Merlin fic: Shadowplay -- Chapter Six
Title: Shadowplay
Summary: Stood down from duty on convalescent's leave, secret agent Arthur Pendragon wonders if sheer boredom might just do him in. But when his handler saddles him with a caretaker who is by turns completely inept and strangely brilliant, and invites trouble wherever he goes, Arthur has to concede that death by boredom looks less and less likely. Death by goon squad, high-speed car chase, poison, or fiery explosion, however...
Pairing: Merlin/Arthur
Rating: NC-17
Chapter word count: ~5,800
Notes: venivincere is my beta, and the wind beneath this fic's wings.
Previous chapters: Prologue + One | Two | Three | Four | Five
Arthur stared balefully at the ceiling of Morgana's office, its unforgiving fluorescent lights offering absolutely no sympathy, as he waited for her to stop talking. Usually he had no compunctions about interrupting her, loudly, but letting her finish afforded him time to think of the gentlest way to break the news to her that she was deranged.
"It might work," said Merlin.
"Demented," Arthur supplied. At Merlin's startled look, he added, "Not you. Well, a little bit you. But mostly you." He gave Morgana a flat look.
Morgana just leaned forward, her hands steepled, and gazed at him expectantly, a picture of patience.
Arthur threw up his hands. "You're seriously expecting me to fake my own death?"
"Half the work's been done for you; the hardest part, in fact," Morgana said. "Your house was blown up, presumably with you in it, so whoever did it probably thinks you're already dead. We did a gas leak story to explain about your house, no mention of fatalities, but if someone's keeping tabs on this, they'll want to know for sure about you."
"And how does orchestrating a fake funeral put anyone's mind at rest? I'm not getting in any coffins."
Morgana rolled her eyes. "Of course you're not. You'd have been badly burned in the explosion; I'm not going to waste money on that extensive of a make-up job. A simple requisition for a good-sized cadaver will do. Toast the edges a bit. No one will know it isn't you."
Bewilderment streaked Merlin's face.
"I'll put out an obituary," Morgana went on, seemingly oblivious to Merlin's gaping, "and we'll hold a private funeral, details carefully leaked, and any interested parties will be sure to come and find out if you've really bit it."
"Or," Arthur demurred hotly, "making my death official will, I don't know, be their cue to stop trying to kill me? And then we'll never find out who it was in the first place."
"What else can we do? Parade you around with a target on your back until somebody comes at you on the chance that we'll catch them this time and hope they don't stab any vital organs in the process?"
"Well, we've already thwarted three attempts; I think we're on a run of good luck," Arthur said blithely, in the sort of nonchalant, I-am-man-and-therefore-invincible way he knew Morgana hated.
Merlin cleared his throat quietly. "Five."
"What?"
"Once when you were in hospital, which is why they wanted me to come on board to begin with, plus that time when I got into a fight in your garden. Remember?" Merlin said, squirming a little bit in his seat.
Arthur crossed his arms over his chest, leaning backwards. "Christ," he grunted. "Well--"
Morgana held up a warning finger. "Don't you dare say we're on a run of good luck again."
"Only it occurs to me that if you pronounce me dead and then ship me off with a new identity," Arthur snipped, "my assassins are just going to call it a day and disappear forever. Besides, this stinks of a trap."
"That's because it is a trap. I just told you it is," Morgana said.
"And you don't think this may raise their suspicions? I've almost been killed five times, and we still have absolutely nothing to go on; for someone who's managed to evade our reach so successfully, I'm guessing he or she -- or it -- might be a bit cleverer than to fall for this."
"That's because we had a mole. Now that Alvarr's bloody disappeared, we're rerunning all the research he was supposed to have spearheaded, and I daresay we'll be getting a little more information this time without his interference."
Arthur huffed. "How do you know there's only one leak? For all we know," he said, gesturing widely, picking out the first words that came into his head, "Merlin could be feeding information to my killers."
Merlin's mouth fell open. "Excuse me," he inveighed, "if I wanted you dead, you'd be dead. Especially after you tried to kick my face in last night."
"I did no such thing," Arthur said dismissively. "And I know it's not you. I'm just trying to make a point; you could back me up here."
Looking mollified at being exonerated, and then immediately exasperated again, Merlin only made a groaning noise.
"Look," Morgana said, her palms splayed over her desk like holding onto something solid was the only thing keeping her from strangling someone, "this may be our only chance to get ahead of whoever's doing this. I'm not letting you just sit around and wait until someone tries to murder you again. Is that understood, Agent Pendragon?"
He shot her a mutinous look. "May I speak to my step-sister?" Arthur asked, the calm in his voice belying his expression.
Morgana sighed, loudly, her shoulders sagging. "Yes, go ahead, Arthur."
"Piss off, Morgana."
She nodded curtly, straightening up again, and then smiled a sugary-sweet smile guaranteed to rot teeth instantly on contact. "And now what would you like to say to your handler? Who, you may recall, gives you your orders?"
Arthur levelled his most disapproving glare at her. "Yes, ma'am."
*
The thundercloud that had hung over Arthur's head after being forced to capitulate to Morgana's pulling rank gradually dissipated as the day wore on. Apart from Arthur taking a short absence for a physiotherapy session, their time was mostly spent finalising the plans for greatly exaggerating rumours of Arthur's death, and by the time they'd finished sorting out the details, much of Arthur's mood had been dialed back down to only slightly irritable.
When Morgana informed them that an audience with Uther Pendragon was in order before taking off for the day, however, the cloud made a brief reappearance, and Merlin wondered whether it was a conscious act on Arthur's part that his shoulders straightened minutely, and any expression on his face was slotted out and replaced with blankness.
They followed Morgana silently, her heels, so tall and thin as to be lethal in a pinch, clacking portentously along the black marble tiles like the inexorable ticking of a time-bomb.
Several doors, keypads and security officers later, each one more forbidding than the last, Morgana led them into a small elevator, submitted herself to fingerprint recognition and punched in another passcode. The lift glided downwards, while incongruent, tinny easy listening filled up the space in a misguided stab at normalcy, like it wasn't bringing you, with each passing second, closer to a man whose job description included making unilateral decisions on who lived and who died.
Merlin tried to tuck himself into a corner and thought very hard about invisibility.
Cracking his own façade, Arthur eyed him suspiciously. "Are you scared?"
"That depends."
"I already told you: no bottomless pits. No pits of any kind. And therefore, no starving crocodiles or wild dogs or piranhas waiting to eat you. Relax, Merlin."
"Did you know," Morgana said brightly, over the strains of Eleanor Rigby, "piranhas aren't actually as vicious as people think they are? They'll bite, certainly, but they're not really what you see in films, you know, all that frenzied feeding, stripping things to the bone."
"That's helpful," Merlin said in a flat voice.
Her face took on a wistful expression. "If I had my own pit, I'd do box jellyfish."
After a moment's consideration, Arthur turned to her and said, "That's all very well for inflicting pain, but what about disposal?"
"Oh, I hadn't considered that. You're right," she said. "It'd be better if they'd eat the bodies as well, otherwise I'd need a whole other system for retrieval. Good point."
Merlin stared at them, both looking for all the world like this was perfectly suitable dinner conversation. Pass the carrots, please, and, by the bye, I've painted the drawing room in the blood of my enemies; want to see? "Please may I go back to R&D? Gaius is so much saner."
