the fun of running a café
Nano 2013, aka 'No, Seriously, Fuck TH White and Mallory'
The problem with being the latest reincarnation of the Once and Future King is that sometimes it's not immediately obvious what saving Britain involves this time around. And all right, 'the Once and Future King' does sound a bit poncy. King Arthur then. Except that's just the most well-known of his reincarnations. He's been all kinds of things since these islands got uncovered by ice and colonised by homo sapiens, with enough population to earn its own avatar, a guardian stroke saviour, reincarnated throughout time due to the bloody great magic sink that it is. He's been everything from war leader to Roman soldier to king, politician to plumber. Sometimes it's bloody obvious what he has to do - uniting a kingdom against the invading Saxon hordes is easy to figure out compared to some. The plumber one was a bit odd, he kept expecting to be called up for military service or something, but when it came down to it, averting a major cholera and typhus outbreak definitely counts as saving a generation. The Morgana - Morgan le Fay of the time kept smirking and referring to him as being covered in glory, only she wasn't aware glory smelled like that. He loves his occasional sister slash occasional cousin who can never seem to decide from one decade to the next, never mind incarnation, on whether she wants to kill him. Really. Her sense of humour, such as it is, is a definite constant throughout the ages. As for all the fuss about his parentage and place of birth - well, he's been legitimate, illegitimate, fostered out, orphaned, welsh, Cornish, British, Anglo-Saxon, half-Roman, and on a couple of memorable occasions, actually born overseas but conceived here. As for the whole grand romance that got utterly obsessed over during the middle ages and immortalised by the French, he's been everything from married to exceedingly single, cheated on and not, and occasionally a threesome. He really does get sick of everyone fixating on one bloody marriage that got embroidered something chronic as it is.
Currently he's stuck behind a counter, waiting for the lunch rush. Although he's normally born with the realisation that he's the latest reincarnation of Britain's guardian - no lightning bolts or revelations at puberty, thank you, that would just be messy. It'd probably lead to misguided vision quests, and if he had an entirely different personality, the urge to have a nervous breakdown. He realised very early on that the station and life he was born into was the one he was stuck with, and just going along with life's twists and turns would normally get him to the point he was supposed to be at. War starts and he joins up. Being a soldier would get him away from home, and it's not as though there was enough there for many mouths to feed anyway. Plumbing was an entirely respectable job. He'll admit to being a bit stumped on this one, though. After he'd left school, he'd had enough jobs in cafés to know how the things worked, so opening his own up with the bit of money that he'd had stashed away had seemed logical. There was enough trade during the winter to keep it ticking over until the tourists came in summer, and the hours let him keep up his rugby playing and surfing.
However, right now he can finally get out from behind the counter because the door's opening and a tousled head attached to a body and a large box is backing through it. "Finally, what took you so long? did you go and milk the cow yourself to get that cream?" Arthur asks.
"It's not just cream, it's eggs as well." The bearer of the box says. "I had to coax the chickens and reassure their feelings that their eggs were going to a good cause."
"Funny, Merlin. Now pass me the box, I need to dash to the post office to get that parcel posted."
Yes, Merlin. Best friend, tormentor, advisor and general all-round pain in his arse throughout the ages, no matter what life he's living in that incarnation, Merlin normally turns up on his doorstep with his stupid grin and stupid magic. Contrary to the King Arthur legend, Merlin is very rarely a Gandalf-a-like old bloke with a beard since he's normally around the same age as Arthur. he sulked something chronic when the Victorians really went on about that aspect, and utterly hated the Disney film, and there's normally at least one drunken moan per reincarnation about it.
"Oh, *you* get shining example of prime of your life manliness, and what do I get? Sodding Gandalf. Cheers, fucking Geoffrey of Monmouth. Why didn't I give the fucker piles when I could?"
The current version is a half-English half-Hawaiian boy, born and raised in Devon, who came to Cornwall on holiday one year. He walked into a pub Arthur was having a quiet pint in, rucksack on his back, went up to the bar, poked Arthur in the shoulder and said "I thought it was about time I ran into you. Mine's a Magners." And then just... didn't leave after his holiday and started pottering around the kitchen of the café and serving customers and then Arthur had to bloody pay him even after he'd colonised the spare room with all his junk, never mind Arthur’s bed and two thirds of the duvet. He's pretty sure Merlin's signed enough paperwork and so on by now that he's actually the co-owner. he wouldn't put it past him. Merlin has never been not at least slightly sneaky in each incarnation. Except when it comes to using his magic for something and then looking innocent. That, he's terrible at. There's been a couple of reincarnations where he tried to hide the fact that he was using it and Arthur had to cuff him round the head, because having suspiciously shiny floors and milk that didn't go off in summer when witch finders were on the lookout for anything suspicious was just plain stupid.
Arthur comes round the counter and takes the produce box from Merlin, putting it in the kitchen, then grabbing the parcel from beneath the counter. "Right, text me if you need anything else, but I'm not going to pick it up until I'm in the queue."
"What about-" Merlin starts, but Arthur holds up his hand.
"I'm going. Now. And next time take your bloody keys with you." Arthur says, pushing the door open.
When he gets back, Merlin's cleaning the tables. "Milkshake or tea?" Arthur asks.
"Neither. HP sauce, would you believe." Merlin says, frowning. "The bottle decided to try for the long distance awards. Completely missed the plate when they squirted it. At least they tried to clean it up themselves first, but it's still got to be done." he straightens, sighing. "Why you couldn't open a bookshop or a bike shop..."
"I wasn't aware you knew the first thing about fixing a leaky tire, let alone mending a bike, Merlin." Arthur says. "Let me know when you decide to go on a course."
