WIP meme
Oh god, I never used to have WIPs, and now I have so many. I really don't know if I'm going to finish the first two, but never say never. :) All of them are Merlin AUs.
Excerpt from Feet of Papier-Mâché
Merlin could hear Edward sigh in an extremely put-upon way at the other end of the phone. “Well, I shan’t be requiring you this weekend, so you can take time to recover until Monday. And you needn’t worry about the window - I finished it for you.”
“Erm, thanks,” Merlin said slowly. “But what do you mean, you finished it?”
“I could see where you had intended to place another mannequin, and I took the pile of armour lying in the break room to be its intended costume, so I -”
“Oh, no,” Merlin breathed. “You didn’t!”
“What on earth is the matter, Merlin?” Edward huffed. “Surely you don't mean to imply that I cannot put together a window display? I have been doing them for nearly three decades longer than you have.”
“No, no, not at all. It's just -” Merlin bit his lip before he said I'm afraid it might spring to life and start running about the shop trying to impale you with an aluminium sword “- I feel badly putting you to all that trouble.”
“It was very little trouble, I assure you. And now that I see the finished product, I must say I'm impressed by your vision.”
“Oh - you are?” For Edward, that was practically an orgasmic display of praise. Edward never used words like ‘impressed’ unironically.
“I am. And it's already garnering favourable comments from customers. I think next week we should talk about a raise. I believe you're due for one.”
“Oh, that's wonderful!” Merlin exclaimed. “Thank -” The rest of the sentence never emerged, because at that moment Arthur chose to enter the room with his hair dripping wet, clad only in a towel slung dangerously low on his hips.
“That shower is truly a gift from the gods!” Arthur exclaimed. “I feel invigourated!”
Merlin raised the mobile to his ear again, only to find his hand was empty, the device having tumbled from his numb fingers onto the carpet without his noticing. Snatching it up again, he murmured, “I - I'm sorry, Edward, I have to go. I promise I'll be in on Monday.” He rang off as Arthur frowned at him.
“Where are you going?” Arthur asked, confused.
“Nowhere.”
“Then why did you just tell me you were?”
“I wasn't telling - oh, right.” He wiggled the phone at Arthur. “This allows us to talk to people over long distances.”
“How long a distance?”
Merlin shrugged. “Well, only across town just now, but right across the world if we want to.”
Arthur stepped forward and took the phone from Merlin gingerly, turning it this way and that to study it. “So small for such a miraculous thing.”
Merlin tried not to notice that Arthur was really standing quite close to him, and that the edge of the towel, which was still fighting a losing battle against gravity, was currently at eye level. He stared fixedly at Arthur's bellybutton and resolved not to let his gaze go the way of the towel. Unfortunately, this distraction meant he missed seeing Arthur poking at the mobile's keypad until a tinny “Hello?” sounded in the room.
“Oh, no, don't -” he began, but Arthur was already raising the mobile to his ear, mimicking Merlin.
“Greetings, stranger!” Arthur boomed. “I am speaking to you over a great distance!”
There was a pause. “I am Arthur Pendragon,” he said, with less certainty. “Pray, what is your location?” Arthur held the mobile away from his ear and whispered to Merlin, “How far away is Islington?”
“Bugger, give me that,” Merlin demanded, rising to his feet and snatching the phone away. “Hello, I'm very sorry, I -”
“Merlin?”
“Gwen?” Merlin asked. Thank god Arthur had only hit the speed dial. “Look, I'm sorry, I -”
“Did, erm,” Gwen said slowly, “did that bloke just call himself Arthur Pendragon?”
“I'm really not sure,” Merlin lied.
“Oh my God,” Gwen hissed, “do you get your dates to say that when you're -”
“When I'm what?” Merlin asked vaguely, eyes glued to Arthur's very shapely arse as he turned to inspect the artwork on Merlin's wall.
“When you - oh, never mind.”
Merlin shook himself. “What? No, he's not a date. He's - erm.” He blew out a breath. “It's complicated. Look, I could really do with your help. What are you doing today?”