"I'm only joking, Merlin. What? I'm allowed," Morgana said defensively when he shot her a dubious look. Squaring her shoulders as the lift slid smoothly to a halt, she added, "And you may not, Agent. Besides, like Arthur said, there's nothing to worry about; whatever you've heard about Uther -- nonsense."
"So he's not the most powerful man in the country?" Merlin said captiously, frowning through the dim hallway into which Morgana thrust them.
Morgana shrugged, taking the lead again down the corridor. "Debatable. But he's fine. Lovely old man."
Arthur snorted.
"I don't know why," said Merlin, peering about the gloom for an escape hatch, "but I'm disinclined to believe you."
"Stop fretting," Arthur said quietly, and reached out to squeeze his hand, dropping it like a hot rock a second after and doubling his pace.
Whether it was a mistake, or kindness, or some other reason Merlin's brain was having trouble formulating due to having ceased functioning, there was no denying that it had achieved what it had most likely set out to do: shut Merlin up. He was almost tempted to start talking again, though, just to muffle the sound of his heart pounding like it meant to break out of its cage.
On the upside, it sufficiently distracted him from possibly wetting himself a moment later when Morgana pushed open a set of double doors and led them into Uther's inner sanctum, bathed in artificial white light.
"Ah, Morgana," Uther said, rising from a sumptuous leather chair behind his bureau, a solid, stately piece that looked like it could house a small family comfortably. He nodded at his son and Merlin. "Agents."
"Sir," Merlin squeaked, horrified at the sound of his own voice.
Uther swivelled his attention onto Merlin. "Agent... Emrys, is it?" he asked, and Merlin could have sworn the temperature in the room plunged just then. "I understand you almost got my son blown up."
"What?"
Morgana opened her mouth, but it was Arthur who stepped forward. "That wasn't his fault, sir. Believe me, Agent Emrys is terrible at a lot of things, but he's done an admirable job with regard to this… protection scheme you decided to put me on."
If there was a challenge in his tone, chafing against the orders that he needed to be babysat, Uther chose not to dignify it. "Is that so? Trust him, do you?"
"With my life," Arthur answered mildly, without hesitation, or seemingly regret, even though Merlin gave him a side-eye.
"Well, as it's been tasked to him, I should certainly hope so," Uther said, drenched in causticity. He focussed his sights on Merlin again, silent for a moment, as though sizing him up and finding him thoroughly unworthy of scrutiny in the first place. "If," he said suddenly, "you are to remain on this assignment, there will be no more accidents, and you will not leave Arthur's side unless somebody is ripping your cold, dead body from it."
Merlin blinked at him, and belatedly remembered to say, "Yes, sir."
"Now," Uther continued, apparently deciding then and there to pretend Merlin didn't exist anymore, "tomorrow's operation will be a delicate undertaking, and I don't want to see you anywhere near it, Arthur."
"What?" Arthur exclaimed.
"If it is as we suspect, the people after you will come to scope out this-- farce, and if they get a single whiff of you, the whole operation will be blown, and you'll be a target again. But that's not going to happen, Arthur, because you will not be there."
"This is my case. It's my life on the line, and I have a right to--"
"Exactly," Uther interrupted. "Your life is on the line, and I am trying to protect it. This isn't up for debate, and I don't want to hear any more about it."
Arthur scowled.
"With all due respect, sir?" Merlin piped up suddenly, before he could stop himself. He tried not to look Uther directly in the eye for fear of the man having mastered looks that could actually kill. "Arthur-- er, I mean, Agent Pendragon is one of the best, if not the best agent you've got right now. Injury or not, he's not a liability."
"We are short-staffed," Morgana said, picking her side adroitly. "I could put them in one of the surveillance vehicles; they won't be seen, coming or going. We need all the eyes we can get."
Uther glared at all of them, one degree away from incineration. "If you so much as set one toe out of the van tomorrow, I'm putting you under house arrest. Are we clear?"
Arthur nodded, and raised one surreptitious eyebrow in Morgana's direction; she returned the gesture.
"We're done here," Uther said, dismissing Arthur and Merlin with a peremptory wave of his hand. "Morgana, I have something further to discuss with you."
Following Arthur's lead, Merlin said nothing and strode out of the office; the doors shut behind them of their own accord, and its echoes rang down the length of the corridor.
"Erm. Your father..." Merlin said, once they'd reached the lift.
"You'd have preferred the piranhas, wouldn't you?"
"Yeah, little bit," he admitted. "Is he... always like that?"
Arthur shrugged, holding his hand out for scanning and tapping out series of numbers when they'd got on the elevator. "Pretty much."
"Oh," said Merlin, mentally scheduling in a good, long hug with his mother, and pencilled one in for Arthur, too, if he could arrange it, possibly by making it seem like an accident. He hoped he was wrong, but Uther looked to be the kind of father whose idea of doling out affection was by speaking in an indoor voice, and twisted his hands together so they wouldn't do something suicidal like stroke Arthur's head.
They rode back up in silence, listening to the saccharine instrumental of something vaguely Michael Bolton-y, and Merlin breathed an inaudible sigh of relief when they reached ground level again, glad to see light streaming into the building that was made of actual sun rather than the sterile brightness of Uther's underground lair.
"That thing you said about me... it wasn't strictly true," Merlin said, as they walked out towards the carpark.
"What thing?"
"I haven't really done that good a job with you, have I? Sophia almost got to you, and if you hadn't got out of the house yourself when you did, you'd be dead."
Arthur gave him a sidelong glance as he eased into the passenger seat. "I can take care of myself occasionally."
"I know. So, why let your father think I should be kept on the job?"
"Because, Merlin," he said brusquely, "taking you off the job only means they'll saddle me with some other idiot, and as I've only just broken you in, I don't really feel like having to train somebody else up to near competence."
"Ah," said Merlin, charitably ignoring the bit where it almost sounded like he'd been undergoing house-training. "So... Not just because I'm the only boy in the neighbourhood with a PS3?"
Arthur cracked a smile out the windscreen. "It helps."
*
Arthur's eyes were slowly adjusting to the darkness. There were curtains over the windows, but not so opaque as to deter moonlight from tiptoeing in, by which light he could vaguely make out the shape of furniture and occasional debris on the floor on his side of the room. He didn't want to turn his head the other way, where he could hear Merlin trying and failing to be quiet about not being able to fall asleep, lest he get caught up in conversation.
It wasn't conversation with Merlin that was the problem -- at least, not the entirety of the problem; it was that it would take place in the middle of the night and in a shared bed, and there was something uncomfortably intimate about talks that happened under these circumstances.
Times like these were when people let their guards down because they couldn't properly see each other's faces, and the stillness and silence brewed the perfect conditions for hushed midnight confessions, and he and Merlin decidedly did not have the kind of relationship that needed to suffer heart-to-heart chit-chat. They both had enough problems as it was on their own without having to lump them together in some kind of shared burden. Sharing didn't mean diffusion; it just added an extra set of worries onto everyone's shoulders. Agents were solitary creatures by necessity, and just because he and Merlin were currently stuck together through unprecedented contrivances didn't mean he was allowed to get used to it.
Merlin turned slowly, purposefully, like a rotisserie chicken, trying not to make noise as he landed on his side, facing Arthur, having decided the previous night's head-to-foot deal was off.
"Arthur?" he whispered.
Arthur grunted.
"Are you awake?"
"No."
"Really?"
"Merlin."
Merlin flopped about restively, free to make a nuisance of himself now that he didn't have to try and not wake Arthur. "I can't sleep."
"Fascinating."