----
Merlin's sitting watching the telly as Arthur fixes himself a cuppa. Some sort of documentary about logging in the rainforest and the evil corporations that do it. Arthur's just putting the milk back in the fridge when Merlin makes a 'huh' noise.
Arthur lifts his head. "What is it this time? Something you didn't know of the many things you happen to be spectacularly ignorant about? I swear, if you'd just watch the news..."
"Not all of us can be addicted to QI, Arthur." Merlin shoots back, then gestures at the screen. "I just spotted Lance."
Arthur frowns. "Are you sure?"
"Seriously, come watch and then tell me if I'm wrong." Merlin says, patting the armrest of the sofa.
"Remember, he's allowed to be spectacularly ugly, it has happened." Arthur says.
"Once." Merlin says. "And that was after he managed to get boiling tar poured on him during the crusades. He was still born unbelievably good-looking and knowing how to do Blue Steel from birth." He pauses. "It's scary how many of you lot can."
"It's an inborn talent, Merlin, you've either got it or you haven't." Arthur replies, making his way over to the couch and hitching one leg up on the armrest. "Okay, point out to me which person is supposed to be Lance. I presume it's one of the do-gooders."
Merlin snorts. "As if Lance would be anything else."
"He's been a mercenary enough times." Arthur points out, trying not to let his knuckles touch the mug. that way leads to not quite burned but bloody painful knuckles. "And we're not even going to mention some of the stuff that happened when he was a monk."
"I'm blaming that on the unbelievably weird beliefs the church had about redemption and sin at the time." Merlin says. "Now watch."
Arthur snorts as one of the aid workers slash reporters speaks to the camera. "Oh, come on, that bloke's definitely not Lance. False hope."
"I didn't say him. The one there. Him." Merlin says, pointing. "Blue shirt."
"What makes you think it's -" The documentary reporter in the blue shirt makes a gesture. "Oh god it totally is. You're right. That's Lance."
Merlin leans back, arms folded, smug written all over him. "Told you."
"Over five bloody millennia and he's still doing that same about to reach for his ear thing as he did when Stonehenge was built whenever he needs to collect his thoughts." Arthur shakes his head and blows on his tea.
"Come on, how many times have we seen him and Gwen do the exact same nervous wistful glance whenever they were married to someone else?" Merlin says. "And it's not like we don't recognise each other on sight."
"That's different." Arthur objects. "We're stuck together, they're variables. they change more."
"Change more is right." Merlin says. "I still think whenever you were royalty bled back and forth in the time line to make all your incarnations entitled arseholes no matter how much money you had."
"Hmph. See if I drag you out of the stocks or save you from being beaten up when we first meet ever again." Arthur replies.
"You say this every incarnation, and you've yet to follow up on your threat." Merlin points out, poking him in the knee.
"One of these days I will, and then where will you be?"
"Having a quieter life is what."
---
The pub is... medium busy. Tuesday night after the fairly decent band finished. and not a band who decide to shred everyone's eardrums, either. And it was something that sounded like they'd been listening to a lot of salsa. A bit like a Cornish Gypsy Kings. Odd, but listenable and good background music. A couple of people even got up and danced.
"Oh, come on, when have I ever been not fighting off the conquering hordes? It's what I'm designed to do by nature! I'm the sodding guardian of the isles, I don't have any choice about it." Arthur declares, flinging his arms out. He may have had a few by this point.
Merlin coughs in the background, saying something that sounds suspiciously like "Canute."
"I am ignoring that and you definitely didn't say that." Arthur says. Ignoring it. Nobly.
Merlin clears his throat. "I said, Canute."
"I said we were ignoring that." Arthur says, aiming for his ankle and missing. "Merlin."
"Canute? As in King Canute that ordered the waves to go back to show his advisers they were twerps? Wasn't he Danish?" Kev asks. "Actually, I can see you doing that. Only with surfboard in hand and wetsuit on. 'I command you waves to go *back*! And rear up a bit and make for good surfing while we're at it, please'."
"He united the kingdom and beat off all the other invading hordes." Arthur mumbles. "Sometimes the guardian thing manifests itself in weird ways."
"Still Danish." Kev points out.
"Little known fact, he was conceived in Britain." Merlin says cheerfully. "Apparently that's enough for destiny. It turned out all right. Well. Aside from the fact that you had two wives. Still not sure how you managed that and I was there. I mean, you've been in threesomes with lance and Gwen a few times, but neither of them were in there this time."
"By being really careful and Emma really quite liking my first wife." Arthur says.
Kev takes a sip from his pint. "You're sure you weren't reincarnated as William the Conqueror too? He united the country too. You know, only with extra massacres."
"Fuck. Off." Arthur says. "I have never been Norman. And any fucker who suggests I was Oliver Cromwell is this far from getting a spatula shoved up their arse. Charles was an utter shit, but I definitely wasn't Cromwell then."
"Not Excalibur?" Shell asks. "A pointy magic sword is a far nastier threat than a spatula. Especially if it comes with the lady of the lake attached."
Arthur snorts. "You honestly think I'd let an antique sword that holds a nice edge, in suspiciously good nick for lurking in ponds with strange women who like anointing people in farcical aquatic ceremonies near your arse? For a start, Antiques Roadshow and the re-enactment societies would have me strung up by my goolies."
"So where do you keep it if not in a pond? Sticking out of a stone? Do we get to see feats of great strength?" Shell asks. "Preferably with your shirt off."
"Nah, 's down the back of the sofa." Merlin says cheerfully, raising his beer. "And if you want to see him with his shirt off, come down the rugby or lurk around the beach during summer. It's not hard, half the county's seen that."
