And a Bed for Three (1/2)
Title: And a Bed for Three
Wordcount: ~19,500
Summary: Arthur is back in London after two years away, but it's hard to settle in when he can't stop thinking about Merlin and Freya. Who are already together. He's fairly certain this isn't normal.
A/N: Inspired by one of my pornathon entries from this summer and by the fact that I think this is a totally underrated threesome. Title from Lisa Mitchell's "Coin Laundry." Only finished with a great deal of encouragement and glee from the lovely flammablehat.
Disclaimer: I do not own Merlin.
“Morgana and Gwen’s flat,” says a stranger across the intercom when Arthur presses the button, and for a second he’s at a loss for words. “Hello?” the woman continues when he doesn’t answer quickly enough. “Are you here for the party?”
“Yes, it’s … ah, it’s Arthur.” And who the hell are you, he doesn’t ask, because it’s entirely reasonable that Morgana and Gwen have made new friends in the two years he was out of the country, and he knew in advance some of them would be at this party.
There’s what sounds like a scramble across the intercom, a rush of voices and laughter and the distinct sound of Morgana shouting “You’re late” before the buzzer goes and he goes inside, letting them keep talking into the night.
Gwen opens the door when he knocks, smiling and a bit teary and hugely pregnant (she’s only six months on, but any amount of pregnancy from his sister’s long-term partner that has not ended in Morgana on a separate continent or possibly a rocket ship and still running counts as hugely pregnant as far as he’s concerned). “We were beginning to think you weren’t coming! Not that you’d be anxious about it or anything, but maybe you were jetlagged or something.”
Arthur smiles, on a slightly more even keel with the familiar sight of Gwen fluttering about in front of him, and holds out what he’s got in his hands. “I brought you flowers and Morgana grape juice from Napa Valley. I would have brought her wine, but I decided that if you aren’t allowed to drink she shouldn’t be either.”
Morgana, summoned by the sound of her name, appears in the doorway looking as put together as ever. Gwen’s sense of good timing makes her divest Arthur of his offerings two seconds before Morgana slugs him in the arm with all her strength and then hugs the breath out of him with the door still held open and all the other guests watching from the sitting room. “Welcome back,” she whispers, and then shoves away and pretends none of it happened.
“Your hair got long,” he says before cursing himself for the inanity.
Inane or not, it seems to give Morgana her equilibrium back. “Yes, and Gwen got pregnant, it’s amazing how these little things change when you fuck off to California for two years to do business and don’t come for visits. Come on, come in, I’ll introduce you to all the strangers and you can tell us all about the movie stars you met, as movie stars are the only excuse I will accept for you never visiting.”
Arthur raises his eyebrows at Gwen behind Morgana’s back. She just gives an elaborate shrug and then takes Morgana’s arm, giving her the pitiful look that has worked on Morgana since they were all sixteen. “Maybe let him chat to the people he knows for a bit, Morgana, he only got back to town yesterday and he probably hasn’t even talked to Leon yet. Besides, it isn’t as if there are a lot of people here.”
When Morgana turns to her to start a low-voiced argument, Gwen widens her eyes at Arthur in a way that suggests he should make himself scarce as quickly as possible, and he obeys, latching onto the first familiar face he sees-Elyan, Gwen’s brother. “Morgana claimed party hosting rights,” he says with great sympathy, and passes Arthur a beer. “We all thought Leon would, but she claimed blood relative status.”
“I forgot what she gets like when she’s hosting.” It isn’t as if they haven’t talked at least twice a week most of the time he’s been gone, on the phone and Skype both.
“It’s only gotten worse since Gwen got pregnant.” Arthur toasts him and takes a swallow of the beer. “I won’t ask you about California, you’ll have to say it a hundred times tonight, maybe we should just stop the proceedings and have you tell all of us at once.”
“I’ll have cards printed.” Arthur catches sight of Leon across the room, chatting with a dark-haired woman he doesn’t know. “I’ve just spotted Leon, I should go say hello. He pines without me, you know.”
“Can’t stand in the way of the bromance of the century,” Elyan says, and waves him off.
Leon envelops Arthur in a hug tighter than Morgana’s once he’s within arm’s reach. “Yes, yes, you’ve missed me in the eight weeks since you came and crashed in my guest bed,” says Arthur, clapping him on the back. “Sorry I didn’t call you when I got in yesterday, by the time I walked through the door to my flat all I wanted to do was sleep.”
Leon beams at him. “It’s fine, Arthur, I figured that was it. I only doodled your name sadly on three of my notebooks.” The woman who’s still standing there laughs, and Leon starts like he forgot about her. “Sorry, Freya, forgot my manners. This is Morgana’s brother Arthur, and Arthur, this is Freya, we’ve probably mentioned her.”
The name is familiar, though everyone tends to update him on the people he knew before he left and not anyone new passing through the group. “Of course you have,” he says nonetheless. “Good to meet you, Freya.” She shakes his hand, grip surprisingly firm.
“I’ll leave you two to catch up,” she says after a few more pleasantries, peering across the room and then breaking out into a mischievous grin. “Merlin seems to have been kidnapped by Elena, that’s only going to end in an explosion.”
With that, she disappears, leaving Arthur to blink at Leon. “I didn’t think Elena fought with anyone, who’s this Merlin she can’t get along with?”
Leon laughs. “Literal explosions, I’m afraid. Merlin’s a scientist, Elena’s decided he’s the second coming of Bill Nye, never mind that the first coming of Bill Nye isn’t finished with yet, and if we let them talk alone too long it inevitably ends in flames. Though to be fair Merlin makes a really good flambé.”
Merlin’s one of the ones Gwen talks about when they chat, someone she met at some engineering conference who she promptly adopted like the proverbial puppy following her home, so Arthur knows enough to be entertained by that. “I’ll look forward to getting to know him.”
“He and Freya are great, they’re the two that’ve stuck around the most since you fled the country-”
“Transferred offices,” Arthur corrects.
“-and you’ll get on like a house on fire.” Leon grimaces. “Hopefully not a literal one.”
“I’ll take your word for it. Now, tell me what else I’ve missed with everyone else who’s here.”
Leon is an inveterate gossip, so he spends the next fifteen minutes telling Arthur about Mithian’s promotions and Gwaine and Vivian’s on-again off-again shagging (current status: on) and Lancelot’s latest adventures in his endless quest to find himself until Morgana marches up to them, takes Arthur’s arm, and hauls him off without more than a smile at Leon. After that, he’s introduced to all of Morgana and Gwen’s co-workers and the various acquaintances who are either new or forgotten by him, since this is technically not a homecoming party so he has to put up with strangers.
In the end, Morgana is called off by some sort of disaster in the kitchen (Gwen winks at him from the kitchen door, which is why she’s his favorite sister-in-law), and she deposits him on a couch next to a strange man with dark hair, large ears, and the look of being someone’s absent-minded professor. “I’ve forgotten who you are,” he admits, since it’s best to be up front about these things.
Surprisingly, that just gets him an improbably wide grin. “No worries, I’ve got the advantage, I’ve seen your picture around here and on Facebook and stuff.” Arthur spares a moment to worry about what exactly Morgana is posting about him on Facebook. He hasn’t had time to log on in months. “I’m Merlin.”
“Oh, right, the famous Merlin, I knew you looked familiar-Morgana showed me pictures one time.” He shakes Merlin’s hand and does his best to relax. From what he’s heard, Merlin isn’t going to be a stranger much longer. “Did you get rescued from Elena?”
“You were talking to Freya. She’s always maligning my character.” The grin Merlin gives Freya across the room is so besotted it’s almost embarrassing to watch. “Elena and I don’t need rescuing from each other. Honestly, you start an alcohol fire once and suddenly you aren’t trusted …”
Arthur laughs. “Morgana apparently forgot to tell me that one.”
“Funny, she never lets me forget it.” He’s still watching Freya, as if he’s forgotten he wasn’t doing it in the first place, and he starts when she turns around to smile and shake her head at him in the midst of a serious conversation with Mithian. Merlin, unrepentant, just waves. “Sorry,” he says when he remembers to look back at Arthur. “Just …”
“No problem.” He’s still tired and overwhelmed, but he’s starting to remember a bit of what Morgana and Gwen have told him about Merlin and Freya-specifically that they’re together, the sort of couple that’s made for each other in the kind of way that would be sickening if it weren’t so adorable. And when even Gwen says that he knows it has to be blatant. He’s beginning to see what they mean. “How long have you two been dating?”
“Since halfway through university.” Merlin turns back to Arthur, apparently done staring at his girlfriend like an idiot. “Boring story, really. Took a course together, studied together, figured out we just … fit.”
“I never said it has to be interesting.” If theirs was a story fit for a romantic comedy Arthur might have to be rather disgusted with them, in fact. He gets enough of that from Morgana and Gwen, thank God they’re settled these days. “Your job apparently makes up for that. Leon tells me you’re some sort of mad scientist?”
Merlin laughs and takes to the segue easily, talking about his job as a research physicist in terms Arthur can barely keep up with. Still, the conversation moves easily from work to friends to television to a long and vicious argument on cooking shows and whether or not Gordon Ramsay has any appeal on either side of the ocean. Arthur’s friends stop by the couch and chat for a few minutes apiece, but to his surprise conversation seems easiest with Merlin until he ends the night by yawning.
The second he does, Gwen adroitly extracts him from the party, puts him in his jacket, and calls a cab. “This is why I told Morgana we ought to wait a week before dragging you into a party,” she says while they wait for it to come. “Are you totally knackered?”
“Yes, but I’ll have brunch with the two of you day after tomorrow and I should be right as rain by then, okay?”
“Okay. Did you at least have a good time tonight?”
Arthur rolls his eyes. “Of course, Gwen. Merlin seems like a nice bloke, and Freya’s lovely from what I saw of her. It’ll take a while to get used to seeing everyone on a regular basis again, but I have missed you all, so I’m happy to be here.”
Gwen gives him a sudden hug, pregnant stomach pressed against him as she goes up on her toes. “We have missed you. Morgana especially, even though she’ll never admit it. If you try to go out of the country for more than a vacation again we’re going to chain you up in your flat. You’re going to be an uncle, you can’t just abandon your niece.”
“I promise,” he says, giving her a kiss on the forehead, and pulls away as his cab comes up the street. “I’ll call you two tomorrow when Morgana’s hungover from that wine she’s been pretending not to drink all night.”
Gwen laughs. “Oh, Arthur, how we’ve missed you.”
*
Five days later, after Arthur’s had time to settle back into the rhythm of London, had coffee and drinks with what seems like everyone of his acquaintance (wearing all his best stories about California thin in the process), and gone to his first day of work back at the London office, his phone rings in the evening with a number he doesn’t know. For a second, he thinks about not answering, since all he really feels like doing is watching the rerun of Top Gear that’s playing, but he picks up before it goes to voicemail. “Hello?”
“Hi, Arthur? It’s Merlin. Gwen gave me your number, I hope you don’t mind.”