Silence tried to overtake the room, but Merlin shooed it away. "Are you nervous? About tomorrow, I mean?"
Arthur inhaled deeply. "No."
"Really?"
The breath came out in a long sigh. "Go to sleep, Merlin."
"I already told you, I can't. I'm nervous about tomorrow, even if you're not," Merlin said, shuffling around some more underneath the blankets.
"Good agents don't get nervous."
"Yes, well," Merlin said, somewhat testily, "I'm not really one anymore. I'm allowed to be nervous."
Arthur turned toward him then, blinking at the sight of his profile in the delicate moonlight, a fine alabaster carving. "Did you quit?" he asked, genuinely curious.
He knew Merlin hadn't been sacked from active duty; if he had he'd be persona non grata rather than still allowed to roam free among the halls of the agency, much less play bodyguard to Arthur. Plus, Morgana had on several occasions spoken highly of him, and she was deathly allergic to passing out compliments.
There was a slight movement from Merlin's side of the bed, the soft sound of friction, which Arthur took to be a shrug. "I asked for a transfer."
"Why?" Arthur asked. He was prying, and he knew he shouldn't, but it wasn't because it chafed against some innate sense of politeness.
They'd been taught this in their agency courses. Know everything about your mark -- know what makes them laugh and cry and rage, and then use it against them. It wasn't difficult to imagine that sometimes the first bit led to complications with the last; a smidge too much sympathy or the accidental forging of a connection or even just getting a little too comfortable in the role, and it could mean having to flush everything down the toilet, including -- especially -- your career. It was no wonder that the Know everything rule came with a very large footnote: Never fall in love with your mark.
He was prying, and he shouldn't. He was interested, and he didn't have to be. This had nothing to do with his job, and Merlin wasn't a mark, obviously, but the basic principle was the same -- the more he got to know Merlin, the more likely he was to, well, like Merlin. It was of course possible that the opposite could be true, that the more he got to know Merlin, the further he'd want to run away from him, but as Arthur looked over at that profile now, he knew that could never be the case.
The man had flat-out lied to his face for months and Arthur still liked him well enough; even given the inauspiciousness and fraudulence of their initial association, they'd hurdled over colleagueship without knowing it, sailed straight past being acquaintances and were now treading the murky waters of friendship. Unless Merlin was personally responsible for the continued existence of the BNP, it seemed unlikely that any personality idiosyncrasies revealed now would compel Arthur to change his mind about him. Their friendship as it stood now was perfectly acceptable, and Arthur was pretty sure he didn't want to go any further than that.
Though, of course, pretty sure wasn't exactly brimming with confidence.
But he'd asked the question, and he wasn't going to take it back. He'd let Merlin answer, or not -- given how much time Merlin seemed to be taking to think about it, and just leave it there. No need for follow-up questions, no need for more prying, no need for any further insight into Agent Emrys. They mightn't even see each other again after this case was closed, and Arthur would have no problem with that at all. Probably.
"Thing is," Merlin said, at last, "I was actually quite good at it."
"So Morgana said."
"But there's a difference between being good at your job and being happy in it, isn't there?"
Arthur shifted his body slightly. "I suppose."
"Well, that was pretty much the crux of it." Merlin sighed. "When I got recruited I thought it would be cool, you know? James Bond and all that. And some parts of it really are, but all the subterfuge and the lying and-- and the killing, it all just got to be a bit much. I didn't want to be cool anymore, I just wanted to be normal."
"Normal?" Arthur pushed himself up onto his elbows, looking askance at Merlin, for all the good that would do in the dark of the room. "Merlin, you're a weapons and surveillance developer for the best intelligence agency in the world. You invent increasingly efficient equipment for ambushing and taking out criminal organisations, some of which, I might add, are headed by certifiable geniuses. You're not normal."
"I know," Merlin huffed, petulant, propping himself up as well now to give Arthur a look of his own. "But in R&D I get a higher semblance of normality. I clock in at nine and out at five, I get lots of weekends off, if I'm extra good Gaius sometimes lets me leave early, and best of all, I haven't had to shoot anyone dead in well over a year. And when people ask me what I do, I tell them I'm a lab assistant, and it's almost true. It's like I don't even have to pretend I'm normal anymore."
Arthur laughed, and flopped back down onto his pillow. "Normal is overrated."
"How would you know? You've never been normal a day in your life, Arthur Pendragon," he said, prodding Arthur in the arm.
"No, maybe not. But I've seen a lot of normal people and talked to a lot of them, and you know what, Merlin? They're as dull as hell."
"I want to be dull as hell," Merlin said mulishly.
"You couldn't if you tried."
"Is that a compliment?"
"Well, it's not an insult, if that's what you mean."
"It isn't," said Merlin, settling back down and pulling the covers to his chin. "And thank you. Possibly."
"Are you happy, then?" Arthur asked suddenly, indulging in a spot of rebellion against his own rule about learning nothing more about Merlin.
"Hm?"
"You said there was a difference between being good at your job and being happy doing it. Are you happy, then?"
"Oh, yeah, I suppose I am."
"So," said Arthur slowly, eyeing Merlin with a surreptitious, sideways stare, "Morgana pulling you out of there to do... this--"
"Not ideal, no, but... Erm," said Merlin, and cleared his throat quietly, his gaze trained on the ceiling, "I guess I can't say I'm sorry I met you. Even if you did get me beaten up and shot at and nearly run over."
Arthur's arm flung out, whapping Merlin across the torso. "That's not my fault, you clot."
"Ow," Merlin complained, massaging his chest. "Yes, well, when my lungs collapse from that blow, it definitely will be." He jabbed Arthur with his elbow.
"Hey, no attacking the invalid. I happen to be recovering from a grievous injury, you know."
Merlin snickered. "I cannot believe you're trying to play the sympathy card with me," he groaned.
"Well, I'm very deserving of it," Arthur said loftily.
"No, Merlin, I don't need any help," Merlin mocked, in a sonorous voice that sounded absolutely nothing like Arthur's. "Burn my wheelchair, Merlin. Let me carry all thirteen bags of groceries up these stairs, Merlin, so we can all see how manly I am."
"Heartless. I should've sacked you when I had the chance."
"Too late; no take-backs. You've made your bed, and you're stuck with me now," Merlin said, as happy as a clam.
"Oh, cruel, cruel fate," Arthur sighed, but there was a smile in his voice.
Merlin chuckled softly. "Goodnight, Arthur."
"Goodnight."
Arthur stared up at the ceiling again, listening to the quiet breathing next to him. He knew all the rules -- could probably recite them by heart; he had attended every lecture, taken hundreds of pages of notes, read every book required of him, had even perused the employee handbook from cover to cover. Never fall in love with a mark. It was a perfectly good, clear rule, but if it had one drawback, it was that its instruction ended just as it started. Consequently, supposing anyone was so careless as to disregard the rule, if -- just if -- it happened, what were you supposed to do to stop?
*
He'd managed to snatch the odd hour of sleep here and there through the night, nested in a cocoon of blankets and self-loathing, but now that he'd been trouncing the bedside clock in a staring contest for well over an hour, Merlin figured he might as well get up.
He cast the bedclothes aside, hoping his feelings might get shed along with them, but as he edged his way quietly to the door, his eye on a slumbering Arthur, an acute twinge in his gut signalled his feelings still well present and accounted for. Merlin frowned at himself, his hand tightening around the doorknob.
