exit on the other side of the store, her things be damned.
When she looked over her shoulder, she was relieved - if it was possible - to find only Merlin stating a few feet away, mouth agape. She let out the breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding.
They stared at each other, at a complete loss, for a good minute. As Merlin’s face lit up - contorting from shock, to admiration, to pure glee - Gwen only felt hers fall. “Oh, Gwen-”
“Weren’t you supposed to take my cake out of the oven?” she interrupted.
“I did. Gwen, you-”
“And,” she continued, looking down absently at another form on her clipboard, “I thought you were going to eat dinner.”
“Did that too, I finished your roast and watched the end of ‘Dawn of the Dead.’ But … Gwen.”
“Yes, Merlin. Yes.” She was blushing deeply, and cursed herself for smiling despite it all, if only at his expression. “Not a word of this. Ever again. I mean it.”
“Of course, just …” He reached into his pocket and fished out his mobile, flipping it open and holding it up square with Gwen.
She hastily stepped forward, holding up her free hand. “Not on your life!” hissed Gwen.
“Just a quick picture,” he giggled, darting out of her reach. “Please, Gwen, please, please, please-”
“Merlin!”
“I just-” he dodged again, and in the end, Gwen resigned herself to the blurry photo, holding the clipboard up in front of her face as she moved about Pendragon’s centerpiece ‘Winter Wonderland.’ And when Merlin finally stopped giggling and put the phone away, she sighed, shaking her head. At least this was only one day - one miserable and hilarious day.
“The look suits you,” he chuckled, tucking the phone away once more.
Gwen rubbed absently at her temple, resisting another smile. “What are you even doing here?” she demanded as they wandered, side by side, beneath the faux-snow covered archway, up the exit aisle and toward Santa. “My place not entertaining enough?”
“I was on my way to meet Arthur up in his office; we’re heading to the pub.”
She instantly froze, grabbing Merlin’s wrist to stop her from falling over. It was a Saturday, which Gwen had taken to mean Arthur would’ve had the day off. “He’s here?”
Merlin nodded slowly. “Yep. I’m a bit late, actually, so-”
“Merlin, please.” She turned and grasped his shoulders, holding tight. “Do not bring him by here. Do. Not.”
“But … this is the way out.”
“Merlin, if you’re any kind of friend-”
His grin turned especially cheeky. “I dunno, you look rather fetching.”
“Merlin. No.”
“Fine,” he huffed, and Gwen dropped her arms. To her left, a few more people had joined the queue; they would hopefully be her last. As she walked away to check them in, Merlin brushed by her, muttering, “But you’ve completely ruined the Christmas spirit.”
***
True to his word, Merlin never passed the display again. For a half hour, Gwen felt completely paranoid, doing her best to keep her back to the rest of the store as she watched for a skinny dark-haired boy in a hoodie and a well-kept blonde in her periphery. But after a while, certain that they’d left, she was able to relax again and actually enjoy the last few customers in the queue. Billy was doing a bang up job as Santa; it was too bad he couldn’t keep the gig year-round.
She changed back into her normal work clothes - pencil skirt and black sweater - as fast as she could, tucked the elf costume in her own locker since she didn’t have Anne’s key, and threw on her puffy white coat.
Gwen shivered a little as she stepped out into the parking garage. It was already dark, and most of the spaces on the third level were already cleared out. Just beyond the cement walls, the city sparkled light a jewel as far as she could see … maybe she’d stop for a bottle of wine on the way home, turn on a little Christmas music and finish the rest of her cooking earlier enough to trim her tree properly before bed.
She gingerly stepped off the curb, avoiding a puddle of dirty, slushy water, and jogged lightly toward her little silver Ford parked on the far west corner.
Suddenly in brighter spirits, Gwen began humming stray ends of Greensleeves as she fished in her purse for her keys. She forced them in the lock, turned and pulled - but the handle resisted, whether frozen or broken, Gwen couldn’t tell.
She tried it again … and again, with no luck. The handle itself moved, but the mechanism wasn’t clicking, so she couldn’t tell if the door was still locked or just refused to budge for her. As though she needed more car trouble … Gwen yanked forcefully again. “Shit,” she hissed, putting her purse on the roof and pulling with two hands.
“I have never heard you swear. Not once.”
Gasping softly, Gwen whirled around to see Arthur only a few feet away. He looked amused, and that would’ve set her off under normal circumstances, except …
She never felt quite so pleased to see him. He was dressed casually, not in work clothes, in a leather jacket with his hood falling out the back, and his smile was small but genuine. Before Gwen could manage two words, he was walking toward the car, his hand reaching for the stuck handle. “What’s the trouble?”
“This stupid thing …” she muttered, blushing. “It’s not worth its weight. That’s not going to work, by the way-”
But Arthur tugged at the handle anyway, twice, and it gave Gwen a little satisfaction to know that even broad-shouldered, well muscled Arthur couldn’t just tug it open.
He frowned at the offending door, and yanked again, with enough force to elicit a grunt that made Gwen tremble slightly.
“Don’t worry about it, I’ll just call a mechanic …”
Arthur frowned openly at that prospect, making Gwen struggle to suppress a giggle. “Don’t be ridiculous,” he muttered, trying the handle once more. He looked over to the passenger side door. “I’ll get it open.”
“I don’t think it’s unlocking, Arthur.”
“Bet you I can get it open.”
Gwen raised an eyebrow, meeting his challenging blue gaze as he walked around her tiny car. “Doubt it,” she replied, her voice clear. He grinned.
