The Enemy, Time, In Us All (Part 2)
OK I'll confess. I have more "Reunion fic" up my sleeve.
Summary:
Morgana has been in two minds about this reunion all along. She’s only here because her half brother Arthur insisted; she’s not sure why he needs moral support, but probably it’s something to do with former conquests of his.
Morgana needn’t have bothered. Arthur, the wanker, after practically begging her to accompany him, has basically been ignoring her all evening, while he renews his friendship with Merlin. Which is all very touching, she’s happy for him, really. They were very close back at college. For a while she would have thought Merlin would be the best man at Arthur’s wedding, but in the end he didn’t even come. So, yeah, she’s sure it’s very pleasant for Arthur to be making up for lost time, but where does that leave her? Sitting in the corner, sipping a glass of dry white wine, and scowling at anyone who comes near her, that’s where.
Mostly, people come over, chat, then take the hint, and murmur a polite, “nice to see you again,” before searching for someone less morose to talk to, but Gwaine Green has never really been good at taking hints.
In a certain light, now that his hair is short and he’s shaved the beard off, he looks almost respectable. That changes, of course, the moment the idiot opens his mouth.
“Morgana Pendragon!” he says, leering at her admittedly slightly low-cut blouse. “Looking fabulous as ever! You always were a fit bird, nice to see that hasn’t changed.”
“I’d be grateful if you could address your sexist remarks to my face, not my breasts, Gwaine,” she says, tartly. “Or is even that level of civilised human behaviour too advanced for simian knuckle-heads like you?”
She can’t help laughing at the mock-hurt expression on his face.
“Now come on, Morgana,” he says, “making off-colour jokes is all I’ve ever been good at. That and shagging, of course.” He slips onto the bench-seat next to her, forcing her to move up a little bit until they're jammed together, his thigh hot alongside hers.
She rolls her eyes at his pathetic, little-boy bragging, but doesn’t stab him with her Manolo Blahniks. “That’s not what I heard,” she says, sipping her Pinot Grigio.
“Ach, come on, Morgana! Throw me some crumbs willya?” he says. “Have you seen the guest list? Lord Pendragon, Professor Nemeth, Dr DuLac… God, here I am, humble history teacher. It’s enough to make a lad get an inferiority complex. Talking of successful people, where’s the boy wonder Cenred? Out doing deals with some banking giant?”
“Fucking some skinny home-breaking bitch of a triathlete,” she replies, venomously, taking a great gulp of her Pinot Grigio to wash away the bitter taste in her mouth. "We're separated."
“Oh! Sorry to hear that.” He looks surprised for a moment and then leans his head on one side. “Well, I suppose triathletes do have great stamina!”
“Do you have any idea how much you revolt me?”
“What did I say?” He chuggalugs practically the entire contents of his pint, and belches ostentatiously.
“Please,” she says, waving a hand in front of her face and wrinkling her nose up, “take your foul beer-breath elsewhere.”
“Don’t be like that, Morgana,” he says, batting his eyes at her like a winsome puppy. “You know I’ve always fancied you. We could be fabulous together.”
“In your dreams!”
“Quite often, yeah,” he says, the cheeky bugger. She can’t help feeling a bubble of mirth rising in her throat, and she giggles, despite herself. If anyone else had said that, it would have been creepy, she doesn’t know how Gwaine manages it. There had been a time when… but it’s best not to go back there.
“Stop it, you twat!” she says, without heat. “I wouldn’t sleep with a cocky, lascivious, semi-human, drunken oaf like you in a million years.”
“Who said anything about sleeping?” He nudges her and winks.
It's such a cliche that it makes her laugh out loud, for the first time in what seems like months. “Don’t be disgusting.” She does stomp on his foot with her Blahniks, then, but not too hard. She’s not a monster, and she's got an unfamiliar feeling of warmth building behind her chest that feels almost like affection. I'm enjoying myself, she thinks, surprised.
“Ow! All right. I deserved it.” He sighs. “It’s depressing, though, you’ve got to admit, being in a room full of over-achievers. Last time I saw this lot they struggled even to get their laundry done. Now look at them.”
“I hate to say it, but I know what you mean,” she says, with a sympathetic shrug. “Still, I’m the exception that proves the rule, aren’t I? Here am I, Morgana Fitzpendragon, unemployed single mother, divorcee and illegitimate trust-funder, while over there in the successful corner, let’s see. We’ve got Dr Save-The-World DuLac over there, with his heavily pregnant wife, who also happens to be my former sister in law, and a rising star of stage and screen. Then up at the bar we’ve got my own half brother, Lord Pendragon, the chief executive officer of the world’s biggest ethical finance corporation, chatting with prolific fantasy author Merlin Emrys…”
“Looking very cosy, those two, aren’t they?” says Gwaine, and he’s right, but Morgana tries not to think about that for a moment as she carries on with the intimidating list of success stories, ticking them off on her fingers as she goes.