It was stupid, really, not to mention inconvenient. He'd spent half the night in a sleepy haze of contentment, all curled up next to Arthur's warmth; half in self-reproach about being such a bloody girl about everything -- and hadn't that been so lovely that his imagination had taken on Arthur's voice; half on a hunting expedition to locate the off button to his brain.
Merlin frowned some more, mathematical skills given up for dead somewhere in the jungle of sleep-deprivation and unrequited--
Stop, Merlin said to himself. Shut up.
He dragged himself into the bathroom, rubbing his face, two days' worth of stubble reddening his palms. His reflection gave him a bleary, unsympathetic look, and he nodded his agreement. Things were complicated enough without throwing all this emotional nonsense into the mix. They had an important stake-out today, and it wouldn't do anyone any good if he spent that time secretly mooning over Arthur instead of watching the surveillance screens.
Cupping his hands under the tap, Merlin splashed cold water onto his face, jolting himself into alertness. He wouldn't be doing anyone any favours either if, as a result of his restless night, he drifted off in the van.
The rest of the flat was quiet. It was only just past dawn and the sky was a sheet of light grey; nobody else would be up for some time. Merlin set a kettle to boil, dug around a mess of games for Guitar Hero III, feeling nostalgic, and plugged his headphones into the TV. Wrapping his fingers around the controller's neck, Merlin scrolled indiscriminately down the song list and selected the 'expert' level on the first song he landed on, fully intending to conquer his way through the entire catalogue until someone or something else came along to distract him or his hands fell off.
He was just starting the impossible intro to Through the Fire and Flames when a finger lifted one side of his headphones.
"Morning, sweetheart," said Hunith, and slid the headphones back into place.
The audience booed him off the stage as Merlin tossed the controller onto the sofa, and as he strolled towards the kitchen, where Hunith was fussing with the kettle, he couldn't help but notice her travel bags set neatly at the door. He raised an eyebrow. "Going somewhere?"
"Oh, yes, I'm heading straight home from the conference; get out of your hair," she said, "and give you and Arthur some privacy."
"You really don't have to," Merlin said. "You can stay as long as you like."
"I know, darling," Hunith said, rewarding him with a fond smile. "And plenty of mothers would give their right arms to hear their children say that, but all the same, I'll be going. Anyway, I know you're in good hands."
Merlin cast a glance towards his bedroom door. "You really like him?" he asked, even knowing how ridiculous he was being, fishing for his mother's approval of someone who'd most likely vanish from his life as soon as this case was over, not to mention that same someone who was only dating him for two days as a convenient lie.
"I do," Hunith said. "And you know what, sweetheart? I think he really likes you. You should see the way he looks at you when you're not looking."
"I don't think that's possible," said Merlin as airily as he could. Inside, he fought very hard to hold back the glow that was threatening to overcome him at the thought of Arthur gazing at him lovingly, because for all he knew, Hunith was lying through her teeth. She was his mother, and mothers were biologically obligated to say encouraging, if wildly fictive, things like, Of course you're good at sports and It's probably more scared of you than you are of it and It's not you, it's him.
The last one had got trotted out with depressing frequency in recent years, each ex saddled with vile epithets while Merlin came up the put-upon, tragic hero. He wondered what she'd say about Arthur when he would have to inevitably break the news that they had split.
"Do you think," she asked, "you might bring him round for Christmas?"
Oh, god, she really did like him. "Oh, er," Merlin said, needing no help to fight off the glow from before now that he was feeling wretched that his mother had become all invested in his sham relationship. "We haven't talked about that. I don't know. It's ages away."
"Well, think about it anyway," Hunith said.
He did. He imagined him and Arthur at home in Dorset, wearing crooked paper hats, tolerating gangs of carol singers, watching the Queen's speech, navigating the minefield of soused relatives and their inappropriate questions, saving their gifts for one another to open in private because they were probably dirty or maybe one of them would be a ring...
Hunith was at the front door, busy with last-minute packing, but the likelihood of drawing her attention by banging his head repeatedly against the cupboards was probably too great a risk. Merlin settled for moaning quietly into his hands for the time being; he could try concussing himself later. Maybe he could do it hard enough to result in retrograde amnesia, and then he would forget every romantic comedy he'd ever accidentally enjoyed and internalised, and most importantly, he'd forget to be a twelve year old girl about Arthur.
When Hunith was ready, Merlin picked up her bags, and together they walked down the stairs, out to where she'd parked her car, and Merlin tossed everything in the boot. She hugged him hard.
"Take care of yourself, my darling," she said, crushing his ribs sweetly, and got into the car. "Say goodbye to Arthur for me."
"Right, yeah, I will. Call me when you get home," Merlin said, and stood in the road until he couldn't see her little blue hatchback anymore.
He trudged back upstairs, feeling a little empty, and found Arthur inspecting the contents of the pantry. "Morning," Merlin said, slotting the image of Arthur's bedhead into the list of things blessed amnesia would soon take care of.
"Oh, hey. There you are. Had breakfast yet?"
"Nope, just saw my mum off. She says bye."
Arthur turned around, surprised. "That was quick. I thought... I thought she might stay a bit longer," he said. Hesitantly, he added, "She was really nice."
"Yeah," said Merlin, and managed not to mention anything about Hunith bestowing all kinds of approval on him or inviting him for Christmas, no matter how ridiculous and lovely he thought Arthur would look sitting at their dinner table with a paper crown from a cracker he'd just pulled with Merlin, or that he was wondering, on a scale of one to ten, how big of a twat he was for wanting Hunith around so he could perpetrate this fake boyfriend hoax some more.
"Mind if I...?" Arthur asked, shaking an unopened box of muesli.
Merlin waved a magnanimous hand. "Yeah, of course. What's mine is yours and all. I got that for you anyway, since you had it at your house."
"Really?" Arthur looked surprised again. "When?"
"Yesterday when we were at Sainsbury's," Merlin said, peering into the fridge and retrieving a carton of milk. "It was probably when you had trotted off complaining about my taste in wine and went to replace the ones I'd got."
"Absolute swill. You'll thank me later," said Arthur. He spun slowly, looking around the kitchen. "Spoons?"
Merlin handed off the milk and nodded towards a drawer. "Left of the sink," he replied, and watched Arthur pick through the cutlery tray.
It all felt so heartbreakingly domestic, Arthur here in his flat, rummaging around the mismatched utensils picked up from thrift shops in his uni days; Arthur here among his things, things with stories and memories attached, and now they would always have a trace of Arthur on them, too.
Turning away abruptly, Merlin started making toast for himself, though he was pretty sure the pang in his stomach wasn't entirely hunger.
"Still nervous about today?" Arthur asked around a mouthful of cereal.
"What? Er, no, I guess not. Why?"
"I don't know," Arthur said, eyeing him thoughtfully as he leaned one hip against the counter. "You seem a little... off. Everything all right?"
"Yeah, yeah, fine," Merlin said, pasting a smile on.
He was losing his touch; he used to be good at this -- good at pretending. It was just so easy to forget that he and Arthur weren't... anything, especially after putting on that charade for his mum and how effortless that had been. But this wasn't the first time he'd let his feelings get out of hand, and it probably wouldn't be the last, and he knew how this worked, where this story would end.
Merlin shoved it all aside, dredging up cheer from a dry well. "We still have some time before we need to be at the agency," he said, stuffing the rest of his toast down. "Want to get your arse kicked at Guitar Hero?"
Arthur set his bowl down carefully. "That is a thoroughly specious question, Merlin." He grinned. "But yes."