“Not at all.” He mutes the television. “What can I do for you? Or is this a courtesy call to let me know that my sister-in-law is giving my private information out to strangers?”
Merlin laughs. “I’d worry more about your sister doing that, really. Anyway, Freya and I were thinking we ought to get to know you better, since we’re all part of the same group now, and we wondered if you might come to our flat for dinner sometime soon. You’ve probably been busy all week, but whenever you’re free we’d love to have you.”
“That sounds lovely, actually, though you’re right, I have been busy. I could use a few nights at home to unpack. When are you two free?”
“We thought maybe Sunday?” Someone talks in the background-probably Freya-and Merlin lets out a nervous laugh. “Or, you know, whenever.”
“Sunday is fine, actually. I’ve been roped into helping Morgana and Gwen do some shopping for the nursery in the morning, but my evening is free.”
“Great. Maybe seven? I’ll text you directions, you sound knackered and I don’t know if I trust you to remember them just now.”
Arthur grins. “I’m beginning to see why you and Morgana get along. Yes, by all means, I’m going to go back to staring mindlessly at my television. See you Sunday, Merlin.”
“See you Sunday,” says Merlin, voice low, and hangs up before Arthur can do more than blink at his tone.
*
Sunday, Arthur turns up at Merlin and Freya’s door five minutes late due to inconvenient Tube scheduling. Merlin opens the door with flour in his hair. He’s also, Arthur notes a second later, wearing a sweater vest. “You’re really embracing the scientist stereotype, aren’t you?” he says before he can quite stop himself.
“I’m trying to talk him into bow ties.” Freya appears behind Merlin, tugging him gently back until Arthur can come in and shut the door. “Hello, it’s good to see you, Arthur. Put your jacket anywhere, we’re sort of still working on furnishings.”
Arthur obediently shucks off his coat and leaves it on top of what seems to be a pile of scarves and mittens next to the shoes. “No problem. I brought wine, it seemed the thing to do.”
Merlin takes it from him. “You didn’t have to, but thanks. Dinner should be ready in five, chicken and asparagus and a few other things, and the shortcake is in the oven for dessert.”
“Sounds delicious.”
“Speaking of, I’ll go check on the kitchen. Freya, want to show him around?”
“Sure.” She gives Merlin a quick kiss and then prods him away to smile at Arthur. “Shall we? It’s not much, but you ought to have the tour anyway.”
“Yes, of course.” When Freya turns away, there’s a smudged handprint in flour on the back of her red blouse. “You’ve got flour on your back,” he says. Normally he wouldn’t mention it, but he’s used to Morgana shouting at him for not telling if she’s got a hair out of place.
“Whoops, sorry, probably Merlin’s fault.” She cranes her neck over her shoulder and then gives him an impish grin. “Mind getting it off for me? Just a bit of brushing should get it off easy enough.”
Arthur obeys, brushing it off as quickly as possible. His hands and Merlin’s must be nearly the same size, judging by how easily his hand covers the print. Freya’s back is warm and her blouse is smooth and silky and Arthur snatches his hand back the second he realizes he’s noticing it. “There you go.”
“Thanks. Come on in, we’re still standing in the hallway.” Arthur follows, and lets her gesture him around the flat. It’s small, but cozy, the living room draped all over in brightly-colored, soft throws, with a massive comfortable couch and a few less comfortable chairs scattered around. The kitchen, where Merlin is stirring something on the stovetop, is small enough that all three of them standing in it would be a squeeze, and their table would only fit four in a pinch, but the whole place feels like someone’s home, which Arthur’s flat certainly doesn’t after two years unoccupied. “That’s the bedroom,” Freya says at last, gesturing at a closed door on the far wall, “but you don’t really need to see that, I suppose.”
“No, we haven’t quite reached that stage of acquaintance.” He pauses and rethinks that, but no, there’s really no way of putting it that doesn’t sound awful. He can only hope Merlin isn’t the jealous sort.
Freya doesn’t look at all bothered. “Of course. Merlin, how’s dinner going?”
“About ready, if the two of you are done poking around our postage stamp of a flat.” Arthur takes that cue to go to the table, set with a mismatched mess of dishes, and lets Freya and Merlin put all the food on the table and pour some of his wine. “I’d say you should tell us about California,” Merlin says while they’re all serving themselves up, “but I imagine you’re rather sick of talking about it. Really, I feel I ought to ask you if you have any embarrassing childhood stories about Morgana that you’d like to share.”
Arthur laughs. “I do, but it’s more than my life is worth to tell them. Why don’t you talk about yourselves first? I know how much everyone gossips, you probably know my whole life story already.”
Merlin pins him with an odd look. “Yes, but we haven’t heard it from you.” Before Arthur can think of a response, he goes on. “What do you want to know? I do science and cause far less explosions than your sister and Elena will lead you to believe. I’m from a tiny little village nobody’s ever heard of, and … no, really, that’s about it. I can’t possibly be that boring. Freya, tell him something interesting about me.”
Freya finishes a sip of her wine while she deliberates. “He plays chess,” she offers, then wrinkles her nose. “That doesn’t make him seem less boring, I suppose. He’s a great cook and he can quote pretty much any Monty Python routine and most of Blackadder verbatim.”
Arthur can’t help grinning. “Doesn’t sound boring at all. What about you? I’m afraid I haven’t picked up what you do yet.”
“I’m a veterinary assistant at an animal clinic in the city-working towards my degree to be a proper vet.”
“No pets, though?”
“We’re waiting till we get a better flat before we get a cat or two,” Merlin explains around a mouthful of asparagus.
From there, the conversation flows easily, ranging from careers to mutual friends to music and movies and favorite places in the city. The food is delicious, from the salad to the dessert, which is covered in lethal amounts of whipped cream that gets absolutely everywhere. Merlin and Freya seem to have no compunction whatsoever about wiping (or, in one particularly spectacular moment where Freya gets some on her wrist, licking) it off each other. Arthur would feel awkward, or like a third wheel, with anyone else, but one or the other of them always grins like he’s in on some sort of joke, and at one point Merlin wipes some cream off Arthur’s cheek with a grin and a wink.
They shoo Arthur out the second he offers to help with the dishes, Merlin with a slap on the back and Freya with a kiss on the cheek, and he goes home feeling baffled and warm and not quite sure what he’s getting into.
*
Evenings at the pub, for the duration of Gwen’s pregnancy, seem to have been replaced by afternoons at the coffeeshop around the corner from Morgana and Gwen’s flat. Most everyone gorges on coffee and baked goods, but Morgana and Gwen both seem to be drinking herbal tea (Morgana with every appearance of pleasure, God knows why she likes the stuff, and Gwen with an air of long-suffering reluctance). Arthur, pathetically glad to be around proper tea again after two years in the land of Starbucks, sticks with tea as well, though not the herbal stuff.
Everyone, he’s starting to realize now that they’re all in a large group in the light of day, seems to have turned into adults in his absence. Morgana and Gwen are starting a family, for God’s sake. Gwaine and Vivian’s always-combative relationship has turned into old-married-couple sniping. Leon is apparently playing some sort of long game with Mithian (which he didn’t tell Arthur about, the cheat) that involves a great deal of pulling out chairs and asking her about work. Hell, even Elena is wearing something besides jeans and a ratty jumper even though it’s the weekend.
He knows he must seem as odd and grown up to them as well, but he’s being confronted with all of them at once. Having Merlin and Freya around is a relief, because even if they are ridiculously settled for being twenty-five he at least doesn’t know them any other way. To his relief, they seem to enjoy his company just as much, and the three of them spend most of the afternoon continuing their previous conversations.
Morgana takes his arm as they leave the coffeeshop, leaving Gwen behind to chat with Elyan and Leon, since they’ve got to childhood reminiscences. “You’re getting on well with Merlin and Freya,” she says once they’ve walked nearly half a block towards her flat.
Arthur knows her well enough to know that she’s as good as asking which one of them he’s flirting with and that it had damn well better be neither of them. “They’re quite good company, I must say.”
“Very well suited as a couple, it’s insane how in sync they are.”
“Morgana.” He sighs, thinks of brushing flour off Freya’s shirt and teasing Merlin. It isn’t as if he doesn’t know what she’s afraid of. It’s just that he’s also got the image of them moving in concert around their flat, and flirting shamelessly even though they’ve been together for five years; he doesn’t think it’s possible to break that up, and he knows he wouldn’t want to. “I’m not going to ruin things, okay?”
“That’s not what I’m afraid of.” She squeezes his arm. “Don’t get hurt, Arthur. I’m just heading you off at the pass before you get infatuated with one or the other of them and get your heart broken.”
“I promise, Morgana, there is no danger of that at all.” He’ll just have to go on a date or two, nip anything that might be growing in the bud.
“Good. In that case, Gwen and I are trying to figure out what to do about curtains for the nursery …”
Arthur lets her chatter on about jungle animal prints versus farm animal prints versus butterflies or fish or stars and planets as they walk back to her flat, and tries very hard not to think that getting infatuated with “one or the other of them” might not be quite his problem.
*
The next time Arthur sees Merlin is at the pub with Leon and Elyan, and he feels rather ambushed at the sight of him still looking like someone’s prim professor chalking a cue with expert skill as he faces off against a man who looks as if he rides motorcycles and bites the heads off small rodents in his spare time. “That looks like it’ll end well,” Arthur says, sliding into a booth across from Elyan and Leon with a fresh round of drinks for them. “Is he any good?”
Elyan’s grin verges on devilish. “This is going to be glorious, you should watch.”
“It’s good for the soul,” Leon contributes.
That, of course, makes Arthur crane his neck until he has a good view of the game about to start. The biker seems to be more entertained than annoyed by Merlin, and gestures that he ought to break once they have the balls set up. Merlin, with expert skill that Arthur only recognizes from a few too many nights at bars in the States, lines up a perfect shot and sends the cue ball flying. The biker looks impressed.
Over the next twelve minutes (Arthur counts), Merlin bests the biker at whatever variation of pool they’re playing so easily that Arthur feels a little pity for the other man (well, he would if the expression on his face weren’t getting more angered by the second). Elyan and Leon cheer quietly for every ridiculous shot Merlin manages to pull off, and even Arthur joins in clapping when Merlin sinks the eight ball and takes a bow for the small crowd that’s gathered.
If this were the movies (or possibly one of the seedier bars Arthur went to in California), there would undoubtedly be a brawl, the biker and his leather-clad friends against Merlin and his, but while the biker looks anything but pleased, he pulls out his wallet and stuffs a few notes into Merlin’s hand. Merlin grins and takes them and comes back to the booth, sliding in beside Arthur without waiting for Arthur to move over properly. “That was great fun,” he says, entirely satisfied. “Next round’s on me, and then I’ll go looking for another victim. Hi, Arthur.”
“Hello. You’re quite good at that.” He toasts Merlin.
Merlin nudges his shoulder. “I had a misspent youth. My friend Will’s dad taught us when we were kids, and I started again at university and got good enough that when I needed a bit of cash I could make some. Now it’s just fun.”