“Just … turn the key again.”
She did, and proceeded to watch him struggle with the second door for another minute, rocking the car with each tug. Only after a few minutes did Gwen have the heart to stop him from the futile endeavor; this wasn’t the first time her car screwed her, and it wouldn’t be the last. “Forget it, Arthur. It’s a lost cause.”
He was breathing hard, face scrunched up in frustration. Gwen ducked her head to hide her blush. “I’ll just hop on the train.”
“Bullshit,” he grunted. Their eyes met, and his pale cheeks flushed pink. “I mean … there’s no need. My car’s down on the first level.”
“I couldn’t ask you to go out of your way-”
Arthur smiled, walking around the trunk toward her. “Guinevere.”
“Arthur.”
They stood facing each other, each waiting the other out. The truth was, Gwen preferred a ride to the train, but she didn’t want to take him out of his way, and the thought of him even being in close proximity to her flat made her stomach twist uncomfortably.
He turned and took a few steps away from her, before turning and looking back at her. “Look, if you take the train that means I’m going to have to take the train. So let’s just avoid it and ride in a warm car instead?”
Gwen looked back down at her car, before patting a window tenderly. “I give up,” she murmured, “You win.” Feigning reluctance as best she could, she grabbed her purse and trudged forward after him. Arthur let out a laugh loud enough to echo off the garage’s stone walls.
Instead of going back into the store, they walked along the concrete perimeter and down the gentle slope of the aisle, passing rows and rows of more faithful vehicles than Gwen’s, careful to avoid anyone backing out.
After a moment of awkward quiet between them, Gwen looked up at him. “What were you doing here? I thought you didn’t work Saturdays.”
He reached up and ran a hand through his bangs, making his hair stand up a little unevenly. “We ran a charity this year, and I had to see it off today,” replied Arthur, and Gwen smacked herself for not remembering.
When she’d first heard about it, she’d found it a little odd - Pendragon’s was not known in the media for its corporation’s charitable donations - this year, they ran a campaign collecting winter clothes for the needy … and additionally offered to match double the value of each item, as appraised new, in cash. The total - money and clothing - was being distributed to a shelter in an underdeveloped quarter of the city.
“Oh,” she murmured, then louder: “Was it successful?”
Arthur ducked his head, but there was no hiding the smile on his face. “Yes, very.”
“Your father must be pleased, then.”
“He doesn’t care, actually,” confessed Arthur, and his hand found her wrist and pulled her to a stop as a driver jerkily pulled out of a space. “He let me run it - I haven’t even reported what we earned.”
Gwen’s eyebrows shot up in surprise. In the relative dark of the parking garage, she was pleased that Arthur couldn’t see her blushing, the way he was scrutinizing her reaction just then. And when she couldn’t tamp down her inexplicably proud little smile, he looked away to hide his own. “It doesn’t matter,” he mumbled, shrugging. “’Tis the season and all that rubbish, right?”
“Indeed,” Gwen murmured. Without thinking, she reached up and squeezed his arm.
She instantly regretted it, the way she felt him tense beneath her grip, even through the layers of his clothes.
He stopped, and Gwen’s heart began to race as she imagined him saying all sorts of things … mostly about how maybe it would be better for her to catch the train after all.
But Arthur looked at her, lips pressed into a tight line, eyes inscrutable. He reached up and rubbed the back of his neck, clearly contemplating the best way to let her know he hadn’t meant to lead her on - if he had.
“About Morgana’s party-” he began slowly, gaze catching Gwen’s again.
Gwen’s eyes widened in surprise. “Oh! Yes.”
“I didn’t mean to corner you, before.”
She raised an eyebrow, “You didn’t ‘corner’ me.”
He stared at her openly for a moment, until Gwen glanced away, uncertain. Out the corner of her eye, she saw Arthur shiver as he buried his hands deep into his pockets. He took a deep breath, readying himself to say something.
There’s no need for this, thought Gwen. They were both adults; and it wasn’t as if she didn’t like Arthur. She had been surprised by his overture, but she wasn’t thick. Gwen looked back up at him and prepared to speak.
“It doesn’t seem like it’s going to be one of those kinds of things,” blurted Arthur.
A little, weak puff of air was all that made it past Gwen’s lips. She looked up at him, wide eyed and shocked. “I’m sorry?” she managed after a beat.
He scuffed the toe of his shoe on the ground. “It just … seems like a group thing. So, I probably … What I mean to say is, we should-”
Gwen felt as though her heart was suddenly beating very slowly; she was once again grateful for the dark. “Yes. Oh, of course,” she replied slowly, her voice false bright, “I agree.”
Arthur cocked his head to the side just slightly. “You do …”
She shrugged limply. “We’ll both be there anyway.”
He nodded slightly, and Gwen looked away before he could see the disappointment register on her face. When she looked back up, she smiled … the same smile she donned for each and every one of his customers. It felt a little easier than calling him a prat for putting the notion of them, together, in her head in the first place. “You know, I think I forgot something in my locker. I’ve got to run back in.”
Arthur frowned, “Oh … well, let’s go get it.”
“No,” Gwen shook her head firmly. “No, I’m going to run back in there. You go on.”
She wondered if she could be more transparent. “Guinevere,” Arthur started.
But Gwen was already two cars away, back to him. She gave a little wave over her shoulder. “Go on,” she called brightly, “Merlin’s waiting for you.”
The sound of steps didn’t trail her; Gwen was thankful for a small reprieve.
***
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Part Two