Continue to Chapter Seven
Summary: Stood down from duty on convalescent's leave, secret agent Arthur Pendragon wonders if sheer boredom might just do him in. But when his handler saddles him with a caretaker who is by turns completely inept and strangely brilliant, and invites trouble wherever he goes, Arthur has to concede that death by boredom looks less and less likely. Death by goon squad, high-speed car chase, poison, or fiery explosion, however...
Pairing: Merlin/Arthur
Rating: NC-17
Chapter word count: ~5,800
Notes: venivincere is my beta, and the wind beneath this fic's wings.
Previous chapters: Prologue + One | Two | Three | Four | Five
Arthur stared balefully at the ceiling of Morgana's office, its unforgiving fluorescent lights offering absolutely no sympathy, as he waited for her to stop talking. Usually he had no compunctions about interrupting her, loudly, but letting her finish afforded him time to think of the gentlest way to break the news to her that she was deranged.
"It might work," said Merlin.
"Demented," Arthur supplied. At Merlin's startled look, he added, "Not you. Well, a little bit you. But mostly you." He gave Morgana a flat look.
Morgana just leaned forward, her hands steepled, and gazed at him expectantly, a picture of patience.
Arthur threw up his hands. "You're seriously expecting me to fake my own death?"
"Half the work's been done for you; the hardest part, in fact," Morgana said. "Your house was blown up, presumably with you in it, so whoever did it probably thinks you're already dead. We did a gas leak story to explain about your house, no mention of fatalities, but if someone's keeping tabs on this, they'll want to know for sure about you."
"And how does orchestrating a fake funeral put anyone's mind at rest? I'm not getting in any coffins."
Morgana rolled her eyes. "Of course you're not. You'd have been badly burned in the explosion; I'm not going to waste money on that extensive of a make-up job. A simple requisition for a good-sized cadaver will do. Toast the edges a bit. No one will know it isn't you."
Bewilderment streaked Merlin's face.
"I'll put out an obituary," Morgana went on, seemingly oblivious to Merlin's gaping, "and we'll hold a private funeral, details carefully leaked, and any interested parties will be sure to come and find out if you've really bit it."
"Or," Arthur demurred hotly, "making my death official will, I don't know, be their cue to stop trying to kill me? And then we'll never find out who it was in the first place."
"What else can we do? Parade you around with a target on your back until somebody comes at you on the chance that we'll catch them this time and hope they don't stab any vital organs in the process?"
"Well, we've already thwarted three attempts; I think we're on a run of good luck," Arthur said blithely, in the sort of nonchalant, I-am-man-and-therefore-invincible way he knew Morgana hated.
Merlin cleared his throat quietly. "Five."
"What?"
"Once when you were in hospital, which is why they wanted me to come on board to begin with, plus that time when I got into a fight in your garden. Remember?" Merlin said, squirming a little bit in his seat.
Arthur crossed his arms over his chest, leaning backwards. "Christ," he grunted. "Well--"
Morgana held up a warning finger. "Don't you dare say we're on a run of good luck again."
"Only it occurs to me that if you pronounce me dead and then ship me off with a new identity," Arthur snipped, "my assassins are just going to call it a day and disappear forever. Besides, this stinks of a trap."
"That's because it is a trap. I just told you it is," Morgana said.
"And you don't think this may raise their suspicions? I've almost been killed five times, and we still have absolutely nothing to go on; for someone who's managed to evade our reach so successfully, I'm guessing he or she -- or it -- might be a bit cleverer than to fall for this."
"That's because we had a mole. Now that Alvarr's bloody disappeared, we're rerunning all the research he was supposed to have spearheaded, and I daresay we'll be getting a little more information this time without his interference."
Arthur huffed. "How do you know there's only one leak? For all we know," he said, gesturing widely, picking out the first words that came into his head, "Merlin could be feeding information to my killers."
Merlin's mouth fell open. "Excuse me," he inveighed, "if I wanted you dead, you'd be dead. Especially after you tried to kick my face in last night."
"I did no such thing," Arthur said dismissively. "And I know it's not you. I'm just trying to make a point; you could back me up here."
Looking mollified at being exonerated, and then immediately exasperated again, Merlin only made a groaning noise.
"Look," Morgana said, her palms splayed over her desk like holding onto something solid was the only thing keeping her from strangling someone, "this may be our only chance to get ahead of whoever's doing this. I'm not letting you just sit around and wait until someone tries to murder you again. Is that understood, Agent Pendragon?"
He shot her a mutinous look. "May I speak to my step-sister?" Arthur asked, the calm in his voice belying his expression.
Morgana sighed, loudly, her shoulders sagging. "Yes, go ahead, Arthur."
"Piss off, Morgana."
She nodded curtly, straightening up again, and then smiled a sugary-sweet smile guaranteed to rot teeth instantly on contact. "And now what would you like to say to your handler? Who, you may recall, gives you your orders?"
Arthur levelled his most disapproving glare at her. "Yes, ma'am."
*
The thundercloud that had hung over Arthur's head after being forced to capitulate to Morgana's pulling rank gradually dissipated as the day wore on. Apart from Arthur taking a short absence for a physiotherapy session, their time was mostly spent finalising the plans for greatly exaggerating rumours of Arthur's death, and by the time they'd finished sorting out the details, much of Arthur's mood had been dialed back down to only slightly irritable.
When Morgana informed them that an audience with Uther Pendragon was in order before taking off for the day, however, the cloud made a brief reappearance, and Merlin wondered whether it was a conscious act on Arthur's part that his shoulders straightened minutely, and any expression on his face was slotted out and replaced with blankness.
They followed Morgana silently, her heels, so tall and thin as to be lethal in a pinch, clacking portentously along the black marble tiles like the inexorable ticking of a time-bomb.
Several doors, keypads and security officers later, each one more forbidding than the last, Morgana led them into a small elevator, submitted herself to fingerprint recognition and punched in another passcode. The lift glided downwards, while incongruent, tinny easy listening filled up the space in a misguided stab at normalcy, like it wasn't bringing you, with each passing second, closer to a man whose job description included making unilateral decisions on who lived and who died.
Merlin tried to tuck himself into a corner and thought very hard about invisibility.
Cracking his own façade, Arthur eyed him suspiciously. "Are you scared?"
"That depends."
"I already told you: no bottomless pits. No pits of any kind. And therefore, no starving crocodiles or wild dogs or piranhas waiting to eat you. Relax, Merlin."
"Did you know," Morgana said brightly, over the strains of Eleanor Rigby, "piranhas aren't actually as vicious as people think they are? They'll bite, certainly, but they're not really what you see in films, you know, all that frenzied feeding, stripping things to the bone."
"That's helpful," Merlin said in a flat voice.
Her face took on a wistful expression. "If I had my own pit, I'd do box jellyfish."
After a moment's consideration, Arthur turned to her and said, "That's all very well for inflicting pain, but what about disposal?"
"Oh, I hadn't considered that. You're right," she said. "It'd be better if they'd eat the bodies as well, otherwise I'd need a whole other system for retrieval. Good point."
Merlin stared at them, both looking for all the world like this was perfectly suitable dinner conversation. Pass the carrots, please, and, by the bye, I've painted the drawing room in the blood of my enemies; want to see? "Please may I go back to R&D? Gaius is so much saner."
"I'm only joking, Merlin. What? I'm allowed," Morgana said defensively when he shot her a dubious look. Squaring her shoulders as the lift slid smoothly to a halt, she added, "And you may not, Agent. Besides, like Arthur said, there's nothing to worry about; whatever you've heard about Uther -- nonsense."