“I’m sure it is.” He tries not to think about Merlin all stretched out over the table to make a shot with an expression of intense concentration on his face and casts about for the one subject that should stop him thinking anything stupid. “How’s Freya?”
Leon and Elyan exchange a look. Arthur ignores them and waits for Merlin’s answer. “She’s good. Busy week between work and class, so she’s exhausted, but she asked me to say hello to you. And everyone else, of course, even if lads’ pub night isn’t that crowded this evening.”
That’s Leon’s cue. “Vivian’s dragged Gwaine off to dinner with her father, poor man, and Percival says he got caught up in something at work. We’re all there is for the evening, I’m afraid.”
Elyan grimaces. “When did we get boring?”
“It was because I went away, of course,” says Arthur, taking a long pull off his pint. “I should have known you all would get dull while I was gone.”
Merlin seems to be attempting to look offended, but the smile on his face is too big for it to be even halfway convincing. “I’m never dull, I’ll have you know. I just beat a biker at pool.”
Leon laughs. “You and Freya are as bad as Gwen and Morgana, don’t deny it. Face it, we’re not yet thirty and we’re still somehow pretending to be adults.”
“Being an adult doesn’t mean being boring,” Arthur points out, mostly for the sake of argument. He hasn’t seen much evidence to the contrary, at least in his own experience.
Merlin, though, seems to take him at his word, kicking him lightly under the table in a way that feels alarmingly like the prelude to a game of footsie and giving him a sidelong look. “Exactly,” he says, and changes the subject to the latest Bond film.
*
Arthur’s phone goes on a Tuesday lunchtime when he’s just staring at the sandwich he packed and wondering if the bread might be a bit moldy (he’s got to stop making meals at six in the morning, he’s always messing things up). To his surprise, it’s Freya’s name on the display. Since Merlin’s the only one of the two who’s called him so far, he can’t help but be curious enough to pick up. “Hi, Freya, what’s going on?”
“I know this is out of the blue, but I’ve been doing some errands in your area of the city and I thought I’d call and ask if you want to do lunch. There’s a little diner nearby I like. Or do you executive types only eat at the fanciest French restaurants?”
“You’ve been letting Merlin fill your head with nonsense,” he says around a grin, already tossing his sandwich in the rubbish bin. “I’d love to meet you, I was just wondering if the bread from my meal was going to stand up and walk away on its own. Where are you? I’ll come meet you.”
She gives him the diner’s address, and ten minutes later, he’s sliding into a booth across from her. She’s still red-cheeked from the chill in the air, and greets him with a quick squeeze on his arm. “Tea? Coffee? Middle-of-the-day cocktail?”
Arthur looks dubiously at the menu. It doesn’t seem the sort of place to serve cocktails. “Just water’s fine with me, I caffeinated myself far too much this morning,” he says, both to her and to the waitress who swings by and looks at him expectantly. “What brings you to this part of the city?”
Freya brandishes a shopping bag at him. “Merlin’s mum’s birthday is coming up, and she’s amazing, so we’ve both got a habit of trawling the entire city for perfect gifts, and there’s a specialty craft shop in the area that has a sort of yarn she likes. I suppose I could have ordered it online, but this way I got to see you, anyway.”
“I’m honored. You’ve got the day off work, then?”
“I’ve got the Saturday shift this week, so I get to take a day off in the middle of the week in return. And you’re doing … I don’t really know what businessmen do all day.” She shrugs. “Flirting with their secretaries a lot, judging by the films.”
“That’s a mildly horrifying idea, I’ve known Mordred since he was one of our sixteen-year-old summer interns and he’s well over age now but I can’t bring myself to think it.” Freya laughs. “And our lives are filled with paperwork, which is much less glamorous. It’s my father’s company, though, and now that he’s mostly retired I’ve been steering it around to be more environmentally conscious, and … you don’t care about that in the least, I’m sorry.”
“No, I do, tell me all about it,” she insists, and since Arthur can’t see any reason why not to, he starts on the abridged version.
Freya’s less quick to smile than Merlin, and less likely to tease Arthur as well, but she’s got a way of just looking at him and managing to extract all the information she wants without getting his hackles up, a feat even Morgana hasn’t managed. He ends up telling her about his father, his mother, and just how his first girlfriend ended up as his sister’s life partner, and in return she tells him a bit about her own past-not much, he gets the impression it’s rather more tragic than she lets on, but enough so he feels by the end of the meal that he knows her properly as a person, not just as half of Freya-and-Merlin.
“I’ve overstayed my lunch,” he says with regret after a burger and chips that have left him groaning (even though he couldn’t resist a piece of cherry pie on top of it). “Some paperwork is pressing enough that it can’t wait.”
“Of course, I shouldn’t have kept you.”
He puts down enough money to cover both of their meals over her objections. “I’ll see you soon, I’m sure,” he says when she finally gives in. “Maybe I’ll invite you and Merlin to dinner, as thanks for your invitation the last time?”
Freya stands up and gives him a quick hug. She’s tiny, but a lot stronger than she looks. “That would be lovely, Arthur. Do give us a call about it. And perhaps I’ll give you a call the next time I’m in this area of town. If you don’t mind, anyway?”
“Of course I don’t mind. And if my business ever takes me by your vet clinic I’ll even return the favor.”
She wraps her scarf around her neck as they head out onto the street. “Maybe I’ll pay for your lunch, then.”
*
It takes a week and a half for Arthur to find the breathing space to invite Merlin and Freya to dinner (mostly Morgana’s fault-Gwen may be the pregnant one, but she’s the one nesting, and she is currently in a phase of believing every tiny detail of their nursery must be perfect, as if two weeks after the baby comes it won’t look like a blast zone). The second he starts to issue the invitation, on the phone with Merlin since Freya didn’t pick up when he called, it’s accepted, so on a Friday night Arthur finds himself in his kitchen cooking one of the few nice meals he knows how to make.
Freya and Merlin turn up five minutes earlier than he’s expecting them, while he’s still (embarrassingly enough) wearing an apron to keep from getting his good jumper covered in food. Freya’s carrying some sort of flower in a brown pot. “We would have brought wine,” she explains, “but everything we possibly could have brought would be much worse than anything you’re used to buying.”
“The flower’s lovely,” he assures her, though he’s been known to neglect even the hardiest of cacti until they gave up. “You’ll have to tell me how to take care of it.”
“Of course, we’ve both got rather green thumbs,” says Merlin. “We can help whenever you need it. Do we get a tour of your flat now?”
“Yes, dinner’s just staying warm on the stove.” And he’s finally managed to get all his things unpacked, so his flat isn’t a disaster. It still feels rather unlived-in, but that will come with time, no doubt. “Feel free to hang your coats up with mine,” he adds, mostly to watch the near-identical face they make at his having actual coat pegs.
His flat’s larger than theirs by quite a margin, but neither of them seems to mind, so he doesn’t waste time feeling guilty over it. Their couch is undoubtedly more comfortable anyway, since he let Morgana decorate his flat when he first got it rather than picking everything out himself for function rather than form. Freya and Merlin’s walls of posters and random bits of decoration make his own flat look empty, but they seem to enjoy the tour and grin at each other at random sometimes (and always at the same times, they’re eerily in sync).
“Dinner should be ready, I hope you like soup,” he says when he’s done, finally remembering to take the apron off and dump it on a chair he isn’t using (it’s not frilly, nor does it have “Kiss the Cook” written on it, but it’s embarrassing nonetheless). “Settle in, I’ll bring the pot over in a minute.”
Arthur leaves them to their conversation while he tastes the soup one last time and adds a bit more pepper. When he comes back to the table, they break off their conversation so abruptly that it’s obvious they were talking about him. He raises his eyebrows and does his best not to look as self-conscious as he feels, and must succeed to some extent because both of them relax. “We were talking about you,” Merlin admits, “but I promise it was only good things.”
“I’ll pretend I believe you.” He serves out the soup and the bread, and Freya stops him with a hand on his arm before he can sit down. “Sorry, did I forget something?”
“We really weren’t saying anything awful,” she says, eyes so wide and earnest it’s hard not to believe her. She must have been a terror for getting her own way as a child, he thinks, and falls into the trap anyway. “We wouldn’t do that with you right in the room.”
“We save being catty for the walk home,” Merlin contributes, and Arthur relaxes. That, at least, he can believe. “Now would you sit down? You don’t have to be some sort of Stepford host.”
That, thank God, gets Merlin and Freya arguing amiably over what version of The Stepford Wives is best (the original, clearly, but Merlin seems to have some sort of inexplicable crush on Nicole Kidman that puts him past all reason), and the conversation moves on, nothing awkward from there. Arthur gets in a heated argument with Merlin about whether robots or aliens are more interesting in science fiction (Merlin gets points with Asimov, but Arthur still thinks aliens win overall) while Freya wonders aloud what it is about boys and spaceships. Merlin parries by making mock of something she reads, something about dragons in space that Arthur doesn’t follow, and from there it’s easy to move from subject to subject as they eat.
It’s eleven before Freya checks her phone and curses. “I meant to get us out an hour ago, sorry, Arthur. I’ve got errands to run in the morning.”
Merlin grimaces at the wreckage of the table. “We also meant to help you with the dishes.”
“That’s not a problem.” Arthur takes a cue to stand up. “There’s a wonderful thing called a dishwasher, we posh people are sometimes equipped with them. I shouldn’t have kept you so late anyway.”
“We’re glad to spend time with you.” Freya goes about stacking the bowls up while Merlin clears a few other things off the table. Arthur blinks and stands a beat too late, just in time to put the wine away and the glasses in the sink-those he doesn’t trust to his dishwasher. “And we’ll do it again,” she adds when he turns away from the sink to find her standing right behind him.
Arthur blinks at her, a little tired now that he knows what time it is. “Of course we will.” It’s not so much a forgone conclusion as all that-other than Leon and Morgana and Gwen it’s rare he spends time having just one or two of his friends for dinner, or going over to their places either-but it feels like one.
“Good.” She’s out of his personal space in a second, shepherding Merlin away from where he’s got distracted by Arthur’s scant bookshelf (he seems to be scoffing at the presence of Walt Whitman) and into his coat. “One of us will call you soon, then, or you call us.”
Merlin grins at him. “You’re stuck with us now, Arthur.”
“I don’t mind in the least.” For some reason, that makes them both laugh a little, sharing one of those private looks, but before he can ask, there’s a flurry of goodnights and someone’s warm lips against his cheek-alarmingly, he’s not quite sure whose, as someone else is giving his hand a squeeze at the same time. “Don’t talk about me too much on the way home,” he says as they’re opening the door.
Freya’s smile crinkles her nose up. “I’m sure we’ll talk of nothing else,” she counters, and then they’re out the door, leaving him with his kitchen a mess and feeling even more confused than before.
*
Mithian has always loved throwing dinner parties (and tea parties, his first memory of her is being six and uncomfortably stuffed into a suit while she calmly poured out the tea for them both with jam-sticky hands and then proceeded to do the same for a teddy bear, her mother’s precious heirloom porcelain doll, and her imaginary friend). The first one after Arthur comes home seems like quite a production after two years in California where everyone does finger food appetizers and wine instead of sitting their guests down at fancy parties-Mithian has a roast on the table, key lime pie in the refrigerator, and jazz playing quietly on her stereo.