“Well, as it's my day off, I had been planning to have a lie in.”
Merlin winced. “Yeah. Sorry.”
Gwen sighed. “No, it's alright. Why don't I meet you for lunch? The Lion's Head at one?”
“Great, thanks,” Merlin said, practically sagging with relief. “See you then.”
Ringing off, he looked up to see that Arthur's towel was now in imminent danger of dropping. “Do you -” Merlin began, stopping when his dry throat protested, “do you think you might like to get dressed now?”
“Hm?” Arthur said, looking down at himself as though he hadn't been aware of his state of undress. “Oh, yes, I suppose so,” he said. “What are we doing?”
“Well, we're going to meet my friend Gwen for lunch - that's the woman in far and exotic Islington you just chatted to - I think she can help us with the plan to get you back. But until then, I thought you might like to see the city in the daylight when it's not so -” Merlin clamped his lips shut around the word frightening. “Erm. Dark.”
Arthur appeared to contemplate this. “Very well. I must admit I am curious to see this world of the future in more detail.”
“But first, clothes,” Merlin prompted.
“Right,” Arthur said, and then he whipped off the towel with a flourish. Merlin had just enough time to blush like a silly, virginal teenager before Arthur balled up the towel and threw it in his face.
“Don't worry,” Arthur tossed over his shoulder, his arse flexing as he walked out of the room. “I don't blame you for wanting to look.”
“You are such a giant, steaming prat,” Merlin muttered under his breath, stripping off his own t-shirt and searching for some clean clothes to wear.
Excerpt from Not Fade Away
After the day he'd had, approximately the last thing in the universe Arthur wanted was for Morgana to show up on his doorstep and drag him off to some odd little club in Notting Hill. Nevertheless, he found himself being dragged, if only for the fact that at least he could count on Morgana not to nag him about the bloody album.
“So what's the name of this bloke again?”
“Oh, God, you know I'm terrible with names,” Morgana said, flipping a hand. “All you need to know is that he's the next big thing - a musician's musician, Mick told me.”
“You do realise what people assume about a girl if she lets it be known she's on a first-name basis with 'Mick',” Arthur sniffed.
Morgana rolled her eyes. “Not just the girls, darling. Oh, here we are,” she added, as the taxi pulled to the kerb.
“Morgana, I just have one question,” Arthur said as they climbed out.
“Yes?”
“What the everloving fuck are you wearing?”
Morgana looked down at herself as though she expected to be surprised. “Why, it's a body stocking,” she said. “Surely you've seen one before.”
“Wrapped around blood sausages, yes,” Arthur said, earning himself another eyeroll.
“It's Morgause's latest,” she said, holding out her arms. The charcoal fabric shimmered faintly in the light from the street lamps. “It's her answer to the miniskirt. Total coverage.”
As Morgana turned away, Arthur was confronted by the shapely curve of his stepsister's arse emphasised by thin, skintight fabric. He shuddered. “Total coverage. Right,” he muttered. “Lead on, MacDuff.”
The club wasn't one he'd heard of before, but inside it was nice enough, if hardly the Marquee. It was crowded, laid out with small tables and barely any room to move between them, and there was a distinct aroma of weed in the air. The patrons were a mix of races and ages, unlike the more uniform audiences at the trendier hotspots of Soho and Chelsea. It was a refreshing change, Arthur had to admit.
There was a small stage just large enough for perhaps a trio of performers; there was only one there at the moment, his back to the audience as he tuned his guitar and checked his equipment. The fabled musician's musician, Arthur supposed, craning his neck to try to get a better look at him. From the back, he was hardly remarkable, all skinny, gangly limbs and a mess of longish black hair wrapped in a faded t-shirt and worn jeans. He had two guitars, the one sitting on its stand a battered National Steel that glimmered even in the lowered lights. A small open grip sat on the floor, full of harmonicas. Probably a folk singer, then, another bloody Dylan clone; it wouldn't have been Arthur's first choice for an evening out, but at least it still had the potential to take his mind off his own musical troubles.