Kev laughs. "Nice one. Like you're keeping a famed sword down the back of the sofa. It's in the British Museum or a private collection by now, right?"
Arthur grins and raises his own beer in semi acknowledgement defeat. "Got me there."
He takes a mouthful, and glances at Merlin, who just grins around his pint. The truth is, it is down the back of the sofa. Safest place to keep it after they found it sticking out of a rock after going for a hike one day. Bloody great lump of metal has a habit of following him around. It's not like he can ever use it most of the time, and it looked *really* stupid when humanity switched to rapiers. It's spent most of his last several reincarnations wrapped in oilcloth or hanging on a wall, just sitting there. Merlin thinks it's dreaming of a time when it was useful. To which Arthur had to respond in the 1920s that it would take the collapse of current civilisation for it to be useful.
Kev tilts his head. "So is it actually magic? Legends seem to differ."
Arthur shakes his head. "Nah. Well, it keeps an edge better than anything has a right to and it doesn't rust or break. Plus it follows me around a bit, like muggins here. Though that's probably just chance more than anything."
Merlin prods him in the shin with his foot, only he connects. "I am worth considerably more to you than a bit of metal."
"And the bit of metal isn't going to give you a blow-job" Shell adds.
"But nope, doesn't glow, never zapped anyone, never healed anyone, never acted as a beacon and never got past a dragon's vulnerable spot." Arthur says. "Sorry to spoil your boyhood fantasies, Kev."
"Bugger. What about the scabbard?" Kev asks. "I thought that was supposed to be the healing bit."
"Nope." Merlin says.
"...A scabbard healed someone?" Shell asks. "We are talking about the case for the sword, right?"
"Yep." Kev says. "I think it's one of those 'the counterpart does the opposite' things bards like as poetic justice."
Merlin snorts. "I think those storytellers were seriously on the mead. Seriously, how the fuck is something that's basically a couple of bits of wood, fleece and leather and a few bits of metal supposed to heal someone? Excalibur doesn't even turn up with one. Any time. Ever. Not even in the incredibly ridiculous stories that have built up over the years."
"Ah, you're just not understanding the needs of the frustrated leather worker who makes the things and needs a bit of a boost to his business so bullied his brother in law the bard into saying something." Arthur says, amused.
"Really?" Shell says. "That's really what happened?"
"Dunno." Arthur says. "But it's usually how things happen, money and business. Like holy relics. someone's figured out how to make a bob or two, and it's amazing how humanity has always believed in good luck charms." He sips his beer. "Gods come and go, good luck charms keep going."
"Really?" Shell asks.,
"Shell, you're sounding like a broken record." Kev says. "Yeah, I can see that. But all of time?"
"Well, we've only existed since there was a human population on this archipelago, but that's a good four or five thousand years, including the stone age, so I think we can safely be authorities on it." Arthur says.
Merlin holds up a finger. "Unless it's Puritans. Never ever ever in that case. Completely mad. Like, verging on those monks that used to believe whipping themselves brought them closer to god and didn't even get any masochistic pleasure out of it. Seriously, I can understand hanging upside down in a tree and getting whipped for your god to get visions -"
" - Which Merlin here has never done, honest, it was a *friend*." Arthur says.
Merlin dips his finger in his beer and flicks some at Arthur. "Shut up, you did it too. But always denying yourself for life is just nuts."
"Okay, that's something I was curious about." Kev says. "The religion thing. You say you've seen gods rise and fall, how soon did you start denouncing them?"
"Didn't." Arthur says. "Half the times the gods were just... there. Fervent religious belief was something for the real nutter priests, you worshipped the local gods, knew they did things, and that was about it. Gods names just changed depending where and when you were."
---
Merlin walks into the café, holding something wrapped inside the front of his hoodie. Water's dripping off him, and he kicks the door closed before the rain can get in enough to make a puddle on the floor past the mat that's there to soak up the water. It's Cornwall, rain just happens, and brollies are for the weak and those optimists who believe the rain won't come at you from three angles at once. As he stands there on the mat, dripping a bit and rubbing water off his nose with his shoulder, the bundled-up item squeaks.
Arthur narrows his eyes as Merlin lets his hoodie loosen to reveal short fur and a floppy ear. "Merlin, is that a puppy?"
"...Possibly." Merlin says, all big eyes and hopeful look. Honestly, it's like he's auditioning for whatsisface from Pacific Rim. The one whose actor's in Sons of Anarchy and was in the original Queer as Folk and Ellie the postman insists is basically a golden retriever in human form.
"Why do you have a puppy?" Arthur asks.
"It followed me home?" Merlin attempts, then looks down at where it's wrapped in his hoodie and realises that that excuse really isn't going to hold any water. Following isn't something that happens when you're carrying said animal. He pauses. "All right, all right, they were giving them away. Free to a good home is what the sign said." He opens his hoodie a bit more to reveal... it may possibly be a terrier, it's at that still a bit tiny and squashed stage. Mostly eyes and ears. possibly some terrier in there. "Say hello to Cafall. Isn't he adorable?"
Arthur groans. He's probably already lost. "Merlin, not every dog of mine needs to be named Cafall."
"Yes they do." Merlin insists, stamping his feet a bit to get the last of the water off his boots, then walking through to the back of the kitchen where they keep the mops and cleaning products to get one of the old towels they keep there.
Arthur follows him through. "Merlin, he's not even a proper hunting dog breed."
Merlin sniffs. it's either indignation or the last of the water on his nose. Either one is possible at this moment. "Back in the day all dogs were hunting dogs. He can be one if he wants. Don't shatter his dreams."