“Meanwhile, at the end of the table we have my old room mate, Elena, former Champion Jockey, Britain’s most successful female racehorse trainer, recently voted one half of Britain’s Power Lesbian Couple of 2014 by readers of Pride magazine...”
“Elena’s a lesbian?” says Gwaine, looking disappointed. “Damn!”
“Oh for heaven’s sake. You never stood a chance there, anyway.”
“I know, but it’s diminishing the size of the pool.”
“Women are people, Gwaine, you prehistoric knucklebrained ape, not some kind of a resource you can dip in and out of.”
“You wound me, Morgana.”
“Ha. That’s not wounding. When I wound, I really wound.”
Gwaine laughs gaily, revealing his still-even teeth. “Ach, Morgana,” he says. “They broke the mould when they made you. Let me buy you another drink. Where you staying tonight?”
“In college. Avalon Court.”
“That still standing? Bloody hell. I thought it was condemned years ago. Which room?”
“111.” She sees no point in dissembling. Gwaine’s like a ferret. He’ll find out eventually anyway.
“Really? That was my room in first year. I’ve had sex in that bed!” he says, looking all dreamy-eyed.
She can tell he’s going to go off on one of his vile reminiscences so she cuts him off. “Yuck! Well, you’re not having sex in it tonight, that’s for sure.”
He chuckles, and she can’t help laughing with him. “Pinot Grigio, right?”
“Yeah, go on. Why not? After all, we no-hopers have to stick together, right?”
“You’re not a no-hoper, Morgana,” he says, his eyes twinkling at her. “You’re easier the scariest, sassiest, sexiest woman I’ve ever met, and let me tell you…”
“You’ve met a few,” she says, chiming in with the final part of his sentence and smiling. “Go on with you.” She can't help thawing under the onslaught of his cheek; she’s never been able to resist a good-looking Irishman. Maybe the evening won’t be a complete dead loss, after all. Gwaine’s always been the kind of bloke whose dogged persistence only intensifies in the face of determined opposition. “And don’t come back without cheese and onion crisps.”
He pulls a face. “Cheese and onion? Not sure even I’ll want to kiss you after you’ve eaten a packet of those!”
She flashes him her most winning smile. “Exactly! Better make that two packets, just to make sure.”
*
Arthur really doesn’t know what it is about him, but Merlin has always had this strange power to render Arthur speechless with just a look or a smile. He’s doing it now, disappearing behind a familiar crinkle-eyed starburst of joy. It’s an expression that Arthur hasn’t seen for so long that its sudden appearance makes his heart swell and his throat hurt, and robs him of all rational thought.
He hadn’t been expecting it to hit him quite so hard. Merlin has grown; he’s filled out physically, of course, but it’s more the air of wisdom and gravitas, the deep sorrow in his eyes, even when he smiles, that makes Arthur’s breath hitch and his words die in his mouth, makes him want to kiss away all the pain and make Merlin forget his troubles. And for a second there, all the barriers between them lift and they are just Merlin and Arthur again, albeit a little older and hopefully a lot wiser. And maybe he just sees a glimmer of hope in Merlin’s warm expression, a softness and longing to it that makes him feel giddy and reckless. He leans forward to tell Merlin what he really wants.
Of course, that’s the moment that Gwaine chooses to come over.
“Nearly time to go, Princess,” he says with a particularly irritating grin that makes Merlin burst out laughing.
Arthur knows it’s selfish, that he can’t have Merlin’s wondrous smiles all to himself, that Merlin doesn’t belong to him, he belongs to no-one but Merlin. But he can’t help having to swallow a deep and abiding resentment when Gwaine grabs Merlin’s elbow and steals his attention away.
“You two love birds want another one before we go?” Gwaine asks. “I think my meagre teacher’s wages can stretch to a couple of pints of Old Speckled Hen and a glass of wine for her ladyship, over there?”
Arthur tears his eyes away from the deep and clearly mortifying blush that spreads up Merlin’s neck when Gwaine utters the words “love birds,” his treacherous heart thumping loud in his chest at what Merlin’s discomfort might mean. He glances across at Morgana, instead, who seems remarkably scowl-free for once, and smiles at her.