“Oh, there they are,” Morgana said, waving. “I hope they've saved us a couple of seats.” She threaded her way between tables, her body stocking accentuating the sinuous motion of her hips and spine. Arthur could see she was getting quite a few looks from both men and women, but then Morgana had always had a gift for being noticed. Considering she was one of the most highly paid models in Britain, she'd managed to find a way of making it work to her advantage.
There were two people at the table Morgana was headed for, a black man with a shaved head and a woman with moon-pale skin and extraordinary blue eyes. Both were absolutely stunning, which was par for the course for Morgana's friends. “Arthur, this is Myror Allende and Nimueh St. James,” Morgana said, as Arthur extended his hand to each in turn. “My good-for-nothing stepbrother, Arthur Pendragon.”
Nimueh smiled and draped herself artfully across the back of the chair. “Oh, I'm sure he's good for something,” she drawled, looking him up and down. “Hullo, Arthur.”
“Pleasure,” Arthur said, glad the dim lighting hid his flush. He wasn't in the mood to flirt, so he hoped to hell Nimueh got the hint and left well enough alone. Luckily, she was either talented at reading people or had a short attention span, because she gave a minute shrug and turned her attention to Morgana.
“That outfit is fascinating,” Nimueh told her, “and quite possibly illegal.”
Morgana raised her eyebrows. “I don't see how; I'm covered from neck to ankles.”
Nimueh patted her hand. “You tell that to the nice copper who comes to arrest you for indecent exposure, dear.”
Morgana smiled at her. “You have such a flair for the dramatic, dear.” She turned to Arthur. “Nimueh's an actress.”
“Oh,” Arthur said, feigning interest and knowing he was doing a shit job of it. “Theatre or film? Or television?”
“Theatre, of course,” Nimueh sniffed. “Currently I'm playing Mark Antony in a production of Julius Caesar.”
“Oh,” Arthur said again, “fascinating - erm, choice.”
“The Revolutionary Shakespeare Company is dedicated to breaking free of the prisons of convention in casting, dialogue and action.”
“Right,” Arthur said, rapidly losing steam. “Where is that being put on, then?”
“Our stage is the world,” Nimueh said gravely, “and the world is our stage.”
“I see,” Arthur lied. “So, that would mean -” Nimueh sprang to her feet, and Arthur startled. He glanced at Myror for support, but he was only looking up at her with an indulgent expression on his face.
“Friends, Romans, countrymen, lend me your ears, and cast off the evil capitalist oppressors whose boot now rests upon thy naked necks!”
“Did ancient Rome have capitalists?” Arthur asked,
“Oh, loads,” Morgana murmured, leaning in. “Hadn't you heard?”
The soliloquy gathered momentum until Nimueh had the attention of a good number of people, including the musician on the stage, who had turned round and was watching her with barely contained mirth in his eyes. He caught Arthur's gaze, eyebrow raised in a question, and Arthur tried to convey Don't blame me, I just met these people in a helpless shrug and a widening of his eyes. The other man seemed to get it, because he grinned openly, then winked at Arthur as though they were co-conspirators.
When Nimueh finally finished her speech, arms upraised as though to call down the heavens, there was a smattering of applause, but whether this was to celebrate her talent or the end of the interruption, Arthur was unsure.
“So, Myror,” Arthur said, hoping to change the subject but already dreading the answer, “what is it that you do?”
“I'm an agent,” Myror said. “Not quite in your league, I'm afraid, so you needn't bother telling me how happy you are with Neddy.”
Arthur's eyebrows shot up in surprise, but on second thought, it made sense that they all knew one another. “I wouldn't - erm. Who are you currently working with?”
Myror nodded at the stage. “My best lad is right up there on the stage at the moment,” he said. “Merlin Emrys. Most talented musician I've met in years - no offence.”
“None taken,” Arthur murmured, wishing he could go back to chatting with Nimueh.