Everyone’s in the spirit of the thing, from Elena turning up in a blouse and skirt (the hem already ripped) to Morgana in what Arthur suspects is a silk dress to Merlin in another of his omnipresent sweater vests. Even Percival’s in the spirit of things, though his biceps are threatening to burst his sleeves. Arthur feels a bit like he’s playacting, but for once everyone else is too, giggling and snapping pictures with their phones. Gwaine produces a monocle from somewhere and spends the entirety of dinner calling everyone “old boy” amidst much hilarity.
For once, Arthur feels as if everything is back to normal, nearly the same as it was before he left London even with Gwen’s new maternity dress and Merlin and Freya added to the group, and he enjoys the night more than he was expecting at the beginning. By the time they finish dinner, he’s pleasantly tipsy and full, grinning around the table as Mithian steals Gwaine’s monocle and Leon stares at her like a besotted schoolboy and Vivian giggles, possibly over that and possibly over whatever Gwaine keeps whispering in her ear.
At the end of dinner, Merlin and Freya insist on clearing up and helping Mithian with the dishes, and with everyone else at the table engrossed in their own conversations (including Mithian, who keeps protesting at Freya and Merlin’s helpfulness every time they take a load of dishes but doesn’t stop chatting to Elyan about some new art exhibit at the gallery where she works), Arthur decides to get up and help. Morgana gives him a suspicious look, but he just ignores her. She doesn’t know best all the time, after all, and it isn’t as if he’s given any thought at all to breaking Merlin and Freya up.
When he gets to the kitchen, Arthur stops in the doorway. The music is louder in there, playing some old big band tune he thinks he vaguely recognizes from a film or two, and Merlin and Freya are dancing. Well, he realizes after a moment, Freya is dancing, twirling expertly under Merlin’s hands, up on her toes, and Merlin is gamely attempting to follow in the manner of one who has only seen swing dancing in the movies and not had endless ballroom dancing classes inflicted on them.
“May I cut in?” Arthur asks before he can think about it, and without missing a beat Freya twirls into his arms, ready for ballroom position in time for a new musical phrase. He grins at her and takes her through a few of the maneuvers he remembers from the classes his father insisted he and Morgana take so as to impress people at his parties. Mithian’s kitchen is too small for a lot of them, but he still manages to get a few good spins in.
Merlin hops up to sit on one of Mithian’s counters, phone out, not minding in the least that Arthur is monopolizing his girlfriend. Arthur gives him a nod in the middle of a spin and makes himself dizzy as a consequence, he and Freya staggering together a few steps to the side before he hits the wall to lean for a moment. She leans up against him, natural as anything and laughing up at him, as the music changes over to something a bit more sedate.
“What on earth is going on in here?” Mithian asks from the doorway of her kitchen, bemused. “Has a Gene Kelly movie suddenly broken out?”
“It’s your own fault,” says Merlin, hopping off the counter and busying himself at the sink. “You chose the soundtrack.”
Freya smiles at Arthur and finally steps out of his personal space. “You’re a good dancer.”
“Not as good as you, it took quite a few lessons for me to get the hang of things. Though I mostly blame Morgana for attempting to lead all the time.”
Merlin laughs. “She would.”
“I took every dance class I could find for ages,” says Freya, starting the water while Mithian organizes the dishes to be washed. “I was going to be a ballerina, but swing was always one of my favorites too.”
“Ballerina to veterinarian is an interesting transition,” Arthur says, rummaging through Mithian’s drawer of leftover containers to put the rest of the food away.
Freya launches into the story, with frequent embellishments and commentary from Merlin, and Arthur laughs in all the right places and tries not to notice the way Mithian is looking at him, a little confused and a little concerned. Arthur excuses himself when Freya finishes talking, since Merlin and Mithian are washing and Freya is drying and he feels rather superfluous. The party’s still going strong in the dining room, where Gwaine seems to be attempting to act out a scene from some Merchant Ivory film all on his own, playing three parts at once.
Morgana sidles over to him under the cover of Gwaine pledging his tearful love to a potted plant in a wavery falsetto. “The kitchen seems like the place to be right now,” she says.
“Leave it.” She raises her eyebrows, because she’s never let anything go in her life. “Anything you can say I promise I’ve already thought. Be careful, don’t break up the best couple you know, whatever it is, I know.” Elyan’s a bit too near for Arthur to be entirely comfortable having this conversation, but he’s at least discreet, if he knows what they’re talking about.
“You can’t blame a sister for worrying about her baby brother, can you, Arthur?”
Arthur rolls his eyes. “Six months, Morgana, for God’s sake, and yes, I can. I was off in California for two years doing God-knows-what, or don’t you remember?” He never got infatuated with both members of a long-term relationship there, but there were plenty of inadvisable decisions nonetheless.
“I didn’t have a front-row seat for that. And I didn’t care about anyone else involved, then.” Morgana straightens his collar, apparently askew after his dance session in the kitchen. “Don’t do anything stupid, that’s all I ask.”
“It’s like you don’t trust me at all.”
Gwaine, thank God, chooses that moment to do something especially outrageous, and Arthur allows himself to be distracted and to ignore the way Morgana looks between him and the kitchen a few more times before drifting back to Gwen, who’s already yawning. When Gwaine finishes his theatrics, the party starts breaking up, and Arthur leaves soon after Morgana escorts Gwen out and Leon excuses himself, pleading an early morning.
When Arthur gets home and checks his e-mail, there’s one waiting with a photo attachment from Merlin: a picture of Arthur grinning down at Freya as he lifted her right off the ground, an answering smile on Freya’s face.
He doesn’t think he’s ever been this confused in his life.
*
Gwen calls a week after Mithian’s dinner party. “So, there’s this great guy I work with,” she starts, and then keeps talking over Arthur’s groan. “He’s charming and good-looking and might have possibly seen your picture while peeking over my shoulder at your Facebook and I might possibly have told him that I would try to set you up on a blind date?”
“Has Morgana been talking to you?”
He can almost hear Gwen’s surprised blink. “Well, we live together, but about you, no. Should we have been? I just feel like you’ve been a bit lonely since you came back, and Gilli’s really lovely.”
Arthur ignores her first question. “You’ve already set it up, haven’t you?”
Gwen laughs nervously. “Would you happen to be free on Wednesday evening?”
That’s how Arthur ends up walking into a strange pub on a Wednesday when he otherwise would have been relaxing in front of his television or maybe out with his friends (Leon, Percival, and Vivian are off to see some independent film Arthur wouldn’t have minded tagging along to). Gwen sent him a picture of Gilli, so he recognizes him, but in person all he can think of is that Gilli reminds him of Merlin, which isn’t the best foot to be getting off on. Arthur puts it firmly down to the ears and goes about attempting to be charming.
Gilli’s good company (not that he would expect Gwen to set him up with someone awful), if a little combative about politics and inclined to assume the worst of Arthur’s thoughts on such things, but Arthur still can’t help comparing him to Merlin. It’s not the looks so much; he sees plenty of lanky dark-haired men any given day, including his own personal assistant. It’s more that he and Merlin seem to be passionate about similar things, and prone to a few of the same little quirks, and they’re both interested in science. There’s no Freya there to mitigate the occasional awkward moments where the discussion gets a little too heated on some subject or other, though, leaving Arthur to back off uncomfortably and remind himself to live in the moment. Eventually, they hit upon talking about their favorite books, something Arthur enjoys and something Gilli has different taste than Merlin in (not to mention good taste), and he relaxes as much as he’s able.
At the end of the night, he and Gilli stand outside the pub door in the manner of all couples who aren’t quite sure if the first date has gone well enough for a kiss. Arthur isn’t quite feeling the interest, but it isn’t as if Gilli isn’t perfectly nice. “So,” says Gilli after a few seconds of silence, “are we getting together again? Or shall one of us explain to Gwen that we aren’t compatible?”
Arthur grimaces. “The latter, I’m afraid. I’d love to catch a coffee and keep talking about Whitman, nobody on this side of the ocean seems to read him as much as I’d like, but just as friends, if you’re willing.”
Gilli shrugs. “I can’t see any reason why not-this was a long shot, and all, and I don’t know if I could sleep with you knowing you think Top Gear is good television.”
“Oi!” Arthur laughs, relieved. “Good, then, you seem great and I’d hate to leave you in the lurch. Not to mention disappointing Gwen like that is even more hazardous now that she’s pregnant.” When Gilli looks disapproving, Arthur hastens to explain. “Only because my sister is even more protective of her than usual, none of that hormone rot.”
From there, it’s easy to say goodnight with a handshake and a clap on the back, and Arthur starts walking back towards his flat, taking the long way round since it’s still relatively early and it’s a nice night. Halfway there, he texts Merlin on a whim. Were you related to my blind date? The ears are uncanny.
His phone rings a few seconds later, and when he picks it up, Merlin is laughing. “Why the hell are you calling from your blind date? That’s poor form.”
“Date’s over, it didn’t work out. I’m walking home right now.”
There’s a little pause. “That’s too bad. That it didn’t work out, I mean. Any particular reason?”
Despite what Arthur can only interpret as flirting, he doesn’t think Merlin would appreciate Arthur admitting he couldn’t get him or his girlfriend out of his mind all through the evening. “Didn’t click, is all. It was Gwen’s idea, anyway. I’m perfectly happy with the way things are.”
“What, don’t want to settle down into happy domesticity?”
“With the right person, I suppose.” It’s odd watching all his friends settled, but he can’t deny he sometimes envies Gwen and Morgana their happiness, or Merlin and Freya their ease with each other. “Gilli just wasn’t it.”
“Don’t give up, then. You don’t have to compromise.” There’s an odd noise over Merlin’s side of the line, and then the sound of Freya giggling. “Sorry, we’re attempting to make frosting, we wanted cupcakes, and we can’t get the mixer working right. Want to come over and eat away your sorrows?”
Arthur looks at the clock on his phone, but it’s nearing nine, and by the time he got over there and stayed a while he would just be wearing himself out for work. “I’m afraid I can’t, though I wish I could.”
“Arthur can’t come,” says Merlin, muffled like he’s turned away, and then comes back like normal after Freya says something in the background. “She says we’ll save some icing for you, you’ll have to come over and hang out this weekend.”
Arthur is struck by a sudden, vivid image of Merlin and Freya covered with frosting, and it takes him a second to get his voice back. “Perhaps I shall. Morgana’s got me Friday night to help build shelves in the baby’s room, but I’m free Saturday.” Even if it means Morgana will spend all of Friday night judging him silently.
“Saturday, then. Come on over anytime, weekends tend to be quiet here. Have a good night, Arthur.”
“You too,” he says, and hangs up to the sound of Freya starting to laugh again on the other end of the line.
The walk home seems less nice after that, a little lonely, but Arthur ignores it and gets back in time to read until he falls asleep.
