Chapter Text
Galahad opens the shop door to let in the deliveries. It is early morning, the light is dim, the street lamps still fading sulphur orange. Galahad checks the labels on the cardboard boxes on the deliveries, and then he picks them up one by one and carries them to the store room in the back. Next, he takes the tin of whitewash from the bottom shelf of the store and opens it with the screwdriver that rests on top of it. He takes the brush that lies next to it, he dips it in the paint, and he carries it outside. And then he whitewashes out the pentacle that has been sprayed over the front of his shop overnight. He washes off the glass until it shines.
When the alarm on his phone rings at 6am to alert him that his dough has finished proving, he goes back inside and he locks up the shop. He washes his hands and puts on his apron. He turns on the radio, takes a deep breath, and he bakes.
At 8:30, Galahad unlocks the shop door. They come in straight away, the customers, for his fresh bread and his muffins. They come to drink coffee and eat breakfast and to buy cakes for their loved ones.
This is every morning. In the week, it is office workers on their way to business meetings. At the weekend there are young families, toddlers in search of gingerbread men. He makes cookies and cupcakes on a Saturday, oat bars and croissants in the week. He writes specials on the chalk board above the counter. His shelves are always full in the morning, empty by the time that they close.
Perhaps that is why the CMR hates him quite so much.
---
“There, by the window.” Linet is brazenly pointing to a man who sits at a table for two with a cup of coffee and a shredded, uneated croissant. He is wearing a pale grey suit, one that looks expensive. He has dark hair, pale skin, and from where he sits he looks tall. He has a strange look in his eyes. He seems lost, or dazed.
“Put your hand down!” Galahad hisses, slapping at her arm, “He’ll see you!”
“Oh he won’t,” Linet says, “He’s not seeing anything right now, he’s been like this for hours. He came in while you were taking your nap.”
“And what about him?” Galahad asks, staring.
“I thought he was a critic at first, but he’s not eating anything. Whatever he is, he’s just your type,” Linet says, elbowing him and grinning. Galahad snaps his eyes away from the man and groans.
“Linet, I do not have the time for a boyfriend right now.”
“Who said anything about a boyfriend?” Linet teases. “You haven’t had a hook-up since I took you out before exams.”
Galahad massages his temples, turning away.
“That was a bad idea, Linet, you know it.”
“This guy looks like he needs a good fuck,” Linet laughs, following him back towards the kitchen, “He’s all broody, didn’t you see?”
“Look after the counter, Linet!” Galahad called back, hiding his pillarbox red flush.
---
He’s alone now, Linet having finished her shift hours ago. What with all the CMR attention, she’s the only one he can keep on for any length of time, and that’s because nothing really frightens Linet.
One of these days he’s going to wake up to a wand in his mouth with a hex shooting out of it. One of these days he’s going to die in a shop fire, the doors and windows enchanted shut, the flames fiercer than water can put out. He only has to wait until he climbs his way higher on the Camelot Magical Resistance's hit list, until the government or the police or whoever have a quiet enough day that he becomes their enemy number one. And it would be so easy to end the threat, the fear. All he would have to do would be to pay their tithes.
He has no intention of paying a single penny.
He wipes down the surfaces of his perfect bakery, the place he always dreamt of. He takes his mop from the cupboard, and he sets to work on the floors. Galahad is occupied, with his thoughts, and he does not notice that so is one of the chairs; with a customer. He nearly mops over the man’s pristine leather shoes before he picks up on the presence.
“Oh,” he says, “Hello. I’m sorry, but we’re closing. I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”
The man looks up at him and his eyes look so empty that Galahad has to stifle a gasp. He does not speak, but his hands drop to his jacket. For a moment Galahad thinks that this is it, this is the moment that he’s going to die. But instead, the man stands and does up his jacket button.
It might be the relief that makes Galahad do it, or it might be the man’s blue-grey eyes. Whatever the reason, he hesitates.
“Actually, I’m trying a new recipe out. Would you like to try it?”
The man shakes his head, holding his hand out, palm flat, fingers upwards. Oh no, I couldn’t possibly , Galahad reads.
“Oh, you must. I’ve been dying for an unbiased opinion. Linet has tried them, but she loves everything that I make.”
Galahad takes his hand, and the man seems shocked enough by that contact to follow. Galahad leads him around the back of the counter and out to the kitchen in the back. There is a small tupperware box there, it rests on the work surface. Galahad pops it open and takes out a small biscuit. It’s rectangular in shape, and a sort of beige colour. It looks astoundingly ordinary. But when Galahad tears it in two, tiny bursts of colour show through. He hands one half of the innocuous biscuit to the man.
“Will you try it?” Galahad asks, full of earnestness as he addresses a man who appears to be hovering, caught under a stranger’s attention and not entirely sure how to act. Galahad takes a bite of his half of the biscuit, teeth sinking into the soft bake, and the man echoes his movement. A piece of candied fruit gets caught in Galahad’s molar; he rolls it out with a prod from his tongue, letting it leech sweetness into his mouth, mingling with the ginger from the biscuit.
The man stares at him. He chews slowly. Galahad watches his Adam’s apple drop, and realises that he, too, has been staring. He looks away. He really should be better than dealing with beautiful men by now, but so far he’s suspected this guy of being an assassin, kidnapped him, and stared him down while feeding him baked goods.
“These are good,” the man says finally. Galahad’s gaze shoots up. There isn’t anything obvious on the man’s face to show that he enjoyed the biscuit, but there is something about his eyes that seems a little more present. Galahad counts that as a win.
“Why aren’t they on sale?” he asks, eyeing the tupperware box. His voice is nice, Galahad realises. Low, and a little rough, as if he doesn’t use it very much.
“I wanted more opinions first,” Galahad explains.
“Trust your instinct,” the man tells him.
“Take another,” Galahad says, holding out the tub. The man’s hand snaps out, and Galahad sees that he takes two before slipping them into the breast pocket of that very expensive suit. Galahad thinks of his crumbs sitting there, in the thousand pound fluff. He rather likes the idea.
“I should go,” the man says, and before Galahad has any time to react, before he can so much as as his name, the man is leaving. Galahad hears the bell on the door ring before he can even collect himself to follow.
“Damn,” he says quietly, and he helps himself to another biscuit.
---
Mordred sits alone in his spacious apartment. There are white flowers on the table that the housekeeper left. There is a sofa, too - a black leather designer affair that he could be sitting on, but somehow the stools at the kitchen counter are the most comfortable place to be right now. He has his back to the flowers, and to the sofa, and to the floor to ceiling windows that currently show blackness, and the lights of neighbouring tower blocks. He has yet to flick the switch that would turn them opaque.
He takes the biscuits out of his pocket one by one, and he picks a single grey thread from one of them. He lines them up neatly next to each other on the countertop. He looks at them for a moment. And then he proceeds to devour them, first one and then the other.
They don’t taste as good without the presence of a certain blonde baker, but they are still more delicious than anything Mordred has eaten in years. They taste like warmth, like a home he didn’t know to miss, like the words everything will be alright.
For a moment, he believes it will be. He thinks of that baker, and the curve of his lips. Mordred pictures the pull of his kneaded firm muscles against his short t-shirt sleeves. And then his fingers start to tremble, and the fantasy is gone, and he is left staring down at the one thing that he does not know how to fix.