"So he's not the most powerful man in the country?" Merlin said captiously, frowning through the dim hallway into which Morgana thrust them.
Morgana shrugged, taking the lead again down the corridor. "Debatable. But he's fine. Lovely old man."
Arthur snorted.
"I don't know why," said Merlin, peering about the gloom for an escape hatch, "but I'm disinclined to believe you."
"Stop fretting," Arthur said quietly, and reached out to squeeze his hand, dropping it like a hot rock a second after and doubling his pace.
Whether it was a mistake, or kindness, or some other reason Merlin's brain was having trouble formulating due to having ceased functioning, there was no denying that it had achieved what it had most likely set out to do: shut Merlin up. He was almost tempted to start talking again, though, just to muffle the sound of his heart pounding like it meant to break out of its cage.
On the upside, it sufficiently distracted him from possibly wetting himself a moment later when Morgana pushed open a set of double doors and led them into Uther's inner sanctum, bathed in artificial white light.
"Ah, Morgana," Uther said, rising from a sumptuous leather chair behind his bureau, a solid, stately piece that looked like it could house a small family comfortably. He nodded at his son and Merlin. "Agents."
"Sir," Merlin squeaked, horrified at the sound of his own voice.
Uther swivelled his attention onto Merlin. "Agent... Emrys, is it?" he asked, and Merlin could have sworn the temperature in the room plunged just then. "I understand you almost got my son blown up."
"What?"
Morgana opened her mouth, but it was Arthur who stepped forward. "That wasn't his fault, sir. Believe me, Agent Emrys is terrible at a lot of things, but he's done an admirable job with regard to this… protection scheme you decided to put me on."
If there was a challenge in his tone, chafing against the orders that he needed to be babysat, Uther chose not to dignify it. "Is that so? Trust him, do you?"
"With my life," Arthur answered mildly, without hesitation, or seemingly regret, even though Merlin gave him a side-eye.
"Well, as it's been tasked to him, I should certainly hope so," Uther said, drenched in causticity. He focussed his sights on Merlin again, silent for a moment, as though sizing him up and finding him thoroughly unworthy of scrutiny in the first place. "If," he said suddenly, "you are to remain on this assignment, there will be no more accidents, and you will not leave Arthur's side unless somebody is ripping your cold, dead body from it."
Merlin blinked at him, and belatedly remembered to say, "Yes, sir."
"Now," Uther continued, apparently deciding then and there to pretend Merlin didn't exist anymore, "tomorrow's operation will be a delicate undertaking, and I don't want to see you anywhere near it, Arthur."
"What?" Arthur exclaimed.
"If it is as we suspect, the people after you will come to scope out this-- farce, and if they get a single whiff of you, the whole operation will be blown, and you'll be a target again. But that's not going to happen, Arthur, because you will not be there."
"This is my case. It's my life on the line, and I have a right to--"
"Exactly," Uther interrupted. "Your life is on the line, and I am trying to protect it. This isn't up for debate, and I don't want to hear any more about it."
Arthur scowled.
"With all due respect, sir?" Merlin piped up suddenly, before he could stop himself. He tried not to look Uther directly in the eye for fear of the man having mastered looks that could actually kill. "Arthur-- er, I mean, Agent Pendragon is one of the best, if not the best agent you've got right now. Injury or not, he's not a liability."
"We are short-staffed," Morgana said, picking her side adroitly. "I could put them in one of the surveillance vehicles; they won't be seen, coming or going. We need all the eyes we can get."
Uther glared at all of them, one degree away from incineration. "If you so much as set one toe out of the van tomorrow, I'm putting you under house arrest. Are we clear?"
Arthur nodded, and raised one surreptitious eyebrow in Morgana's direction; she returned the gesture.
"We're done here," Uther said, dismissing Arthur and Merlin with a peremptory wave of his hand. "Morgana, I have something further to discuss with you."
Following Arthur's lead, Merlin said nothing and strode out of the office; the doors shut behind them of their own accord, and its echoes rang down the length of the corridor.
"Erm. Your father..." Merlin said, once they'd reached the lift.
"You'd have preferred the piranhas, wouldn't you?"
"Yeah, little bit," he admitted. "Is he... always like that?"
Arthur shrugged, holding his hand out for scanning and tapping out series of numbers when they'd got on the elevator. "Pretty much."
"Oh," said Merlin, mentally scheduling in a good, long hug with his mother, and pencilled one in for Arthur, too, if he could arrange it, possibly by making it seem like an accident. He hoped he was wrong, but Uther looked to be the kind of father whose idea of doling out affection was by speaking in an indoor voice, and twisted his hands together so they wouldn't do something suicidal like stroke Arthur's head.
They rode back up in silence, listening to the saccharine instrumental of something vaguely Michael Bolton-y, and Merlin breathed an inaudible sigh of relief when they reached ground level again, glad to see light streaming into the building that was made of actual sun rather than the sterile brightness of Uther's underground lair.
"That thing you said about me... it wasn't strictly true," Merlin said, as they walked out towards the carpark.
"What thing?"
"I haven't really done that good a job with you, have I? Sophia almost got to you, and if you hadn't got out of the house yourself when you did, you'd be dead."
Arthur gave him a sidelong glance as he eased into the passenger seat. "I can take care of myself occasionally."
"I know. So, why let your father think I should be kept on the job?"
"Because, Merlin," he said brusquely, "taking you off the job only means they'll saddle me with some other idiot, and as I've only just broken you in, I don't really feel like having to train somebody else up to near competence."
"Ah," said Merlin, charitably ignoring the bit where it almost sounded like he'd been undergoing house-training. "So... Not just because I'm the only boy in the neighbourhood with a PS3?"
Arthur cracked a smile out the windscreen. "It helps."
*
Arthur's eyes were slowly adjusting to the darkness. There were curtains over the windows, but not so opaque as to deter moonlight from tiptoeing in, by which light he could vaguely make out the shape of furniture and occasional debris on the floor on his side of the room. He didn't want to turn his head the other way, where he could hear Merlin trying and failing to be quiet about not being able to fall asleep, lest he get caught up in conversation.
It wasn't conversation with Merlin that was the problem -- at least, not the entirety of the problem; it was that it would take place in the middle of the night and in a shared bed, and there was something uncomfortably intimate about talks that happened under these circumstances.
Times like these were when people let their guards down because they couldn't properly see each other's faces, and the stillness and silence brewed the perfect conditions for hushed midnight confessions, and he and Merlin decidedly did not have the kind of relationship that needed to suffer heart-to-heart chit-chat. They both had enough problems as it was on their own without having to lump them together in some kind of shared burden. Sharing didn't mean diffusion; it just added an extra set of worries onto everyone's shoulders. Agents were solitary creatures by necessity, and just because he and Merlin were currently stuck together through unprecedented contrivances didn't mean he was allowed to get used to it.
Merlin turned slowly, purposefully, like a rotisserie chicken, trying not to make noise as he landed on his side, facing Arthur, having decided the previous night's head-to-foot deal was off.
"Arthur?" he whispered.
Arthur grunted.
"Are you awake?"
"No."
"Really?"
"Merlin."
Merlin flopped about restively, free to make a nuisance of himself now that he didn't have to try and not wake Arthur. "I can't sleep."
"Fascinating."