*
Part Two
Wordcount: ~19,500
Summary: Arthur is back in London after two years away, but it's hard to settle in when he can't stop thinking about Merlin and Freya. Who are already together. He's fairly certain this isn't normal.
A/N: Inspired by one of my pornathon entries from this summer and by the fact that I think this is a totally underrated threesome. Title from Lisa Mitchell's "Coin Laundry." Only finished with a great deal of encouragement and glee from the lovely flammablehat.
Disclaimer: I do not own Merlin.
“Morgana and Gwen’s flat,” says a stranger across the intercom when Arthur presses the button, and for a second he’s at a loss for words. “Hello?” the woman continues when he doesn’t answer quickly enough. “Are you here for the party?”
“Yes, it’s … ah, it’s Arthur.” And who the hell are you, he doesn’t ask, because it’s entirely reasonable that Morgana and Gwen have made new friends in the two years he was out of the country, and he knew in advance some of them would be at this party.
There’s what sounds like a scramble across the intercom, a rush of voices and laughter and the distinct sound of Morgana shouting “You’re late” before the buzzer goes and he goes inside, letting them keep talking into the night.
Gwen opens the door when he knocks, smiling and a bit teary and hugely pregnant (she’s only six months on, but any amount of pregnancy from his sister’s long-term partner that has not ended in Morgana on a separate continent or possibly a rocket ship and still running counts as hugely pregnant as far as he’s concerned). “We were beginning to think you weren’t coming! Not that you’d be anxious about it or anything, but maybe you were jetlagged or something.”
Arthur smiles, on a slightly more even keel with the familiar sight of Gwen fluttering about in front of him, and holds out what he’s got in his hands. “I brought you flowers and Morgana grape juice from Napa Valley. I would have brought her wine, but I decided that if you aren’t allowed to drink she shouldn’t be either.”
Morgana, summoned by the sound of her name, appears in the doorway looking as put together as ever. Gwen’s sense of good timing makes her divest Arthur of his offerings two seconds before Morgana slugs him in the arm with all her strength and then hugs the breath out of him with the door still held open and all the other guests watching from the sitting room. “Welcome back,” she whispers, and then shoves away and pretends none of it happened.
“Your hair got long,” he says before cursing himself for the inanity.
Inane or not, it seems to give Morgana her equilibrium back. “Yes, and Gwen got pregnant, it’s amazing how these little things change when you fuck off to California for two years to do business and don’t come for visits. Come on, come in, I’ll introduce you to all the strangers and you can tell us all about the movie stars you met, as movie stars are the only excuse I will accept for you never visiting.”
Arthur raises his eyebrows at Gwen behind Morgana’s back. She just gives an elaborate shrug and then takes Morgana’s arm, giving her the pitiful look that has worked on Morgana since they were all sixteen. “Maybe let him chat to the people he knows for a bit, Morgana, he only got back to town yesterday and he probably hasn’t even talked to Leon yet. Besides, it isn’t as if there are a lot of people here.”
When Morgana turns to her to start a low-voiced argument, Gwen widens her eyes at Arthur in a way that suggests he should make himself scarce as quickly as possible, and he obeys, latching onto the first familiar face he sees-Elyan, Gwen’s brother. “Morgana claimed party hosting rights,” he says with great sympathy, and passes Arthur a beer. “We all thought Leon would, but she claimed blood relative status.”
“I forgot what she gets like when she’s hosting.” It isn’t as if they haven’t talked at least twice a week most of the time he’s been gone, on the phone and Skype both.
“It’s only gotten worse since Gwen got pregnant.” Arthur toasts him and takes a swallow of the beer. “I won’t ask you about California, you’ll have to say it a hundred times tonight, maybe we should just stop the proceedings and have you tell all of us at once.”
“I’ll have cards printed.” Arthur catches sight of Leon across the room, chatting with a dark-haired woman he doesn’t know. “I’ve just spotted Leon, I should go say hello. He pines without me, you know.”
“Can’t stand in the way of the bromance of the century,” Elyan says, and waves him off.
Leon envelops Arthur in a hug tighter than Morgana’s once he’s within arm’s reach. “Yes, yes, you’ve missed me in the eight weeks since you came and crashed in my guest bed,” says Arthur, clapping him on the back. “Sorry I didn’t call you when I got in yesterday, by the time I walked through the door to my flat all I wanted to do was sleep.”
Leon beams at him. “It’s fine, Arthur, I figured that was it. I only doodled your name sadly on three of my notebooks.” The woman who’s still standing there laughs, and Leon starts like he forgot about her. “Sorry, Freya, forgot my manners. This is Morgana’s brother Arthur, and Arthur, this is Freya, we’ve probably mentioned her.”
The name is familiar, though everyone tends to update him on the people he knew before he left and not anyone new passing through the group. “Of course you have,” he says nonetheless. “Good to meet you, Freya.” She shakes his hand, grip surprisingly firm.
“I’ll leave you two to catch up,” she says after a few more pleasantries, peering across the room and then breaking out into a mischievous grin. “Merlin seems to have been kidnapped by Elena, that’s only going to end in an explosion.”
With that, she disappears, leaving Arthur to blink at Leon. “I didn’t think Elena fought with anyone, who’s this Merlin she can’t get along with?”
Leon laughs. “Literal explosions, I’m afraid. Merlin’s a scientist, Elena’s decided he’s the second coming of Bill Nye, never mind that the first coming of Bill Nye isn’t finished with yet, and if we let them talk alone too long it inevitably ends in flames. Though to be fair Merlin makes a really good flambé.”
Merlin’s one of the ones Gwen talks about when they chat, someone she met at some engineering conference who she promptly adopted like the proverbial puppy following her home, so Arthur knows enough to be entertained by that. “I’ll look forward to getting to know him.”
“He and Freya are great, they’re the two that’ve stuck around the most since you fled the country-”
“Transferred offices,” Arthur corrects.
“-and you’ll get on like a house on fire.” Leon grimaces. “Hopefully not a literal one.”
“I’ll take your word for it. Now, tell me what else I’ve missed with everyone else who’s here.”
Leon is an inveterate gossip, so he spends the next fifteen minutes telling Arthur about Mithian’s promotions and Gwaine and Vivian’s on-again off-again shagging (current status: on) and Lancelot’s latest adventures in his endless quest to find himself until Morgana marches up to them, takes Arthur’s arm, and hauls him off without more than a smile at Leon. After that, he’s introduced to all of Morgana and Gwen’s co-workers and the various acquaintances who are either new or forgotten by him, since this is technically not a homecoming party so he has to put up with strangers.
In the end, Morgana is called off by some sort of disaster in the kitchen (Gwen winks at him from the kitchen door, which is why she’s his favorite sister-in-law), and she deposits him on a couch next to a strange man with dark hair, large ears, and the look of being someone’s absent-minded professor. “I’ve forgotten who you are,” he admits, since it’s best to be up front about these things.
Surprisingly, that just gets him an improbably wide grin. “No worries, I’ve got the advantage, I’ve seen your picture around here and on Facebook and stuff.” Arthur spares a moment to worry about what exactly Morgana is posting about him on Facebook. He hasn’t had time to log on in months. “I’m Merlin.”
“Oh, right, the famous Merlin, I knew you looked familiar-Morgana showed me pictures one time.” He shakes Merlin’s hand and does his best to relax. From what he’s heard, Merlin isn’t going to be a stranger much longer. “Did you get rescued from Elena?”
“You were talking to Freya. She’s always maligning my character.” The grin Merlin gives Freya across the room is so besotted it’s almost embarrassing to watch. “Elena and I don’t need rescuing from each other. Honestly, you start an alcohol fire once and suddenly you aren’t trusted …”
Arthur laughs. “Morgana apparently forgot to tell me that one.”
“Funny, she never lets me forget it.” He’s still watching Freya, as if he’s forgotten he wasn’t doing it in the first place, and he starts when she turns around to smile and shake her head at him in the midst of a serious conversation with Mithian. Merlin, unrepentant, just waves. “Sorry,” he says when he remembers to look back at Arthur. “Just …”
“No problem.” He’s still tired and overwhelmed, but he’s starting to remember a bit of what Morgana and Gwen have told him about Merlin and Freya-specifically that they’re together, the sort of couple that’s made for each other in the kind of way that would be sickening if it weren’t so adorable. And when even Gwen says that he knows it has to be blatant. He’s beginning to see what they mean. “How long have you two been dating?”
“Since halfway through university.” Merlin turns back to Arthur, apparently done staring at his girlfriend like an idiot. “Boring story, really. Took a course together, studied together, figured out we just … fit.”
“I never said it has to be interesting.” If theirs was a story fit for a romantic comedy Arthur might have to be rather disgusted with them, in fact. He gets enough of that from Morgana and Gwen, thank God they’re settled these days. “Your job apparently makes up for that. Leon tells me you’re some sort of mad scientist?”
Merlin laughs and takes to the segue easily, talking about his job as a research physicist in terms Arthur can barely keep up with. Still, the conversation moves easily from work to friends to television to a long and vicious argument on cooking shows and whether or not Gordon Ramsay has any appeal on either side of the ocean. Arthur’s friends stop by the couch and chat for a few minutes apiece, but to his surprise conversation seems easiest with Merlin until he ends the night by yawning.
The second he does, Gwen adroitly extracts him from the party, puts him in his jacket, and calls a cab. “This is why I told Morgana we ought to wait a week before dragging you into a party,” she says while they wait for it to come. “Are you totally knackered?”
“Yes, but I’ll have brunch with the two of you day after tomorrow and I should be right as rain by then, okay?”
“Okay. Did you at least have a good time tonight?”
Arthur rolls his eyes. “Of course, Gwen. Merlin seems like a nice bloke, and Freya’s lovely from what I saw of her. It’ll take a while to get used to seeing everyone on a regular basis again, but I have missed you all, so I’m happy to be here.”
Gwen gives him a sudden hug, pregnant stomach pressed against him as she goes up on her toes. “We have missed you. Morgana especially, even though she’ll never admit it. If you try to go out of the country for more than a vacation again we’re going to chain you up in your flat. You’re going to be an uncle, you can’t just abandon your niece.”
“I promise,” he says, giving her a kiss on the forehead, and pulls away as his cab comes up the street. “I’ll call you two tomorrow when Morgana’s hungover from that wine she’s been pretending not to drink all night.”
Gwen laughs. “Oh, Arthur, how we’ve missed you.”
*
Five days later, after Arthur’s had time to settle back into the rhythm of London, had coffee and drinks with what seems like everyone of his acquaintance (wearing all his best stories about California thin in the process), and gone to his first day of work back at the London office, his phone rings in the evening with a number he doesn’t know. For a second, he thinks about not answering, since all he really feels like doing is watching the rerun of Top Gear that’s playing, but he picks up before it goes to voicemail. “Hello?”
“Hi, Arthur? It’s Merlin. Gwen gave me your number, I hope you don’t mind.”
“Not at all.” He mutes the television. “What can I do for you? Or is this a courtesy call to let me know that my sister-in-law is giving my private information out to strangers?”