“Problem is, he's allergic to success,” Myror continued. “I negotiated a recording contract for him last week, gold bloody plated, and he turned it down. Said he's not interested in prostituting himself. Prostituting himself, I ask you! Just my luck I run across the one musician who doesn't want to be famous.”
“Well, Arthur's got a recording contract,” Morgana said sweetly. “And he finds that the self-loathing subsides if he just lies back and thinks of England.”
“Morgana,” Arthur warned.
Excerpt from Love for Sale
“This is going to be a disaster!” Arthur shouted.
Morgana leaned against the counter of the dressing room, her arms crossed and her expression distinctly unsympathetic. “On the contrary, this event was planned by me, organised by me, and I will be conducting the auction. Therefore, it is going to be extremely successful.”
“And I suppose you arranged for that mob out there, then,” Arthur said, waving a hand in the general direction of the stage.
“Hardly a mob,” Morgana scoffed. “You know at least nine-tenths of them.”
“That's exactly my point! It's as though all my exes are lined up in one room, waiting eagerly for the pleasure of buying me so that they can drag me off somewhere, murder me and bury the body.”
Morgana smirked. “I can't help your questionable taste, Arthur. But even so, I hardly think all of them want to murder you. I'm sure some of them only want to bruise you a little.”
“Tell me you didn't invite them specifically,” Arthur said.
Morgana rolled her eyes. “Dear lord, your ego. In case you hadn't noticed, you tend to date young men and women with far too much money - which is exactly what this event needs to raise the needed dosh for Creative Youth. It's a coincidence, no more.”
Arthur sagged. “All right, then.”
Morgana made a show of inspecting her perfectly manicured nails. “And I may have mentioned to a couple of friends that your overlarge arse would be up for sale tonight.”
“Morgana!”
“I can't help it if word gets around,” Morgana sniffed, as Arthur advanced on her.
“I'm not going to do it,” Arthur growled. “I'm simply not.”
Morgana's chin lifted in unmistakable challenge. “I can't believe you'd be so selfish. I need every man we've got to make our target, and you're going to drop out on me at the last minute?”
“I'll be happy to write you a cheque to make up whatever you think I would have fetched on the -” he made a face “- auction block.”
Morgana's eyebrow lifted, and Arthur tried not to react. When Morgana deployed the eyebrow, it never boded well. “I knew you wouldn't go through with it,” she said, nodding.
“I had every intention -”
“Oh, come off it, Arthur. You've been against this from the beginning, and not because you don't like to support charity - I know you do - but because ever since we've been children, your greatest fear has been looking silly.”
Arthur drew himself up. “There's nothing wrong with wanting to preserve your dignity.”
“There is when it means you never take a chance.”
“Morgana -”
“When you said you'd do it, I couldn't quite believe it, you know. I thought you were actually starting to -” She trailed off, shaking her head.
“What?”
“Nothing,” Morgana said softly, shoving herself off the counter. “Do what you like, Arthur. As you say, it's the money that counts.”
After she was gone, Arthur ground his teeth together for a minute. He knew full well he was being manipulated, and that he'd be an idiot to go up on that stage.
“Fuck,” he breathed, scrubbing his face with his hands. He couldn't do it. Why couldn't Morgana understand -
A soft knock sounded on the door, and Arthur smoothed down his suit jacket. “Yes?”
“Arthur? It's me, Merlin. Are you ready? We're about to start, and Gwen said you had told her you wanted to go on first.”
It took a split second for Arthur to remember who Merlin was, and then it came to him. Merlin was one of Morgana's friends, and co-runner of the charity that was currently making his life a living hell. Morgana was constantly prattling on about his artistic genius and trying to get him to put together a show for her gallery. The only time Arthur had ever met him had been at one of her parties, and while he hadn't seen any evidence of Merlin's artistic talent, he had to admit Merlin had a singular gift for spilling drinks on people. Arthur never had been able to get the wine stain out of that shirt.