Silence tried to overtake the room, but Merlin shooed it away. "Are you nervous? About tomorrow, I mean?"
Arthur inhaled deeply. "No."
"Really?"
The breath came out in a long sigh. "Go to sleep, Merlin."
"I already told you, I can't. I'm nervous about tomorrow, even if you're not," Merlin said, shuffling around some more underneath the blankets.
"Good agents don't get nervous."
"Yes, well," Merlin said, somewhat testily, "I'm not really one anymore. I'm allowed to be nervous."
Arthur turned toward him then, blinking at the sight of his profile in the delicate moonlight, a fine alabaster carving. "Did you quit?" he asked, genuinely curious.
He knew Merlin hadn't been sacked from active duty; if he had he'd be persona non grata rather than still allowed to roam free among the halls of the agency, much less play bodyguard to Arthur. Plus, Morgana had on several occasions spoken highly of him, and she was deathly allergic to passing out compliments.
There was a slight movement from Merlin's side of the bed, the soft sound of friction, which Arthur took to be a shrug. "I asked for a transfer."
"Why?" Arthur asked. He was prying, and he knew he shouldn't, but it wasn't because it chafed against some innate sense of politeness.
They'd been taught this in their agency courses. Know everything about your mark -- know what makes them laugh and cry and rage, and then use it against them. It wasn't difficult to imagine that sometimes the first bit led to complications with the last; a smidge too much sympathy or the accidental forging of a connection or even just getting a little too comfortable in the role, and it could mean having to flush everything down the toilet, including -- especially -- your career. It was no wonder that the Know everything rule came with a very large footnote: Never fall in love with your mark.
He was prying, and he shouldn't. He was interested, and he didn't have to be. This had nothing to do with his job, and Merlin wasn't a mark, obviously, but the basic principle was the same -- the more he got to know Merlin, the more likely he was to, well, like Merlin. It was of course possible that the opposite could be true, that the more he got to know Merlin, the further he'd want to run away from him, but as Arthur looked over at that profile now, he knew that could never be the case.
The man had flat-out lied to his face for months and Arthur still liked him well enough; even given the inauspiciousness and fraudulence of their initial association, they'd hurdled over colleagueship without knowing it, sailed straight past being acquaintances and were now treading the murky waters of friendship. Unless Merlin was personally responsible for the continued existence of the BNP, it seemed unlikely that any personality idiosyncrasies revealed now would compel Arthur to change his mind about him. Their friendship as it stood now was perfectly acceptable, and Arthur was pretty sure he didn't want to go any further than that.
Though, of course, pretty sure wasn't exactly brimming with confidence.
But he'd asked the question, and he wasn't going to take it back. He'd let Merlin answer, or not -- given how much time Merlin seemed to be taking to think about it, and just leave it there. No need for follow-up questions, no need for more prying, no need for any further insight into Agent Emrys. They mightn't even see each other again after this case was closed, and Arthur would have no problem with that at all. Probably.
"Thing is," Merlin said, at last, "I was actually quite good at it."
"So Morgana said."
"But there's a difference between being good at your job and being happy in it, isn't there?"
Arthur shifted his body slightly. "I suppose."
"Well, that was pretty much the crux of it." Merlin sighed. "When I got recruited I thought it would be cool, you know? James Bond and all that. And some parts of it really are, but all the subterfuge and the lying and-- and the killing, it all just got to be a bit much. I didn't want to be cool anymore, I just wanted to be normal."
"Normal?" Arthur pushed himself up onto his elbows, looking askance at Merlin, for all the good that would do in the dark of the room. "Merlin, you're a weapons and surveillance developer for the best intelligence agency in the world. You invent increasingly efficient equipment for ambushing and taking out criminal organisations, some of which, I might add, are headed by certifiable geniuses. You're not normal."
"I know," Merlin huffed, petulant, propping himself up as well now to give Arthur a look of his own. "But in R&D I get a higher semblance of normality. I clock in at nine and out at five, I get lots of weekends off, if I'm extra good Gaius sometimes lets me leave early, and best of all, I haven't had to shoot anyone dead in well over a year. And when people ask me what I do, I tell them I'm a lab assistant, and it's almost true. It's like I don't even have to pretend I'm normal anymore."
Arthur laughed, and flopped back down onto his pillow. "Normal is overrated."
"How would you know? You've never been normal a day in your life, Arthur Pendragon," he said, prodding Arthur in the arm.
"No, maybe not. But I've seen a lot of normal people and talked to a lot of them, and you know what, Merlin? They're as dull as hell."
"I want to be dull as hell," Merlin said mulishly.
"You couldn't if you tried."
"Is that a compliment?"
"Well, it's not an insult, if that's what you mean."
"It isn't," said Merlin, settling back down and pulling the covers to his chin. "And thank you. Possibly."
"Are you happy, then?" Arthur asked suddenly, indulging in a spot of rebellion against his own rule about learning nothing more about Merlin.
"Hm?"
"You said there was a difference between being good at your job and being happy doing it. Are you happy, then?"
"Oh, yeah, I suppose I am."
"So," said Arthur slowly, eyeing Merlin with a surreptitious, sideways stare, "Morgana pulling you out of there to do... this--"
"Not ideal, no, but... Erm," said Merlin, and cleared his throat quietly, his gaze trained on the ceiling, "I guess I can't say I'm sorry I met you. Even if you did get me beaten up and shot at and nearly run over."
Arthur's arm flung out, whapping Merlin across the torso. "That's not my fault, you clot."
"Ow," Merlin complained, massaging his chest. "Yes, well, when my lungs collapse from that blow, it definitely will be." He jabbed Arthur with his elbow.
"Hey, no attacking the invalid. I happen to be recovering from a grievous injury, you know."
Merlin snickered. "I cannot believe you're trying to play the sympathy card with me," he groaned.
"Well, I'm very deserving of it," Arthur said loftily.
"No, Merlin, I don't need any help," Merlin mocked, in a sonorous voice that sounded absolutely nothing like Arthur's. "Burn my wheelchair, Merlin. Let me carry all thirteen bags of groceries up these stairs, Merlin, so we can all see how manly I am."
"Heartless. I should've sacked you when I had the chance."
"Too late; no take-backs. You've made your bed, and you're stuck with me now," Merlin said, as happy as a clam.
"Oh, cruel, cruel fate," Arthur sighed, but there was a smile in his voice.
Merlin chuckled softly. "Goodnight, Arthur."
"Goodnight."
Arthur stared up at the ceiling again, listening to the quiet breathing next to him. He knew all the rules -- could probably recite them by heart; he had attended every lecture, taken hundreds of pages of notes, read every book required of him, had even perused the employee handbook from cover to cover. Never fall in love with a mark. It was a perfectly good, clear rule, but if it had one drawback, it was that its instruction ended just as it started. Consequently, supposing anyone was so careless as to disregard the rule, if -- just if -- it happened, what were you supposed to do to stop?
*
He'd managed to snatch the odd hour of sleep here and there through the night, nested in a cocoon of blankets and self-loathing, but now that he'd been trouncing the bedside clock in a staring contest for well over an hour, Merlin figured he might as well get up.
He cast the bedclothes aside, hoping his feelings might get shed along with them, but as he edged his way quietly to the door, his eye on a slumbering Arthur, an acute twinge in his gut signalled his feelings still well present and accounted for. Merlin frowned at himself, his hand tightening around the doorknob.