“No thanks, mate,” he says, slightly puzzled when Morgana actually graces him with an uncharacteristic smile and wave in return. Turning back to the other two at the bar, who are staring at him, he adds, in explanation, “I’m pacing myself.”
“Yeah, me too,” says Merlin, and surely Arthur’s not imagining things when he sees Merlin’s line of sight dropping towards Arthur’s lips for just a split second. “Don’t want a headache tomorrow.”
“Ach, you’re a pair of soft, southern, shandy-drinking wankers,” says Gwaine, gathering together his glasses. “I’m off to chat to Morgana. At least she’ll keep me company with the licquor!”
“Careful with that,” says Arthur, drily. “You’ve been talking to her for at least ten minutes already. I’m surprised you don’t have more bruises.”
Gwaine chuckles. “She’s all woman, your sister,” he says in an admiring tone. “Not afraid to speak her mind. You know where you are with her.”
“Yes,” says Arthur. “In your case, in the box marked ‘not a hope’, until you try something, at which point, your remains will be in the box marked ‘world of pain’.”
“It doesn’t matter,” says Gwaine, shrugging. “I’m having more fun sparring with her than I would with any of those simpering yes-women I used to date. See you in a bit!”
Puzzled at this oddly un-Gwaine-like statement, Arthur watches his retreating back as he shimmies through the crowd, back to Morgana’s table. Shaking his head, he exchanges wry shrugs with Merlin.
“So,” Merlin says, in a low voice, eyeing Arthur’s empty pint glass. “Taking it slow this evening, then?”
Emboldened by the beer and the strangeness of Gwaine’s behaviour, Arthur leans forward to whisper in Merlin’s ear.
“To be honest,” he whispers, “Now we’ve mentioned that fateful night years ago, I find myself wanting a repeat performance. I’m thinking maybe this is my chance to make up for my idiotic behaviour the next morning. And I don’t want to ruin things by peaking too early and passing out.”
“You always were a presumptuous, arrogant, twat,” Merlin says, with a faint grin.
Arthur smirks, but inwardly his heart starts to race, partly because a livid flush is creeping up Merlin’s cheeks, and partly because Merlin’s tongue peeps out to moisten his plump lips, but mostly because Merlin didn’t say “no”.
But that’s nothing to the way his pulse skips and surges when Merlin leans forward, so close that Arthur can feel warm breath gust against his cheek, and whispers, “So. Your place or mine?”
Summary:
Morgana has been in two minds about this reunion all along. She’s only here because her half brother Arthur insisted; she’s not sure why he needs moral support, but probably it’s something to do with former conquests of his.
Morgana needn’t have bothered. Arthur, the wanker, after practically begging her to accompany him, has basically been ignoring her all evening, while he renews his friendship with Merlin. Which is all very touching, she’s happy for him, really. They were very close back at college. For a while she would have thought Merlin would be the best man at Arthur’s wedding, but in the end he didn’t even come. So, yeah, she’s sure it’s very pleasant for Arthur to be making up for lost time, but where does that leave her? Sitting in the corner, sipping a glass of dry white wine, and scowling at anyone who comes near her, that’s where.
Mostly, people come over, chat, then take the hint, and murmur a polite, “nice to see you again,” before searching for someone less morose to talk to, but Gwaine Green has never really been good at taking hints.
In a certain light, now that his hair is short and he’s shaved the beard off, he looks almost respectable. That changes, of course, the moment the idiot opens his mouth.
“Morgana Pendragon!” he says, leering at her admittedly slightly low-cut blouse. “Looking fabulous as ever! You always were a fit bird, nice to see that hasn’t changed.”
“I’d be grateful if you could address your sexist remarks to my face, not my breasts, Gwaine,” she says, tartly. “Or is even that level of civilised human behaviour too advanced for simian knuckle-heads like you?”
She can’t help laughing at the mock-hurt expression on his face.
“Now come on, Morgana,” he says, “making off-colour jokes is all I’ve ever been good at. That and shagging, of course.” He slips onto the bench-seat next to her, forcing her to move up a little bit until they're jammed together, his thigh hot alongside hers.
She rolls her eyes at his pathetic, little-boy bragging, but doesn’t stab him with her Manolo Blahniks. “That’s not what I heard,” she says, sipping her Pinot Grigio.
“Ach, come on, Morgana! Throw me some crumbs willya?” he says. “Have you seen the guest list? Lord Pendragon, Professor Nemeth, Dr DuLac… God, here I am, humble history teacher. It’s enough to make a lad get an inferiority complex. Talking of successful people, where’s the boy wonder Cenred? Out doing deals with some banking giant?”