Merlin laughs. “I’d worry more about your sister doing that, really. Anyway, Freya and I were thinking we ought to get to know you better, since we’re all part of the same group now, and we wondered if you might come to our flat for dinner sometime soon. You’ve probably been busy all week, but whenever you’re free we’d love to have you.”
“That sounds lovely, actually, though you’re right, I have been busy. I could use a few nights at home to unpack. When are you two free?”
“We thought maybe Sunday?” Someone talks in the background-probably Freya-and Merlin lets out a nervous laugh. “Or, you know, whenever.”
“Sunday is fine, actually. I’ve been roped into helping Morgana and Gwen do some shopping for the nursery in the morning, but my evening is free.”
“Great. Maybe seven? I’ll text you directions, you sound knackered and I don’t know if I trust you to remember them just now.”
Arthur grins. “I’m beginning to see why you and Morgana get along. Yes, by all means, I’m going to go back to staring mindlessly at my television. See you Sunday, Merlin.”
“See you Sunday,” says Merlin, voice low, and hangs up before Arthur can do more than blink at his tone.
*
Sunday, Arthur turns up at Merlin and Freya’s door five minutes late due to inconvenient Tube scheduling. Merlin opens the door with flour in his hair. He’s also, Arthur notes a second later, wearing a sweater vest. “You’re really embracing the scientist stereotype, aren’t you?” he says before he can quite stop himself.
“I’m trying to talk him into bow ties.” Freya appears behind Merlin, tugging him gently back until Arthur can come in and shut the door. “Hello, it’s good to see you, Arthur. Put your jacket anywhere, we’re sort of still working on furnishings.”
Arthur obediently shucks off his coat and leaves it on top of what seems to be a pile of scarves and mittens next to the shoes. “No problem. I brought wine, it seemed the thing to do.”
Merlin takes it from him. “You didn’t have to, but thanks. Dinner should be ready in five, chicken and asparagus and a few other things, and the shortcake is in the oven for dessert.”
“Sounds delicious.”
“Speaking of, I’ll go check on the kitchen. Freya, want to show him around?”
“Sure.” She gives Merlin a quick kiss and then prods him away to smile at Arthur. “Shall we? It’s not much, but you ought to have the tour anyway.”
“Yes, of course.” When Freya turns away, there’s a smudged handprint in flour on the back of her red blouse. “You’ve got flour on your back,” he says. Normally he wouldn’t mention it, but he’s used to Morgana shouting at him for not telling if she’s got a hair out of place.
“Whoops, sorry, probably Merlin’s fault.” She cranes her neck over her shoulder and then gives him an impish grin. “Mind getting it off for me? Just a bit of brushing should get it off easy enough.”
Arthur obeys, brushing it off as quickly as possible. His hands and Merlin’s must be nearly the same size, judging by how easily his hand covers the print. Freya’s back is warm and her blouse is smooth and silky and Arthur snatches his hand back the second he realizes he’s noticing it. “There you go.”
“Thanks. Come on in, we’re still standing in the hallway.” Arthur follows, and lets her gesture him around the flat. It’s small, but cozy, the living room draped all over in brightly-colored, soft throws, with a massive comfortable couch and a few less comfortable chairs scattered around. The kitchen, where Merlin is stirring something on the stovetop, is small enough that all three of them standing in it would be a squeeze, and their table would only fit four in a pinch, but the whole place feels like someone’s home, which Arthur’s flat certainly doesn’t after two years unoccupied. “That’s the bedroom,” Freya says at last, gesturing at a closed door on the far wall, “but you don’t really need to see that, I suppose.”
“No, we haven’t quite reached that stage of acquaintance.” He pauses and rethinks that, but no, there’s really no way of putting it that doesn’t sound awful. He can only hope Merlin isn’t the jealous sort.
Freya doesn’t look at all bothered. “Of course. Merlin, how’s dinner going?”
“About ready, if the two of you are done poking around our postage stamp of a flat.” Arthur takes that cue to go to the table, set with a mismatched mess of dishes, and lets Freya and Merlin put all the food on the table and pour some of his wine. “I’d say you should tell us about California,” Merlin says while they’re all serving themselves up, “but I imagine you’re rather sick of talking about it. Really, I feel I ought to ask you if you have any embarrassing childhood stories about Morgana that you’d like to share.”
Arthur laughs. “I do, but it’s more than my life is worth to tell them. Why don’t you talk about yourselves first? I know how much everyone gossips, you probably know my whole life story already.”
Merlin pins him with an odd look. “Yes, but we haven’t heard it from you.” Before Arthur can think of a response, he goes on. “What do you want to know? I do science and cause far less explosions than your sister and Elena will lead you to believe. I’m from a tiny little village nobody’s ever heard of, and … no, really, that’s about it. I can’t possibly be that boring. Freya, tell him something interesting about me.”
Freya finishes a sip of her wine while she deliberates. “He plays chess,” she offers, then wrinkles her nose. “That doesn’t make him seem less boring, I suppose. He’s a great cook and he can quote pretty much any Monty Python routine and most of Blackadder verbatim.”
Arthur can’t help grinning. “Doesn’t sound boring at all. What about you? I’m afraid I haven’t picked up what you do yet.”
“I’m a veterinary assistant at an animal clinic in the city-working towards my degree to be a proper vet.”
“No pets, though?”
“We’re waiting till we get a better flat before we get a cat or two,” Merlin explains around a mouthful of asparagus.
From there, the conversation flows easily, ranging from careers to mutual friends to music and movies and favorite places in the city. The food is delicious, from the salad to the dessert, which is covered in lethal amounts of whipped cream that gets absolutely everywhere. Merlin and Freya seem to have no compunction whatsoever about wiping (or, in one particularly spectacular moment where Freya gets some on her wrist, licking) it off each other. Arthur would feel awkward, or like a third wheel, with anyone else, but one or the other of them always grins like he’s in on some sort of joke, and at one point Merlin wipes some cream off Arthur’s cheek with a grin and a wink.
They shoo Arthur out the second he offers to help with the dishes, Merlin with a slap on the back and Freya with a kiss on the cheek, and he goes home feeling baffled and warm and not quite sure what he’s getting into.
*
Evenings at the pub, for the duration of Gwen’s pregnancy, seem to have been replaced by afternoons at the coffeeshop around the corner from Morgana and Gwen’s flat. Most everyone gorges on coffee and baked goods, but Morgana and Gwen both seem to be drinking herbal tea (Morgana with every appearance of pleasure, God knows why she likes the stuff, and Gwen with an air of long-suffering reluctance). Arthur, pathetically glad to be around proper tea again after two years in the land of Starbucks, sticks with tea as well, though not the herbal stuff.
Everyone, he’s starting to realize now that they’re all in a large group in the light of day, seems to have turned into adults in his absence. Morgana and Gwen are starting a family, for God’s sake. Gwaine and Vivian’s always-combative relationship has turned into old-married-couple sniping. Leon is apparently playing some sort of long game with Mithian (which he didn’t tell Arthur about, the cheat) that involves a great deal of pulling out chairs and asking her about work. Hell, even Elena is wearing something besides jeans and a ratty jumper even though it’s the weekend.
He knows he must seem as odd and grown up to them as well, but he’s being confronted with all of them at once. Having Merlin and Freya around is a relief, because even if they are ridiculously settled for being twenty-five he at least doesn’t know them any other way. To his relief, they seem to enjoy his company just as much, and the three of them spend most of the afternoon continuing their previous conversations.
Morgana takes his arm as they leave the coffeeshop, leaving Gwen behind to chat with Elyan and Leon, since they’ve got to childhood reminiscences. “You’re getting on well with Merlin and Freya,” she says once they’ve walked nearly half a block towards her flat.
Arthur knows her well enough to know that she’s as good as asking which one of them he’s flirting with and that it had damn well better be neither of them. “They’re quite good company, I must say.”
“Very well suited as a couple, it’s insane how in sync they are.”
“Morgana.” He sighs, thinks of brushing flour off Freya’s shirt and teasing Merlin. It isn’t as if he doesn’t know what she’s afraid of. It’s just that he’s also got the image of them moving in concert around their flat, and flirting shamelessly even though they’ve been together for five years; he doesn’t think it’s possible to break that up, and he knows he wouldn’t want to. “I’m not going to ruin things, okay?”
“That’s not what I’m afraid of.” She squeezes his arm. “Don’t get hurt, Arthur. I’m just heading you off at the pass before you get infatuated with one or the other of them and get your heart broken.”
“I promise, Morgana, there is no danger of that at all.” He’ll just have to go on a date or two, nip anything that might be growing in the bud.
“Good. In that case, Gwen and I are trying to figure out what to do about curtains for the nursery …”
Arthur lets her chatter on about jungle animal prints versus farm animal prints versus butterflies or fish or stars and planets as they walk back to her flat, and tries very hard not to think that getting infatuated with “one or the other of them” might not be quite his problem.
*
The next time Arthur sees Merlin is at the pub with Leon and Elyan, and he feels rather ambushed at the sight of him still looking like someone’s prim professor chalking a cue with expert skill as he faces off against a man who looks as if he rides motorcycles and bites the heads off small rodents in his spare time. “That looks like it’ll end well,” Arthur says, sliding into a booth across from Elyan and Leon with a fresh round of drinks for them. “Is he any good?”
Elyan’s grin verges on devilish. “This is going to be glorious, you should watch.”
“It’s good for the soul,” Leon contributes.
That, of course, makes Arthur crane his neck until he has a good view of the game about to start. The biker seems to be more entertained than annoyed by Merlin, and gestures that he ought to break once they have the balls set up. Merlin, with expert skill that Arthur only recognizes from a few too many nights at bars in the States, lines up a perfect shot and sends the cue ball flying. The biker looks impressed.
Over the next twelve minutes (Arthur counts), Merlin bests the biker at whatever variation of pool they’re playing so easily that Arthur feels a little pity for the other man (well, he would if the expression on his face weren’t getting more angered by the second). Elyan and Leon cheer quietly for every ridiculous shot Merlin manages to pull off, and even Arthur joins in clapping when Merlin sinks the eight ball and takes a bow for the small crowd that’s gathered.
If this were the movies (or possibly one of the seedier bars Arthur went to in California), there would undoubtedly be a brawl, the biker and his leather-clad friends against Merlin and his, but while the biker looks anything but pleased, he pulls out his wallet and stuffs a few notes into Merlin’s hand. Merlin grins and takes them and comes back to the booth, sliding in beside Arthur without waiting for Arthur to move over properly. “That was great fun,” he says, entirely satisfied. “Next round’s on me, and then I’ll go looking for another victim. Hi, Arthur.”
“Hello. You’re quite good at that.” He toasts Merlin.
Merlin nudges his shoulder. “I had a misspent youth. My friend Will’s dad taught us when we were kids, and I started again at university and got good enough that when I needed a bit of cash I could make some. Now it’s just fun.”