It was stupid, really, not to mention inconvenient. He'd spent half the night in a sleepy haze of contentment, all curled up next to Arthur's warmth; half in self-reproach about being such a bloody girl about everything -- and hadn't that been so lovely that his imagination had taken on Arthur's voice; half on a hunting expedition to locate the off button to his brain.
Merlin frowned some more, mathematical skills given up for dead somewhere in the jungle of sleep-deprivation and unrequited--
Stop, Merlin said to himself. Shut up.
He dragged himself into the bathroom, rubbing his face, two days' worth of stubble reddening his palms. His reflection gave him a bleary, unsympathetic look, and he nodded his agreement. Things were complicated enough without throwing all this emotional nonsense into the mix. They had an important stake-out today, and it wouldn't do anyone any good if he spent that time secretly mooning over Arthur instead of watching the surveillance screens.
Cupping his hands under the tap, Merlin splashed cold water onto his face, jolting himself into alertness. He wouldn't be doing anyone any favours either if, as a result of his restless night, he drifted off in the van.
The rest of the flat was quiet. It was only just past dawn and the sky was a sheet of light grey; nobody else would be up for some time. Merlin set a kettle to boil, dug around a mess of games for Guitar Hero III, feeling nostalgic, and plugged his headphones into the TV. Wrapping his fingers around the controller's neck, Merlin scrolled indiscriminately down the song list and selected the 'expert' level on the first song he landed on, fully intending to conquer his way through the entire catalogue until someone or something else came along to distract him or his hands fell off.
He was just starting the impossible intro to Through the Fire and Flames when a finger lifted one side of his headphones.
"Morning, sweetheart," said Hunith, and slid the headphones back into place.
The audience booed him off the stage as Merlin tossed the controller onto the sofa, and as he strolled towards the kitchen, where Hunith was fussing with the kettle, he couldn't help but notice her travel bags set neatly at the door. He raised an eyebrow. "Going somewhere?"
"Oh, yes, I'm heading straight home from the conference; get out of your hair," she said, "and give you and Arthur some privacy."
"You really don't have to," Merlin said. "You can stay as long as you like."
"I know, darling," Hunith said, rewarding him with a fond smile. "And plenty of mothers would give their right arms to hear their children say that, but all the same, I'll be going. Anyway, I know you're in good hands."
Merlin cast a glance towards his bedroom door. "You really like him?" he asked, even knowing how ridiculous he was being, fishing for his mother's approval of someone who'd most likely vanish from his life as soon as this case was over, not to mention that same someone who was only dating him for two days as a convenient lie.
"I do," Hunith said. "And you know what, sweetheart? I think he really likes you. You should see the way he looks at you when you're not looking."
"I don't think that's possible," said Merlin as airily as he could. Inside, he fought very hard to hold back the glow that was threatening to overcome him at the thought of Arthur gazing at him lovingly, because for all he knew, Hunith was lying through her teeth. She was his mother, and mothers were biologically obligated to say encouraging, if wildly fictive, things like, Of course you're good at sports and It's probably more scared of you than you are of it and It's not you, it's him.
The last one had got trotted out with depressing frequency in recent years, each ex saddled with vile epithets while Merlin came up the put-upon, tragic hero. He wondered what she'd say about Arthur when he would have to inevitably break the news that they had split.
"Do you think," she asked, "you might bring him round for Christmas?"
Oh, god, she really did like him. "Oh, er," Merlin said, needing no help to fight off the glow from before now that he was feeling wretched that his mother had become all invested in his sham relationship. "We haven't talked about that. I don't know. It's ages away."
"Well, think about it anyway," Hunith said.
He did. He imagined him and Arthur at home in Dorset, wearing crooked paper hats, tolerating gangs of carol singers, watching the Queen's speech, navigating the minefield of soused relatives and their inappropriate questions, saving their gifts for one another to open in private because they were probably dirty or maybe one of them would be a ring...
Hunith was at the front door, busy with last-minute packing, but the likelihood of drawing her attention by banging his head repeatedly against the cupboards was probably too great a risk. Merlin settled for moaning quietly into his hands for the time being; he could try concussing himself later. Maybe he could do it hard enough to result in retrograde amnesia, and then he would forget every romantic comedy he'd ever accidentally enjoyed and internalised, and most importantly, he'd forget to be a twelve year old girl about Arthur.
When Hunith was ready, Merlin picked up her bags, and together they walked down the stairs, out to where she'd parked her car, and Merlin tossed everything in the boot. She hugged him hard.
"Take care of yourself, my darling," she said, crushing his ribs sweetly, and got into the car. "Say goodbye to Arthur for me."
"Right, yeah, I will. Call me when you get home," Merlin said, and stood in the road until he couldn't see her little blue hatchback anymore.
He trudged back upstairs, feeling a little empty, and found Arthur inspecting the contents of the pantry. "Morning," Merlin said, slotting the image of Arthur's bedhead into the list of things blessed amnesia would soon take care of.
"Oh, hey. There you are. Had breakfast yet?"
"Nope, just saw my mum off. She says bye."
Arthur turned around, surprised. "That was quick. I thought... I thought she might stay a bit longer," he said. Hesitantly, he added, "She was really nice."
"Yeah," said Merlin, and managed not to mention anything about Hunith bestowing all kinds of approval on him or inviting him for Christmas, no matter how ridiculous and lovely he thought Arthur would look sitting at their dinner table with a paper crown from a cracker he'd just pulled with Merlin, or that he was wondering, on a scale of one to ten, how big of a twat he was for wanting Hunith around so he could perpetrate this fake boyfriend hoax some more.
"Mind if I...?" Arthur asked, shaking an unopened box of muesli.
Merlin waved a magnanimous hand. "Yeah, of course. What's mine is yours and all. I got that for you anyway, since you had it at your house."
"Really?" Arthur looked surprised again. "When?"
"Yesterday when we were at Sainsbury's," Merlin said, peering into the fridge and retrieving a carton of milk. "It was probably when you had trotted off complaining about my taste in wine and went to replace the ones I'd got."
"Absolute swill. You'll thank me later," said Arthur. He spun slowly, looking around the kitchen. "Spoons?"
Merlin handed off the milk and nodded towards a drawer. "Left of the sink," he replied, and watched Arthur pick through the cutlery tray.
It all felt so heartbreakingly domestic, Arthur here in his flat, rummaging around the mismatched utensils picked up from thrift shops in his uni days; Arthur here among his things, things with stories and memories attached, and now they would always have a trace of Arthur on them, too.
Turning away abruptly, Merlin started making toast for himself, though he was pretty sure the pang in his stomach wasn't entirely hunger.
"Still nervous about today?" Arthur asked around a mouthful of cereal.
"What? Er, no, I guess not. Why?"
"I don't know," Arthur said, eyeing him thoughtfully as he leaned one hip against the counter. "You seem a little... off. Everything all right?"
"Yeah, yeah, fine," Merlin said, pasting a smile on.
He was losing his touch; he used to be good at this -- good at pretending. It was just so easy to forget that he and Arthur weren't... anything, especially after putting on that charade for his mum and how effortless that had been. But this wasn't the first time he'd let his feelings get out of hand, and it probably wouldn't be the last, and he knew how this worked, where this story would end.
Merlin shoved it all aside, dredging up cheer from a dry well. "We still have some time before we need to be at the agency," he said, stuffing the rest of his toast down. "Want to get your arse kicked at Guitar Hero?"
Arthur set his bowl down carefully. "That is a thoroughly specious question, Merlin." He grinned. "But yes."
Continue to Chapter Seven