Arthur groans. again. It's a very old argument, though at least Cafall is normally a sensible sort of dog. even the ones Merlin brings home. he rather liked the Great Dane. It was fairly destructive since it tended to forget precisely how big it was when inside the house, but having a dog that was bigger than most humans was incredibly reassuring when you wanted to intimidate someone. Gwen used to call him 'the man least likely to get mugged in the area' back then. "I swear, one of these days you're going to bring back a chihuahua and insist it could be a hunting dog."
"Don't be silly." Merlin says, putting the puppy on the towel he's pulled out of the cupboard. "Chihuahuas look for bombing and earthquake victims, they're not any good for hunting." He looks thoughtful whilst rubbing the puppy down a bit, in case of any rain getting on it. "I'd like a vallhund, though."
Arthur raises an eyebrow. "...I have no idea what that is."
Merlin pulls out his phone and googles something. "Swedish cowdog. here." He passes over his phone to show Arthur a picture of what looks like a wolf husky cross with stunted legs.
Arthur turns the phone round so the picture flips, then back again. No, it still looks weird. "So what you're telling me is that you want what is essentially a corgi with pretensions of being a wolf."
"Well, a corgi is a cowdog." Merlin concedes. "But it was bred by Vikings, Arthur! It's a Viking wolf corgi! How cool is that?" He grins, going back to rubbing the possibly named Cafall down. "Plus, think of the double-takes when you're walking down the street."
"What I'm seeing is that someone is thinking of all the attention he'd get when walking down the street." Arthur says dryly. "You'd not get two yards without being stopped by a teenage girl who wanted to pet it. I’ve seen you eyeing that husky who goes past occasionally. I see through your plans."
"Transparent as always." Merlin agrees cheerfully.
"Do we have to keep the dog?" Arthur sighs.
"Yes." Merlin says.
"And do we have to name it Cafall? I've already had one Cafall in this lifetime, a Labrador when I was a kid."
"And thus you need a new one to complete you." Merlin says, picking up the puppy, wrapped in its towel. He's not stupid, there's no telling if it's been house trained yet. the puppy eyes Arthur suspiciously. At least it's showing some signs of intelligence this early on.
"I do not need a dog to complete me, Merlin. An idiot magician, maybe, but I don't need a dog. Do you see any of the knights? A table? Gwen's up the other end of the country doing something award winning with chemicals, Morgana's in Paris doing something disgustingly high-powered, and my parents are quite happily divorced and alive. I don't need a dog named Cafall." Arthur says as Merlin puts the puppy in his already reaching out hands.
"And yet somehow you always end up with one." Merlin says. Still cheerfully. "What're you going to do, get a cat?" He pauses. "Well. Aside from the time you were engaged in a bit of piracy and smuggling. The cat sort of came with the ship."
"I still stand by my cat theory after having to share living space with that beast." Arthur says. "It was evil, predatory, thieving and a complete bastard."
"But so cute. And it's a cat, that's what they do. In a cute way." Merlin says.
Arthur shakes his head. "Give me dogs any day. Dogs don't sleep on your face or trip you up because they feel like it. Also, they don't try to get on the table."
"I wonder if I'd have become a cat person if my soul wasn't so irrevocably tied to a dog person." Merlin muses.
"Well, you are, so I say stop having such idiotic heretical ideas." Arthur says. he's not carefully petting the puppy whose name is not Cafall to keep it distracted. At all. he's merely making sure it stays calm. "Plus you're the one who normally comes home with the damn things." He looks down at the puppy. "Case in point."
---
"Pasties were invented in Devon." Merlin says. "I should know, I was the one who invented them."
Arthur groans and tilts his head back to hit the wall. "Merlin, we've had this argument. I know for a fact that you were never a miner, and you were certainly never a miner's wife."
"Or husband." Merlin sniffs. "Don't see why I couldn't have been a miner's husband. discrimination, that is."
"Excuse him, the centuries of lives have messed his head. You have never been a miner's significant other. You were a fisherman's once, and definitely a smuggler or two's, and we're not even talking about the thing you have for pirates, but definitely not a miner. How do I know this? Because you would've mentioned it and moaned about it. You moaned enough about the stink of fish with the fisherman." He pauses. "Also, you only mastered pastry two centuries ago. There was a dance of joy because you'd never been able to do it before semi modern technology got intro'd with the industrial revolution. Something about the lack of a spinning jenny in existence made you completely cack-handed at it, or do you not remember that period in the middle ages where you got a job at a bakery and then got firmly stuck on haulage and taking their money?"
"So how many times have you had this argument?" Beth asks.
"Mostly this reincarnation. he's gone a bit... Devonish." Arthur says, as Beth pokes Merlin carefully, as if he might explode.
"No more than your blatant Cornish loyalty." Merlin sniffs, batting away Beth's finger. "I blame the Tintagel roots that keep popping up. Anyway, Devon does better fudge."
There's hissing from around them. "Merlin, do we not remember the rule about stating idiotic things that might get you banned?" Arthur groans, looking at the ceiling. "Ignore him, he's sniffed the scrumpy, there's no getting any sense out of him, he's not responsible for his actions."
"It's not my taste buds that're defective, it's yours. It definitely does better clotted cream. And butter." Merlin states, crossing his arms.
"I might be willing to give leeway on the butter." Megan says.
Merlin turns to Arthur. "See?"
Megan holds up a finger. "But this doesn't excuse you on what you do to scones. That's just sick."
Merlin grins. "One day I will convince you of its superiority. One day."
Arthur looks at him. "Never."