“Fucking some skinny home-breaking bitch of a triathlete,” she replies, venomously, taking a great gulp of her Pinot Grigio to wash away the bitter taste in her mouth. "We're separated."
“Oh! Sorry to hear that.” He looks surprised for a moment and then leans his head on one side. “Well, I suppose triathletes do have great stamina!”
“Do you have any idea how much you revolt me?”
“What did I say?” He chuggalugs practically the entire contents of his pint, and belches ostentatiously.
“Please,” she says, waving a hand in front of her face and wrinkling her nose up, “take your foul beer-breath elsewhere.”
“Don’t be like that, Morgana,” he says, batting his eyes at her like a winsome puppy. “You know I’ve always fancied you. We could be fabulous together.”
“In your dreams!”
“Quite often, yeah,” he says, the cheeky bugger. She can’t help feeling a bubble of mirth rising in her throat, and she giggles, despite herself. If anyone else had said that, it would have been creepy, she doesn’t know how Gwaine manages it. There had been a time when… but it’s best not to go back there.
“Stop it, you twat!” she says, without heat. “I wouldn’t sleep with a cocky, lascivious, semi-human, drunken oaf like you in a million years.”
“Who said anything about sleeping?” He nudges her and winks.
It's such a cliche that it makes her laugh out loud, for the first time in what seems like months. “Don’t be disgusting.” She does stomp on his foot with her Blahniks, then, but not too hard. She’s not a monster, and she's got an unfamiliar feeling of warmth building behind her chest that feels almost like affection. I'm enjoying myself, she thinks, surprised.
“Ow! All right. I deserved it.” He sighs. “It’s depressing, though, you’ve got to admit, being in a room full of over-achievers. Last time I saw this lot they struggled even to get their laundry done. Now look at them.”
“I hate to say it, but I know what you mean,” she says, with a sympathetic shrug. “Still, I’m the exception that proves the rule, aren’t I? Here am I, Morgana Fitzpendragon, unemployed single mother, divorcee and illegitimate trust-funder, while over there in the successful corner, let’s see. We’ve got Dr Save-The-World DuLac over there, with his heavily pregnant wife, who also happens to be my former sister in law, and a rising star of stage and screen. Then up at the bar we’ve got my own half brother, Lord Pendragon, the chief executive officer of the world’s biggest ethical finance corporation, chatting with prolific fantasy author Merlin Emrys…”
“Looking very cosy, those two, aren’t they?” says Gwaine, and he’s right, but Morgana tries not to think about that for a moment as she carries on with the intimidating list of success stories, ticking them off on her fingers as she goes.
“Meanwhile, at the end of the table we have my old room mate, Elena, former Champion Jockey, Britain’s most successful female racehorse trainer, recently voted one half of Britain’s Power Lesbian Couple of 2014 by readers of Pride magazine...”
“Elena’s a lesbian?” says Gwaine, looking disappointed. “Damn!”
“Oh for heaven’s sake. You never stood a chance there, anyway.”
“I know, but it’s diminishing the size of the pool.”
“Women are people, Gwaine, you prehistoric knucklebrained ape, not some kind of a resource you can dip in and out of.”
“You wound me, Morgana.”
“Ha. That’s not wounding. When I wound, I really wound.”
Gwaine laughs gaily, revealing his still-even teeth. “Ach, Morgana,” he says. “They broke the mould when they made you. Let me buy you another drink. Where you staying tonight?”
“In college. Avalon Court.”
“That still standing? Bloody hell. I thought it was condemned years ago. Which room?”
“111.” She sees no point in dissembling. Gwaine’s like a ferret. He’ll find out eventually anyway.
“Really? That was my room in first year. I’ve had sex in that bed!” he says, looking all dreamy-eyed.
She can tell he’s going to go off on one of his vile reminiscences so she cuts him off. “Yuck! Well, you’re not having sex in it tonight, that’s for sure.”
He chuckles, and she can’t help laughing with him. “Pinot Grigio, right?”
“Yeah, go on. Why not? After all, we no-hopers have to stick together, right?”
“You’re not a no-hoper, Morgana,” he says, his eyes twinkling at her. “You’re easier the scariest, sassiest, sexiest woman I’ve ever met, and let me tell you…”
“You’ve met a few,” she says, chiming in with the final part of his sentence and smiling. “Go on with you.” She can't help thawing under the onslaught of his cheek; she’s never been able to resist a good-looking Irishman. Maybe the evening won’t be a complete dead loss, after all. Gwaine’s always been the kind of bloke whose dogged persistence only intensifies in the face of determined opposition. “And don’t come back without cheese and onion crisps.”