Quite suddenly, a desperate, slightly mad plan sprang fully formed into Arthur's head. After all, Merlin owed him, and there was no one else, and Morgana would be impossible if he dropped out now. Somewhere in the back of his brain, a voice was screaming about a distinct flaw in his logic, but that didn't stop him from yanking the door open and saying to a startled-looking Merlin:
“Buy me.”
ETA: Ahahahaha, I missed the "one sentence to three paragraphs" stipulation. WHOOPS. /o\
This entry was also posted on Dreamwidth at http://lamardeuse.dreamwidth.org/983407.html . Please feel free to comment at either journal.
Excerpt from Feet of Papier-Mâché
Merlin could hear Edward sigh in an extremely put-upon way at the other end of the phone. “Well, I shan’t be requiring you this weekend, so you can take time to recover until Monday. And you needn’t worry about the window - I finished it for you.”
“Erm, thanks,” Merlin said slowly. “But what do you mean, you finished it?”
“I could see where you had intended to place another mannequin, and I took the pile of armour lying in the break room to be its intended costume, so I -”
“Oh, no,” Merlin breathed. “You didn’t!”
“What on earth is the matter, Merlin?” Edward huffed. “Surely you don't mean to imply that I cannot put together a window display? I have been doing them for nearly three decades longer than you have.”
“No, no, not at all. It's just -” Merlin bit his lip before he said I'm afraid it might spring to life and start running about the shop trying to impale you with an aluminium sword “- I feel badly putting you to all that trouble.”
“It was very little trouble, I assure you. And now that I see the finished product, I must say I'm impressed by your vision.”
“Oh - you are?” For Edward, that was practically an orgasmic display of praise. Edward never used words like ‘impressed’ unironically.
“I am. And it's already garnering favourable comments from customers. I think next week we should talk about a raise. I believe you're due for one.”
“Oh, that's wonderful!” Merlin exclaimed. “Thank -” The rest of the sentence never emerged, because at that moment Arthur chose to enter the room with his hair dripping wet, clad only in a towel slung dangerously low on his hips.
“That shower is truly a gift from the gods!” Arthur exclaimed. “I feel invigourated!”
Merlin raised the mobile to his ear again, only to find his hand was empty, the device having tumbled from his numb fingers onto the carpet without his noticing. Snatching it up again, he murmured, “I - I'm sorry, Edward, I have to go. I promise I'll be in on Monday.” He rang off as Arthur frowned at him.
“Where are you going?” Arthur asked, confused.
“Nowhere.”
“Then why did you just tell me you were?”
“I wasn't telling - oh, right.” He wiggled the phone at Arthur. “This allows us to talk to people over long distances.”
“How long a distance?”
Merlin shrugged. “Well, only across town just now, but right across the world if we want to.”
Arthur stepped forward and took the phone from Merlin gingerly, turning it this way and that to study it. “So small for such a miraculous thing.”
Merlin tried not to notice that Arthur was really standing quite close to him, and that the edge of the towel, which was still fighting a losing battle against gravity, was currently at eye level. He stared fixedly at Arthur's bellybutton and resolved not to let his gaze go the way of the towel. Unfortunately, this distraction meant he missed seeing Arthur poking at the mobile's keypad until a tinny “Hello?” sounded in the room.
“Oh, no, don't -” he began, but Arthur was already raising the mobile to his ear, mimicking Merlin.
“Greetings, stranger!” Arthur boomed. “I am speaking to you over a great distance!”
There was a pause. “I am Arthur Pendragon,” he said, with less certainty. “Pray, what is your location?” Arthur held the mobile away from his ear and whispered to Merlin, “How far away is Islington?”
“Bugger, give me that,” Merlin demanded, rising to his feet and snatching the phone away. “Hello, I'm very sorry, I -”
“Merlin?”
“Gwen?” Merlin asked. Thank god Arthur had only hit the speed dial. “Look, I'm sorry, I -”
“Did, erm,” Gwen said slowly, “did that bloke just call himself Arthur Pendragon?”