“I’m sure it is.” He tries not to think about Merlin all stretched out over the table to make a shot with an expression of intense concentration on his face and casts about for the one subject that should stop him thinking anything stupid. “How’s Freya?”
Leon and Elyan exchange a look. Arthur ignores them and waits for Merlin’s answer. “She’s good. Busy week between work and class, so she’s exhausted, but she asked me to say hello to you. And everyone else, of course, even if lads’ pub night isn’t that crowded this evening.”
That’s Leon’s cue. “Vivian’s dragged Gwaine off to dinner with her father, poor man, and Percival says he got caught up in something at work. We’re all there is for the evening, I’m afraid.”
Elyan grimaces. “When did we get boring?”
“It was because I went away, of course,” says Arthur, taking a long pull off his pint. “I should have known you all would get dull while I was gone.”
Merlin seems to be attempting to look offended, but the smile on his face is too big for it to be even halfway convincing. “I’m never dull, I’ll have you know. I just beat a biker at pool.”
Leon laughs. “You and Freya are as bad as Gwen and Morgana, don’t deny it. Face it, we’re not yet thirty and we’re still somehow pretending to be adults.”
“Being an adult doesn’t mean being boring,” Arthur points out, mostly for the sake of argument. He hasn’t seen much evidence to the contrary, at least in his own experience.
Merlin, though, seems to take him at his word, kicking him lightly under the table in a way that feels alarmingly like the prelude to a game of footsie and giving him a sidelong look. “Exactly,” he says, and changes the subject to the latest Bond film.
*
Arthur’s phone goes on a Tuesday lunchtime when he’s just staring at the sandwich he packed and wondering if the bread might be a bit moldy (he’s got to stop making meals at six in the morning, he’s always messing things up). To his surprise, it’s Freya’s name on the display. Since Merlin’s the only one of the two who’s called him so far, he can’t help but be curious enough to pick up. “Hi, Freya, what’s going on?”
“I know this is out of the blue, but I’ve been doing some errands in your area of the city and I thought I’d call and ask if you want to do lunch. There’s a little diner nearby I like. Or do you executive types only eat at the fanciest French restaurants?”
“You’ve been letting Merlin fill your head with nonsense,” he says around a grin, already tossing his sandwich in the rubbish bin. “I’d love to meet you, I was just wondering if the bread from my meal was going to stand up and walk away on its own. Where are you? I’ll come meet you.”
She gives him the diner’s address, and ten minutes later, he’s sliding into a booth across from her. She’s still red-cheeked from the chill in the air, and greets him with a quick squeeze on his arm. “Tea? Coffee? Middle-of-the-day cocktail?”
Arthur looks dubiously at the menu. It doesn’t seem the sort of place to serve cocktails. “Just water’s fine with me, I caffeinated myself far too much this morning,” he says, both to her and to the waitress who swings by and looks at him expectantly. “What brings you to this part of the city?”
Freya brandishes a shopping bag at him. “Merlin’s mum’s birthday is coming up, and she’s amazing, so we’ve both got a habit of trawling the entire city for perfect gifts, and there’s a specialty craft shop in the area that has a sort of yarn she likes. I suppose I could have ordered it online, but this way I got to see you, anyway.”
“I’m honored. You’ve got the day off work, then?”
“I’ve got the Saturday shift this week, so I get to take a day off in the middle of the week in return. And you’re doing … I don’t really know what businessmen do all day.” She shrugs. “Flirting with their secretaries a lot, judging by the films.”
“That’s a mildly horrifying idea, I’ve known Mordred since he was one of our sixteen-year-old summer interns and he’s well over age now but I can’t bring myself to think it.” Freya laughs. “And our lives are filled with paperwork, which is much less glamorous. It’s my father’s company, though, and now that he’s mostly retired I’ve been steering it around to be more environmentally conscious, and … you don’t care about that in the least, I’m sorry.”
“No, I do, tell me all about it,” she insists, and since Arthur can’t see any reason why not to, he starts on the abridged version.
Freya’s less quick to smile than Merlin, and less likely to tease Arthur as well, but she’s got a way of just looking at him and managing to extract all the information she wants without getting his hackles up, a feat even Morgana hasn’t managed. He ends up telling her about his father, his mother, and just how his first girlfriend ended up as his sister’s life partner, and in return she tells him a bit about her own past-not much, he gets the impression it’s rather more tragic than she lets on, but enough so he feels by the end of the meal that he knows her properly as a person, not just as half of Freya-and-Merlin.
“I’ve overstayed my lunch,” he says with regret after a burger and chips that have left him groaning (even though he couldn’t resist a piece of cherry pie on top of it). “Some paperwork is pressing enough that it can’t wait.”
“Of course, I shouldn’t have kept you.”
He puts down enough money to cover both of their meals over her objections. “I’ll see you soon, I’m sure,” he says when she finally gives in. “Maybe I’ll invite you and Merlin to dinner, as thanks for your invitation the last time?”
Freya stands up and gives him a quick hug. She’s tiny, but a lot stronger than she looks. “That would be lovely, Arthur. Do give us a call about it. And perhaps I’ll give you a call the next time I’m in this area of town. If you don’t mind, anyway?”
“Of course I don’t mind. And if my business ever takes me by your vet clinic I’ll even return the favor.”
She wraps her scarf around her neck as they head out onto the street. “Maybe I’ll pay for your lunch, then.”
*
It takes a week and a half for Arthur to find the breathing space to invite Merlin and Freya to dinner (mostly Morgana’s fault-Gwen may be the pregnant one, but she’s the one nesting, and she is currently in a phase of believing every tiny detail of their nursery must be perfect, as if two weeks after the baby comes it won’t look like a blast zone). The second he starts to issue the invitation, on the phone with Merlin since Freya didn’t pick up when he called, it’s accepted, so on a Friday night Arthur finds himself in his kitchen cooking one of the few nice meals he knows how to make.
Freya and Merlin turn up five minutes earlier than he’s expecting them, while he’s still (embarrassingly enough) wearing an apron to keep from getting his good jumper covered in food. Freya’s carrying some sort of flower in a brown pot. “We would have brought wine,” she explains, “but everything we possibly could have brought would be much worse than anything you’re used to buying.”
“The flower’s lovely,” he assures her, though he’s been known to neglect even the hardiest of cacti until they gave up. “You’ll have to tell me how to take care of it.”
“Of course, we’ve both got rather green thumbs,” says Merlin. “We can help whenever you need it. Do we get a tour of your flat now?”
“Yes, dinner’s just staying warm on the stove.” And he’s finally managed to get all his things unpacked, so his flat isn’t a disaster. It still feels rather unlived-in, but that will come with time, no doubt. “Feel free to hang your coats up with mine,” he adds, mostly to watch the near-identical face they make at his having actual coat pegs.
His flat’s larger than theirs by quite a margin, but neither of them seems to mind, so he doesn’t waste time feeling guilty over it. Their couch is undoubtedly more comfortable anyway, since he let Morgana decorate his flat when he first got it rather than picking everything out himself for function rather than form. Freya and Merlin’s walls of posters and random bits of decoration make his own flat look empty, but they seem to enjoy the tour and grin at each other at random sometimes (and always at the same times, they’re eerily in sync).
“Dinner should be ready, I hope you like soup,” he says when he’s done, finally remembering to take the apron off and dump it on a chair he isn’t using (it’s not frilly, nor does it have “Kiss the Cook” written on it, but it’s embarrassing nonetheless). “Settle in, I’ll bring the pot over in a minute.”
Arthur leaves them to their conversation while he tastes the soup one last time and adds a bit more pepper. When he comes back to the table, they break off their conversation so abruptly that it’s obvious they were talking about him. He raises his eyebrows and does his best not to look as self-conscious as he feels, and must succeed to some extent because both of them relax. “We were talking about you,” Merlin admits, “but I promise it was only good things.”
“I’ll pretend I believe you.” He serves out the soup and the bread, and Freya stops him with a hand on his arm before he can sit down. “Sorry, did I forget something?”
“We really weren’t saying anything awful,” she says, eyes so wide and earnest it’s hard not to believe her. She must have been a terror for getting her own way as a child, he thinks, and falls into the trap anyway. “We wouldn’t do that with you right in the room.”
“We save being catty for the walk home,” Merlin contributes, and Arthur relaxes. That, at least, he can believe. “Now would you sit down? You don’t have to be some sort of Stepford host.”
That, thank God, gets Merlin and Freya arguing amiably over what version of The Stepford Wives is best (the original, clearly, but Merlin seems to have some sort of inexplicable crush on Nicole Kidman that puts him past all reason), and the conversation moves on, nothing awkward from there. Arthur gets in a heated argument with Merlin about whether robots or aliens are more interesting in science fiction (Merlin gets points with Asimov, but Arthur still thinks aliens win overall) while Freya wonders aloud what it is about boys and spaceships. Merlin parries by making mock of something she reads, something about dragons in space that Arthur doesn’t follow, and from there it’s easy to move from subject to subject as they eat.
It’s eleven before Freya checks her phone and curses. “I meant to get us out an hour ago, sorry, Arthur. I’ve got errands to run in the morning.”
Merlin grimaces at the wreckage of the table. “We also meant to help you with the dishes.”
“That’s not a problem.” Arthur takes a cue to stand up. “There’s a wonderful thing called a dishwasher, we posh people are sometimes equipped with them. I shouldn’t have kept you so late anyway.”
“We’re glad to spend time with you.” Freya goes about stacking the bowls up while Merlin clears a few other things off the table. Arthur blinks and stands a beat too late, just in time to put the wine away and the glasses in the sink-those he doesn’t trust to his dishwasher. “And we’ll do it again,” she adds when he turns away from the sink to find her standing right behind him.
Arthur blinks at her, a little tired now that he knows what time it is. “Of course we will.” It’s not so much a forgone conclusion as all that-other than Leon and Morgana and Gwen it’s rare he spends time having just one or two of his friends for dinner, or going over to their places either-but it feels like one.
“Good.” She’s out of his personal space in a second, shepherding Merlin away from where he’s got distracted by Arthur’s scant bookshelf (he seems to be scoffing at the presence of Walt Whitman) and into his coat. “One of us will call you soon, then, or you call us.”
Merlin grins at him. “You’re stuck with us now, Arthur.”
“I don’t mind in the least.” For some reason, that makes them both laugh a little, sharing one of those private looks, but before he can ask, there’s a flurry of goodnights and someone’s warm lips against his cheek-alarmingly, he’s not quite sure whose, as someone else is giving his hand a squeeze at the same time. “Don’t talk about me too much on the way home,” he says as they’re opening the door.
Freya’s smile crinkles her nose up. “I’m sure we’ll talk of nothing else,” she counters, and then they’re out the door, leaving him with his kitchen a mess and feeling even more confused than before.
*
Mithian has always loved throwing dinner parties (and tea parties, his first memory of her is being six and uncomfortably stuffed into a suit while she calmly poured out the tea for them both with jam-sticky hands and then proceeded to do the same for a teddy bear, her mother’s precious heirloom porcelain doll, and her imaginary friend). The first one after Arthur comes home seems like quite a production after two years in California where everyone does finger food appetizers and wine instead of sitting their guests down at fancy parties-Mithian has a roast on the table, key lime pie in the refrigerator, and jazz playing quietly on her stereo.