Merlin widens his grin. "Come to the dark side, we have cookies."
The problem with being the latest reincarnation of the Once and Future King is that sometimes it's not immediately obvious what saving Britain involves this time around. And all right, 'the Once and Future King' does sound a bit poncy. King Arthur then. Except that's just the most well-known of his reincarnations. He's been all kinds of things since these islands got uncovered by ice and colonised by homo sapiens, with enough population to earn its own avatar, a guardian stroke saviour, reincarnated throughout time due to the bloody great magic sink that it is. He's been everything from war leader to Roman soldier to king, politician to plumber. Sometimes it's bloody obvious what he has to do - uniting a kingdom against the invading Saxon hordes is easy to figure out compared to some. The plumber one was a bit odd, he kept expecting to be called up for military service or something, but when it came down to it, averting a major cholera and typhus outbreak definitely counts as saving a generation. The Morgana - Morgan le Fay of the time kept smirking and referring to him as being covered in glory, only she wasn't aware glory smelled like that. He loves his occasional sister slash occasional cousin who can never seem to decide from one decade to the next, never mind incarnation, on whether she wants to kill him. Really. Her sense of humour, such as it is, is a definite constant throughout the ages. As for all the fuss about his parentage and place of birth - well, he's been legitimate, illegitimate, fostered out, orphaned, welsh, Cornish, British, Anglo-Saxon, half-Roman, and on a couple of memorable occasions, actually born overseas but conceived here. As for the whole grand romance that got utterly obsessed over during the middle ages and immortalised by the French, he's been everything from married to exceedingly single, cheated on and not, and occasionally a threesome. He really does get sick of everyone fixating on one bloody marriage that got embroidered something chronic as it is.
Currently he's stuck behind a counter, waiting for the lunch rush. Although he's normally born with the realisation that he's the latest reincarnation of Britain's guardian - no lightning bolts or revelations at puberty, thank you, that would just be messy. It'd probably lead to misguided vision quests, and if he had an entirely different personality, the urge to have a nervous breakdown. He realised very early on that the station and life he was born into was the one he was stuck with, and just going along with life's twists and turns would normally get him to the point he was supposed to be at. War starts and he joins up. Being a soldier would get him away from home, and it's not as though there was enough there for many mouths to feed anyway. Plumbing was an entirely respectable job. He'll admit to being a bit stumped on this one, though. After he'd left school, he'd had enough jobs in cafés to know how the things worked, so opening his own up with the bit of money that he'd had stashed away had seemed logical. There was enough trade during the winter to keep it ticking over until the tourists came in summer, and the hours let him keep up his rugby playing and surfing.
However, right now he can finally get out from behind the counter because the door's opening and a tousled head attached to a body and a large box is backing through it. "Finally, what took you so long? did you go and milk the cow yourself to get that cream?" Arthur asks.
"It's not just cream, it's eggs as well." The bearer of the box says. "I had to coax the chickens and reassure their feelings that their eggs were going to a good cause."
"Funny, Merlin. Now pass me the box, I need to dash to the post office to get that parcel posted."
Yes, Merlin. Best friend, tormentor, advisor and general all-round pain in his arse throughout the ages, no matter what life he's living in that incarnation, Merlin normally turns up on his doorstep with his stupid grin and stupid magic. Contrary to the King Arthur legend, Merlin is very rarely a Gandalf-a-like old bloke with a beard since he's normally around the same age as Arthur. he sulked something chronic when the Victorians really went on about that aspect, and utterly hated the Disney film, and there's normally at least one drunken moan per reincarnation about it.
"Oh, *you* get shining example of prime of your life manliness, and what do I get? Sodding Gandalf. Cheers, fucking Geoffrey of Monmouth. Why didn't I give the fucker piles when I could?"
The current version is a half-English half-Hawaiian boy, born and raised in Devon, who came to Cornwall on holiday one year. He walked into a pub Arthur was having a quiet pint in, rucksack on his back, went up to the bar, poked Arthur in the shoulder and said "I thought it was about time I ran into you. Mine's a Magners." And then just... didn't leave after his holiday and started pottering around the kitchen of the café and serving customers and then Arthur had to bloody pay him even after he'd colonised the spare room with all his junk, never mind Arthur’s bed and two thirds of the duvet. He's pretty sure Merlin's signed enough paperwork and so on by now that he's actually the co-owner. he wouldn't put it past him. Merlin has never been not at least slightly sneaky in each incarnation. Except when it comes to using his magic for something and then looking innocent. That, he's terrible at. There's been a couple of reincarnations where he tried to hide the fact that he was using it and Arthur had to cuff him round the head, because having suspiciously shiny floors and milk that didn't go off in summer when witch finders were on the lookout for anything suspicious was just plain stupid.
Arthur comes round the counter and takes the produce box from Merlin, putting it in the kitchen, then grabbing the parcel from beneath the counter. "Right, text me if you need anything else, but I'm not going to pick it up until I'm in the queue."
"What about-" Merlin starts, but Arthur holds up his hand.
"I'm going. Now. And next time take your bloody keys with you." Arthur says, pushing the door open.
When he gets back, Merlin's cleaning the tables. "Milkshake or tea?" Arthur asks.
"Neither. HP sauce, would you believe." Merlin says, frowning. "The bottle decided to try for the long distance awards. Completely missed the plate when they squirted it. At least they tried to clean it up themselves first, but it's still got to be done." he straightens, sighing. "Why you couldn't open a bookshop or a bike shop..."
"I wasn't aware you knew the first thing about fixing a leaky tire, let alone mending a bike, Merlin." Arthur says. "Let me know when you decide to go on a course."