He pulls a face. “Cheese and onion? Not sure even I’ll want to kiss you after you’ve eaten a packet of those!”
She flashes him her most winning smile. “Exactly! Better make that two packets, just to make sure.”
*
Arthur really doesn’t know what it is about him, but Merlin has always had this strange power to render Arthur speechless with just a look or a smile. He’s doing it now, disappearing behind a familiar crinkle-eyed starburst of joy. It’s an expression that Arthur hasn’t seen for so long that its sudden appearance makes his heart swell and his throat hurt, and robs him of all rational thought.
He hadn’t been expecting it to hit him quite so hard. Merlin has grown; he’s filled out physically, of course, but it’s more the air of wisdom and gravitas, the deep sorrow in his eyes, even when he smiles, that makes Arthur’s breath hitch and his words die in his mouth, makes him want to kiss away all the pain and make Merlin forget his troubles. And for a second there, all the barriers between them lift and they are just Merlin and Arthur again, albeit a little older and hopefully a lot wiser. And maybe he just sees a glimmer of hope in Merlin’s warm expression, a softness and longing to it that makes him feel giddy and reckless. He leans forward to tell Merlin what he really wants.
Of course, that’s the moment that Gwaine chooses to come over.
“Nearly time to go, Princess,” he says with a particularly irritating grin that makes Merlin burst out laughing.
Arthur knows it’s selfish, that he can’t have Merlin’s wondrous smiles all to himself, that Merlin doesn’t belong to him, he belongs to no-one but Merlin. But he can’t help having to swallow a deep and abiding resentment when Gwaine grabs Merlin’s elbow and steals his attention away.
“You two love birds want another one before we go?” Gwaine asks. “I think my meagre teacher’s wages can stretch to a couple of pints of Old Speckled Hen and a glass of wine for her ladyship, over there?”
Arthur tears his eyes away from the deep and clearly mortifying blush that spreads up Merlin’s neck when Gwaine utters the words “love birds,” his treacherous heart thumping loud in his chest at what Merlin’s discomfort might mean. He glances across at Morgana, instead, who seems remarkably scowl-free for once, and smiles at her.
“No thanks, mate,” he says, slightly puzzled when Morgana actually graces him with an uncharacteristic smile and wave in return. Turning back to the other two at the bar, who are staring at him, he adds, in explanation, “I’m pacing myself.”
“Yeah, me too,” says Merlin, and surely Arthur’s not imagining things when he sees Merlin’s line of sight dropping towards Arthur’s lips for just a split second. “Don’t want a headache tomorrow.”
“Ach, you’re a pair of soft, southern, shandy-drinking wankers,” says Gwaine, gathering together his glasses. “I’m off to chat to Morgana. At least she’ll keep me company with the licquor!”
“Careful with that,” says Arthur, drily. “You’ve been talking to her for at least ten minutes already. I’m surprised you don’t have more bruises.”
Gwaine chuckles. “She’s all woman, your sister,” he says in an admiring tone. “Not afraid to speak her mind. You know where you are with her.”
“Yes,” says Arthur. “In your case, in the box marked ‘not a hope’, until you try something, at which point, your remains will be in the box marked ‘world of pain’.”
“It doesn’t matter,” says Gwaine, shrugging. “I’m having more fun sparring with her than I would with any of those simpering yes-women I used to date. See you in a bit!”
Puzzled at this oddly un-Gwaine-like statement, Arthur watches his retreating back as he shimmies through the crowd, back to Morgana’s table. Shaking his head, he exchanges wry shrugs with Merlin.
“So,” Merlin says, in a low voice, eyeing Arthur’s empty pint glass. “Taking it slow this evening, then?”
Emboldened by the beer and the strangeness of Gwaine’s behaviour, Arthur leans forward to whisper in Merlin’s ear.
“To be honest,” he whispers, “Now we’ve mentioned that fateful night years ago, I find myself wanting a repeat performance. I’m thinking maybe this is my chance to make up for my idiotic behaviour the next morning. And I don’t want to ruin things by peaking too early and passing out.”
“You always were a presumptuous, arrogant, twat,” Merlin says, with a faint grin.
Arthur smirks, but inwardly his heart starts to race, partly because a livid flush is creeping up Merlin’s cheeks, and partly because Merlin’s tongue peeps out to moisten his plump lips, but mostly because Merlin didn’t say “no”.
But that’s nothing to the way his pulse skips and surges when Merlin leans forward, so close that Arthur can feel warm breath gust against his cheek, and whispers, “So. Your place or mine?”