Everyone’s in the spirit of the thing, from Elena turning up in a blouse and skirt (the hem already ripped) to Morgana in what Arthur suspects is a silk dress to Merlin in another of his omnipresent sweater vests. Even Percival’s in the spirit of things, though his biceps are threatening to burst his sleeves. Arthur feels a bit like he’s playacting, but for once everyone else is too, giggling and snapping pictures with their phones. Gwaine produces a monocle from somewhere and spends the entirety of dinner calling everyone “old boy” amidst much hilarity.
For once, Arthur feels as if everything is back to normal, nearly the same as it was before he left London even with Gwen’s new maternity dress and Merlin and Freya added to the group, and he enjoys the night more than he was expecting at the beginning. By the time they finish dinner, he’s pleasantly tipsy and full, grinning around the table as Mithian steals Gwaine’s monocle and Leon stares at her like a besotted schoolboy and Vivian giggles, possibly over that and possibly over whatever Gwaine keeps whispering in her ear.
At the end of dinner, Merlin and Freya insist on clearing up and helping Mithian with the dishes, and with everyone else at the table engrossed in their own conversations (including Mithian, who keeps protesting at Freya and Merlin’s helpfulness every time they take a load of dishes but doesn’t stop chatting to Elyan about some new art exhibit at the gallery where she works), Arthur decides to get up and help. Morgana gives him a suspicious look, but he just ignores her. She doesn’t know best all the time, after all, and it isn’t as if he’s given any thought at all to breaking Merlin and Freya up.
When he gets to the kitchen, Arthur stops in the doorway. The music is louder in there, playing some old big band tune he thinks he vaguely recognizes from a film or two, and Merlin and Freya are dancing. Well, he realizes after a moment, Freya is dancing, twirling expertly under Merlin’s hands, up on her toes, and Merlin is gamely attempting to follow in the manner of one who has only seen swing dancing in the movies and not had endless ballroom dancing classes inflicted on them.
“May I cut in?” Arthur asks before he can think about it, and without missing a beat Freya twirls into his arms, ready for ballroom position in time for a new musical phrase. He grins at her and takes her through a few of the maneuvers he remembers from the classes his father insisted he and Morgana take so as to impress people at his parties. Mithian’s kitchen is too small for a lot of them, but he still manages to get a few good spins in.
Merlin hops up to sit on one of Mithian’s counters, phone out, not minding in the least that Arthur is monopolizing his girlfriend. Arthur gives him a nod in the middle of a spin and makes himself dizzy as a consequence, he and Freya staggering together a few steps to the side before he hits the wall to lean for a moment. She leans up against him, natural as anything and laughing up at him, as the music changes over to something a bit more sedate.
“What on earth is going on in here?” Mithian asks from the doorway of her kitchen, bemused. “Has a Gene Kelly movie suddenly broken out?”
“It’s your own fault,” says Merlin, hopping off the counter and busying himself at the sink. “You chose the soundtrack.”
Freya smiles at Arthur and finally steps out of his personal space. “You’re a good dancer.”
“Not as good as you, it took quite a few lessons for me to get the hang of things. Though I mostly blame Morgana for attempting to lead all the time.”
Merlin laughs. “She would.”
“I took every dance class I could find for ages,” says Freya, starting the water while Mithian organizes the dishes to be washed. “I was going to be a ballerina, but swing was always one of my favorites too.”
“Ballerina to veterinarian is an interesting transition,” Arthur says, rummaging through Mithian’s drawer of leftover containers to put the rest of the food away.
Freya launches into the story, with frequent embellishments and commentary from Merlin, and Arthur laughs in all the right places and tries not to notice the way Mithian is looking at him, a little confused and a little concerned. Arthur excuses himself when Freya finishes talking, since Merlin and Mithian are washing and Freya is drying and he feels rather superfluous. The party’s still going strong in the dining room, where Gwaine seems to be attempting to act out a scene from some Merchant Ivory film all on his own, playing three parts at once.
Morgana sidles over to him under the cover of Gwaine pledging his tearful love to a potted plant in a wavery falsetto. “The kitchen seems like the place to be right now,” she says.
“Leave it.” She raises her eyebrows, because she’s never let anything go in her life. “Anything you can say I promise I’ve already thought. Be careful, don’t break up the best couple you know, whatever it is, I know.” Elyan’s a bit too near for Arthur to be entirely comfortable having this conversation, but he’s at least discreet, if he knows what they’re talking about.
“You can’t blame a sister for worrying about her baby brother, can you, Arthur?”
Arthur rolls his eyes. “Six months, Morgana, for God’s sake, and yes, I can. I was off in California for two years doing God-knows-what, or don’t you remember?” He never got infatuated with both members of a long-term relationship there, but there were plenty of inadvisable decisions nonetheless.
“I didn’t have a front-row seat for that. And I didn’t care about anyone else involved, then.” Morgana straightens his collar, apparently askew after his dance session in the kitchen. “Don’t do anything stupid, that’s all I ask.”
“It’s like you don’t trust me at all.”
Gwaine, thank God, chooses that moment to do something especially outrageous, and Arthur allows himself to be distracted and to ignore the way Morgana looks between him and the kitchen a few more times before drifting back to Gwen, who’s already yawning. When Gwaine finishes his theatrics, the party starts breaking up, and Arthur leaves soon after Morgana escorts Gwen out and Leon excuses himself, pleading an early morning.
When Arthur gets home and checks his e-mail, there’s one waiting with a photo attachment from Merlin: a picture of Arthur grinning down at Freya as he lifted her right off the ground, an answering smile on Freya’s face.
He doesn’t think he’s ever been this confused in his life.
*
Gwen calls a week after Mithian’s dinner party. “So, there’s this great guy I work with,” she starts, and then keeps talking over Arthur’s groan. “He’s charming and good-looking and might have possibly seen your picture while peeking over my shoulder at your Facebook and I might possibly have told him that I would try to set you up on a blind date?”
“Has Morgana been talking to you?”
He can almost hear Gwen’s surprised blink. “Well, we live together, but about you, no. Should we have been? I just feel like you’ve been a bit lonely since you came back, and Gilli’s really lovely.”
Arthur ignores her first question. “You’ve already set it up, haven’t you?”
Gwen laughs nervously. “Would you happen to be free on Wednesday evening?”
That’s how Arthur ends up walking into a strange pub on a Wednesday when he otherwise would have been relaxing in front of his television or maybe out with his friends (Leon, Percival, and Vivian are off to see some independent film Arthur wouldn’t have minded tagging along to). Gwen sent him a picture of Gilli, so he recognizes him, but in person all he can think of is that Gilli reminds him of Merlin, which isn’t the best foot to be getting off on. Arthur puts it firmly down to the ears and goes about attempting to be charming.
Gilli’s good company (not that he would expect Gwen to set him up with someone awful), if a little combative about politics and inclined to assume the worst of Arthur’s thoughts on such things, but Arthur still can’t help comparing him to Merlin. It’s not the looks so much; he sees plenty of lanky dark-haired men any given day, including his own personal assistant. It’s more that he and Merlin seem to be passionate about similar things, and prone to a few of the same little quirks, and they’re both interested in science. There’s no Freya there to mitigate the occasional awkward moments where the discussion gets a little too heated on some subject or other, though, leaving Arthur to back off uncomfortably and remind himself to live in the moment. Eventually, they hit upon talking about their favorite books, something Arthur enjoys and something Gilli has different taste than Merlin in (not to mention good taste), and he relaxes as much as he’s able.
At the end of the night, he and Gilli stand outside the pub door in the manner of all couples who aren’t quite sure if the first date has gone well enough for a kiss. Arthur isn’t quite feeling the interest, but it isn’t as if Gilli isn’t perfectly nice. “So,” says Gilli after a few seconds of silence, “are we getting together again? Or shall one of us explain to Gwen that we aren’t compatible?”
Arthur grimaces. “The latter, I’m afraid. I’d love to catch a coffee and keep talking about Whitman, nobody on this side of the ocean seems to read him as much as I’d like, but just as friends, if you’re willing.”
Gilli shrugs. “I can’t see any reason why not-this was a long shot, and all, and I don’t know if I could sleep with you knowing you think Top Gear is good television.”
“Oi!” Arthur laughs, relieved. “Good, then, you seem great and I’d hate to leave you in the lurch. Not to mention disappointing Gwen like that is even more hazardous now that she’s pregnant.” When Gilli looks disapproving, Arthur hastens to explain. “Only because my sister is even more protective of her than usual, none of that hormone rot.”
From there, it’s easy to say goodnight with a handshake and a clap on the back, and Arthur starts walking back towards his flat, taking the long way round since it’s still relatively early and it’s a nice night. Halfway there, he texts Merlin on a whim. Were you related to my blind date? The ears are uncanny.
His phone rings a few seconds later, and when he picks it up, Merlin is laughing. “Why the hell are you calling from your blind date? That’s poor form.”
“Date’s over, it didn’t work out. I’m walking home right now.”
There’s a little pause. “That’s too bad. That it didn’t work out, I mean. Any particular reason?”
Despite what Arthur can only interpret as flirting, he doesn’t think Merlin would appreciate Arthur admitting he couldn’t get him or his girlfriend out of his mind all through the evening. “Didn’t click, is all. It was Gwen’s idea, anyway. I’m perfectly happy with the way things are.”
“What, don’t want to settle down into happy domesticity?”
“With the right person, I suppose.” It’s odd watching all his friends settled, but he can’t deny he sometimes envies Gwen and Morgana their happiness, or Merlin and Freya their ease with each other. “Gilli just wasn’t it.”
“Don’t give up, then. You don’t have to compromise.” There’s an odd noise over Merlin’s side of the line, and then the sound of Freya giggling. “Sorry, we’re attempting to make frosting, we wanted cupcakes, and we can’t get the mixer working right. Want to come over and eat away your sorrows?”
Arthur looks at the clock on his phone, but it’s nearing nine, and by the time he got over there and stayed a while he would just be wearing himself out for work. “I’m afraid I can’t, though I wish I could.”
“Arthur can’t come,” says Merlin, muffled like he’s turned away, and then comes back like normal after Freya says something in the background. “She says we’ll save some icing for you, you’ll have to come over and hang out this weekend.”
Arthur is struck by a sudden, vivid image of Merlin and Freya covered with frosting, and it takes him a second to get his voice back. “Perhaps I shall. Morgana’s got me Friday night to help build shelves in the baby’s room, but I’m free Saturday.” Even if it means Morgana will spend all of Friday night judging him silently.
“Saturday, then. Come on over anytime, weekends tend to be quiet here. Have a good night, Arthur.”
“You too,” he says, and hangs up to the sound of Freya starting to laugh again on the other end of the line.
The walk home seems less nice after that, a little lonely, but Arthur ignores it and gets back in time to read until he falls asleep.
*
Part Two