----
Merlin's sitting watching the telly as Arthur fixes himself a cuppa. Some sort of documentary about logging in the rainforest and the evil corporations that do it. Arthur's just putting the milk back in the fridge when Merlin makes a 'huh' noise.
Arthur lifts his head. "What is it this time? Something you didn't know of the many things you happen to be spectacularly ignorant about? I swear, if you'd just watch the news..."
"Not all of us can be addicted to QI, Arthur." Merlin shoots back, then gestures at the screen. "I just spotted Lance."
Arthur frowns. "Are you sure?"
"Seriously, come watch and then tell me if I'm wrong." Merlin says, patting the armrest of the sofa.
"Remember, he's allowed to be spectacularly ugly, it has happened." Arthur says.
"Once." Merlin says. "And that was after he managed to get boiling tar poured on him during the crusades. He was still born unbelievably good-looking and knowing how to do Blue Steel from birth." He pauses. "It's scary how many of you lot can."
"It's an inborn talent, Merlin, you've either got it or you haven't." Arthur replies, making his way over to the couch and hitching one leg up on the armrest. "Okay, point out to me which person is supposed to be Lance. I presume it's one of the do-gooders."
Merlin snorts. "As if Lance would be anything else."
"He's been a mercenary enough times." Arthur points out, trying not to let his knuckles touch the mug. that way leads to not quite burned but bloody painful knuckles. "And we're not even going to mention some of the stuff that happened when he was a monk."
"I'm blaming that on the unbelievably weird beliefs the church had about redemption and sin at the time." Merlin says. "Now watch."
Arthur snorts as one of the aid workers slash reporters speaks to the camera. "Oh, come on, that bloke's definitely not Lance. False hope."
"I didn't say him. The one there. Him." Merlin says, pointing. "Blue shirt."
"What makes you think it's -" The documentary reporter in the blue shirt makes a gesture. "Oh god it totally is. You're right. That's Lance."
Merlin leans back, arms folded, smug written all over him. "Told you."
"Over five bloody millennia and he's still doing that same about to reach for his ear thing as he did when Stonehenge was built whenever he needs to collect his thoughts." Arthur shakes his head and blows on his tea.
"Come on, how many times have we seen him and Gwen do the exact same nervous wistful glance whenever they were married to someone else?" Merlin says. "And it's not like we don't recognise each other on sight."
"That's different." Arthur objects. "We're stuck together, they're variables. they change more."
"Change more is right." Merlin says. "I still think whenever you were royalty bled back and forth in the time line to make all your incarnations entitled arseholes no matter how much money you had."
"Hmph. See if I drag you out of the stocks or save you from being beaten up when we first meet ever again." Arthur replies.
"You say this every incarnation, and you've yet to follow up on your threat." Merlin points out, poking him in the knee.
"One of these days I will, and then where will you be?"
"Having a quieter life is what."
---
The pub is... medium busy. Tuesday night after the fairly decent band finished. and not a band who decide to shred everyone's eardrums, either. And it was something that sounded like they'd been listening to a lot of salsa. A bit like a Cornish Gypsy Kings. Odd, but listenable and good background music. A couple of people even got up and danced.
"Oh, come on, when have I ever been not fighting off the conquering hordes? It's what I'm designed to do by nature! I'm the sodding guardian of the isles, I don't have any choice about it." Arthur declares, flinging his arms out. He may have had a few by this point.
Merlin coughs in the background, saying something that sounds suspiciously like "Canute."
"I am ignoring that and you definitely didn't say that." Arthur says. Ignoring it. Nobly.
Merlin clears his throat. "I said, Canute."
"I said we were ignoring that." Arthur says, aiming for his ankle and missing. "Merlin."
"Canute? As in King Canute that ordered the waves to go back to show his advisers they were twerps? Wasn't he Danish?" Kev asks. "Actually, I can see you doing that. Only with surfboard in hand and wetsuit on. 'I command you waves to go *back*! And rear up a bit and make for good surfing while we're at it, please'."
"He united the kingdom and beat off all the other invading hordes." Arthur mumbles. "Sometimes the guardian thing manifests itself in weird ways."
"Still Danish." Kev points out.
"Little known fact, he was conceived in Britain." Merlin says cheerfully. "Apparently that's enough for destiny. It turned out all right. Well. Aside from the fact that you had two wives. Still not sure how you managed that and I was there. I mean, you've been in threesomes with lance and Gwen a few times, but neither of them were in there this time."
"By being really careful and Emma really quite liking my first wife." Arthur says.
Kev takes a sip from his pint. "You're sure you weren't reincarnated as William the Conqueror too? He united the country too. You know, only with extra massacres."
"Fuck. Off." Arthur says. "I have never been Norman. And any fucker who suggests I was Oliver Cromwell is this far from getting a spatula shoved up their arse. Charles was an utter shit, but I definitely wasn't Cromwell then."
"Not Excalibur?" Shell asks. "A pointy magic sword is a far nastier threat than a spatula. Especially if it comes with the lady of the lake attached."
Arthur snorts. "You honestly think I'd let an antique sword that holds a nice edge, in suspiciously good nick for lurking in ponds with strange women who like anointing people in farcical aquatic ceremonies near your arse? For a start, Antiques Roadshow and the re-enactment societies would have me strung up by my goolies."
"So where do you keep it if not in a pond? Sticking out of a stone? Do we get to see feats of great strength?" Shell asks. "Preferably with your shirt off."
"Nah, 's down the back of the sofa." Merlin says cheerfully, raising his beer. "And if you want to see him with his shirt off, come down the rugby or lurk around the beach during summer. It's not hard, half the county's seen that."
Kev laughs. "Nice one. Like you're keeping a famed sword down the back of the sofa. It's in the British Museum or a private collection by now, right?"
Arthur grins and raises his own beer in semi acknowledgement defeat. "Got me there."
He takes a mouthful, and glances at Merlin, who just grins around his pint. The truth is, it is down the back of the sofa. Safest place to keep it after they found it sticking out of a rock after going for a hike one day. Bloody great lump of metal has a habit of following him around. It's not like he can ever use it most of the time, and it looked *really* stupid when humanity switched to rapiers. It's spent most of his last several reincarnations wrapped in oilcloth or hanging on a wall, just sitting there. Merlin thinks it's dreaming of a time when it was useful. To which Arthur had to respond in the 1920s that it would take the collapse of current civilisation for it to be useful.
Kev tilts his head. "So is it actually magic? Legends seem to differ."
Arthur shakes his head. "Nah. Well, it keeps an edge better than anything has a right to and it doesn't rust or break. Plus it follows me around a bit, like muggins here. Though that's probably just chance more than anything."
Merlin prods him in the shin with his foot, only he connects. "I am worth considerably more to you than a bit of metal."
"And the bit of metal isn't going to give you a blow-job" Shell adds.
"But nope, doesn't glow, never zapped anyone, never healed anyone, never acted as a beacon and never got past a dragon's vulnerable spot." Arthur says. "Sorry to spoil your boyhood fantasies, Kev."
"Bugger. What about the scabbard?" Kev asks. "I thought that was supposed to be the healing bit."
"Nope." Merlin says.
"...A scabbard healed someone?" Shell asks. "We are talking about the case for the sword, right?"
"Yep." Kev says. "I think it's one of those 'the counterpart does the opposite' things bards like as poetic justice."
Merlin snorts. "I think those storytellers were seriously on the mead. Seriously, how the fuck is something that's basically a couple of bits of wood, fleece and leather and a few bits of metal supposed to heal someone? Excalibur doesn't even turn up with one. Any time. Ever. Not even in the incredibly ridiculous stories that have built up over the years."
"Ah, you're just not understanding the needs of the frustrated leather worker who makes the things and needs a bit of a boost to his business so bullied his brother in law the bard into saying something." Arthur says, amused.
"Really?" Shell says. "That's really what happened?"
"Dunno." Arthur says. "But it's usually how things happen, money and business. Like holy relics. someone's figured out how to make a bob or two, and it's amazing how humanity has always believed in good luck charms." He sips his beer. "Gods come and go, good luck charms keep going."
"Really?" Shell asks.,
"Shell, you're sounding like a broken record." Kev says. "Yeah, I can see that. But all of time?"
"Well, we've only existed since there was a human population on this archipelago, but that's a good four or five thousand years, including the stone age, so I think we can safely be authorities on it." Arthur says.
Merlin holds up a finger. "Unless it's Puritans. Never ever ever in that case. Completely mad. Like, verging on those monks that used to believe whipping themselves brought them closer to god and didn't even get any masochistic pleasure out of it. Seriously, I can understand hanging upside down in a tree and getting whipped for your god to get visions -"
" - Which Merlin here has never done, honest, it was a *friend*." Arthur says.
Merlin dips his finger in his beer and flicks some at Arthur. "Shut up, you did it too. But always denying yourself for life is just nuts."
"Okay, that's something I was curious about." Kev says. "The religion thing. You say you've seen gods rise and fall, how soon did you start denouncing them?"
"Didn't." Arthur says. "Half the times the gods were just... there. Fervent religious belief was something for the real nutter priests, you worshipped the local gods, knew they did things, and that was about it. Gods names just changed depending where and when you were."
---
Merlin walks into the café, holding something wrapped inside the front of his hoodie. Water's dripping off him, and he kicks the door closed before the rain can get in enough to make a puddle on the floor past the mat that's there to soak up the water. It's Cornwall, rain just happens, and brollies are for the weak and those optimists who believe the rain won't come at you from three angles at once. As he stands there on the mat, dripping a bit and rubbing water off his nose with his shoulder, the bundled-up item squeaks.
Arthur narrows his eyes as Merlin lets his hoodie loosen to reveal short fur and a floppy ear. "Merlin, is that a puppy?"
"...Possibly." Merlin says, all big eyes and hopeful look. Honestly, it's like he's auditioning for whatsisface from Pacific Rim. The one whose actor's in Sons of Anarchy and was in the original Queer as Folk and Ellie the postman insists is basically a golden retriever in human form.
"Why do you have a puppy?" Arthur asks.
"It followed me home?" Merlin attempts, then looks down at where it's wrapped in his hoodie and realises that that excuse really isn't going to hold any water. Following isn't something that happens when you're carrying said animal. He pauses. "All right, all right, they were giving them away. Free to a good home is what the sign said." He opens his hoodie a bit more to reveal... it may possibly be a terrier, it's at that still a bit tiny and squashed stage. Mostly eyes and ears. possibly some terrier in there. "Say hello to Cafall. Isn't he adorable?"
Arthur groans. He's probably already lost. "Merlin, not every dog of mine needs to be named Cafall."
"Yes they do." Merlin insists, stamping his feet a bit to get the last of the water off his boots, then walking through to the back of the kitchen where they keep the mops and cleaning products to get one of the old towels they keep there.
Arthur follows him through. "Merlin, he's not even a proper hunting dog breed."
Merlin sniffs. it's either indignation or the last of the water on his nose. Either one is possible at this moment. "Back in the day all dogs were hunting dogs. He can be one if he wants. Don't shatter his dreams."
Arthur groans. again. It's a very old argument, though at least Cafall is normally a sensible sort of dog. even the ones Merlin brings home. he rather liked the Great Dane. It was fairly destructive since it tended to forget precisely how big it was when inside the house, but having a dog that was bigger than most humans was incredibly reassuring when you wanted to intimidate someone. Gwen used to call him 'the man least likely to get mugged in the area' back then. "I swear, one of these days you're going to bring back a chihuahua and insist it could be a hunting dog."
"Don't be silly." Merlin says, putting the puppy on the towel he's pulled out of the cupboard. "Chihuahuas look for bombing and earthquake victims, they're not any good for hunting." He looks thoughtful whilst rubbing the puppy down a bit, in case of any rain getting on it. "I'd like a vallhund, though."
Arthur raises an eyebrow. "...I have no idea what that is."
Merlin pulls out his phone and googles something. "Swedish cowdog. here." He passes over his phone to show Arthur a picture of what looks like a wolf husky cross with stunted legs.
Arthur turns the phone round so the picture flips, then back again. No, it still looks weird. "So what you're telling me is that you want what is essentially a corgi with pretensions of being a wolf."
"Well, a corgi is a cowdog." Merlin concedes. "But it was bred by Vikings, Arthur! It's a Viking wolf corgi! How cool is that?" He grins, going back to rubbing the possibly named Cafall down. "Plus, think of the double-takes when you're walking down the street."
"What I'm seeing is that someone is thinking of all the attention he'd get when walking down the street." Arthur says dryly. "You'd not get two yards without being stopped by a teenage girl who wanted to pet it. I’ve seen you eyeing that husky who goes past occasionally. I see through your plans."
"Transparent as always." Merlin agrees cheerfully.
"Do we have to keep the dog?" Arthur sighs.
"Yes." Merlin says.
"And do we have to name it Cafall? I've already had one Cafall in this lifetime, a Labrador when I was a kid."
"And thus you need a new one to complete you." Merlin says, picking up the puppy, wrapped in its towel. He's not stupid, there's no telling if it's been house trained yet. the puppy eyes Arthur suspiciously. At least it's showing some signs of intelligence this early on.
"I do not need a dog to complete me, Merlin. An idiot magician, maybe, but I don't need a dog. Do you see any of the knights? A table? Gwen's up the other end of the country doing something award winning with chemicals, Morgana's in Paris doing something disgustingly high-powered, and my parents are quite happily divorced and alive. I don't need a dog named Cafall." Arthur says as Merlin puts the puppy in his already reaching out hands.
"And yet somehow you always end up with one." Merlin says. Still cheerfully. "What're you going to do, get a cat?" He pauses. "Well. Aside from the time you were engaged in a bit of piracy and smuggling. The cat sort of came with the ship."
"I still stand by my cat theory after having to share living space with that beast." Arthur says. "It was evil, predatory, thieving and a complete bastard."
"But so cute. And it's a cat, that's what they do. In a cute way." Merlin says.
Arthur shakes his head. "Give me dogs any day. Dogs don't sleep on your face or trip you up because they feel like it. Also, they don't try to get on the table."
"I wonder if I'd have become a cat person if my soul wasn't so irrevocably tied to a dog person." Merlin muses.
"Well, you are, so I say stop having such idiotic heretical ideas." Arthur says. he's not carefully petting the puppy whose name is not Cafall to keep it distracted. At all. he's merely making sure it stays calm. "Plus you're the one who normally comes home with the damn things." He looks down at the puppy. "Case in point."
---
"Pasties were invented in Devon." Merlin says. "I should know, I was the one who invented them."
Arthur groans and tilts his head back to hit the wall. "Merlin, we've had this argument. I know for a fact that you were never a miner, and you were certainly never a miner's wife."
"Or husband." Merlin sniffs. "Don't see why I couldn't have been a miner's husband. discrimination, that is."
"Excuse him, the centuries of lives have messed his head. You have never been a miner's significant other. You were a fisherman's once, and definitely a smuggler or two's, and we're not even talking about the thing you have for pirates, but definitely not a miner. How do I know this? Because you would've mentioned it and moaned about it. You moaned enough about the stink of fish with the fisherman." He pauses. "Also, you only mastered pastry two centuries ago. There was a dance of joy because you'd never been able to do it before semi modern technology got intro'd with the industrial revolution. Something about the lack of a spinning jenny in existence made you completely cack-handed at it, or do you not remember that period in the middle ages where you got a job at a bakery and then got firmly stuck on haulage and taking their money?"
"So how many times have you had this argument?" Beth asks.
"Mostly this reincarnation. he's gone a bit... Devonish." Arthur says, as Beth pokes Merlin carefully, as if he might explode.
"No more than your blatant Cornish loyalty." Merlin sniffs, batting away Beth's finger. "I blame the Tintagel roots that keep popping up. Anyway, Devon does better fudge."
There's hissing from around them. "Merlin, do we not remember the rule about stating idiotic things that might get you banned?" Arthur groans, looking at the ceiling. "Ignore him, he's sniffed the scrumpy, there's no getting any sense out of him, he's not responsible for his actions."
"It's not my taste buds that're defective, it's yours. It definitely does better clotted cream. And butter." Merlin states, crossing his arms.
"I might be willing to give leeway on the butter." Megan says.
Merlin turns to Arthur. "See?"
Megan holds up a finger. "But this doesn't excuse you on what you do to scones. That's just sick."
Merlin grins. "One day I will convince you of its superiority. One day."
Arthur looks at him. "Never."
Merlin widens his grin. "Come to the dark side, we have cookies."