“I'm really not sure,” Merlin lied.
“Oh my God,” Gwen hissed, “do you get your dates to say that when you're -”
“When I'm what?” Merlin asked vaguely, eyes glued to Arthur's very shapely arse as he turned to inspect the artwork on Merlin's wall.
“When you - oh, never mind.”
Merlin shook himself. “What? No, he's not a date. He's - erm.” He blew out a breath. “It's complicated. Look, I could really do with your help. What are you doing today?”
“Well, as it's my day off, I had been planning to have a lie in.”
Merlin winced. “Yeah. Sorry.”
Gwen sighed. “No, it's alright. Why don't I meet you for lunch? The Lion's Head at one?”
“Great, thanks,” Merlin said, practically sagging with relief. “See you then.”
Ringing off, he looked up to see that Arthur's towel was now in imminent danger of dropping. “Do you -” Merlin began, stopping when his dry throat protested, “do you think you might like to get dressed now?”
“Hm?” Arthur said, looking down at himself as though he hadn't been aware of his state of undress. “Oh, yes, I suppose so,” he said. “What are we doing?”
“Well, we're going to meet my friend Gwen for lunch - that's the woman in far and exotic Islington you just chatted to - I think she can help us with the plan to get you back. But until then, I thought you might like to see the city in the daylight when it's not so -” Merlin clamped his lips shut around the word frightening. “Erm. Dark.”
Arthur appeared to contemplate this. “Very well. I must admit I am curious to see this world of the future in more detail.”
“But first, clothes,” Merlin prompted.
“Right,” Arthur said, and then he whipped off the towel with a flourish. Merlin had just enough time to blush like a silly, virginal teenager before Arthur balled up the towel and threw it in his face.
“Don't worry,” Arthur tossed over his shoulder, his arse flexing as he walked out of the room. “I don't blame you for wanting to look.”
“You are such a giant, steaming prat,” Merlin muttered under his breath, stripping off his own t-shirt and searching for some clean clothes to wear.
Excerpt from Not Fade Away
After the day he'd had, approximately the last thing in the universe Arthur wanted was for Morgana to show up on his doorstep and drag him off to some odd little club in Notting Hill. Nevertheless, he found himself being dragged, if only for the fact that at least he could count on Morgana not to nag him about the bloody album.
“So what's the name of this bloke again?”
“Oh, God, you know I'm terrible with names,” Morgana said, flipping a hand. “All you need to know is that he's the next big thing - a musician's musician, Mick told me.”
“You do realise what people assume about a girl if she lets it be known she's on a first-name basis with 'Mick',” Arthur sniffed.
Morgana rolled her eyes. “Not just the girls, darling. Oh, here we are,” she added, as the taxi pulled to the kerb.
“Morgana, I just have one question,” Arthur said as they climbed out.
“Yes?”
“What the everloving fuck are you wearing?”
Morgana looked down at herself as though she expected to be surprised. “Why, it's a body stocking,” she said. “Surely you've seen one before.”
“Wrapped around blood sausages, yes,” Arthur said, earning himself another eyeroll.
“It's Morgause's latest,” she said, holding out her arms. The charcoal fabric shimmered faintly in the light from the street lamps. “It's her answer to the miniskirt. Total coverage.”
As Morgana turned away, Arthur was confronted by the shapely curve of his stepsister's arse emphasised by thin, skintight fabric. He shuddered. “Total coverage. Right,” he muttered. “Lead on, MacDuff.”
The club wasn't one he'd heard of before, but inside it was nice enough, if hardly the Marquee. It was crowded, laid out with small tables and barely any room to move between them, and there was a distinct aroma of weed in the air. The patrons were a mix of races and ages, unlike the more uniform audiences at the trendier hotspots of Soho and Chelsea. It was a refreshing change, Arthur had to admit.
There was a small stage just large enough for perhaps a trio of performers; there was only one there at the moment, his back to the audience as he tuned his guitar and checked his equipment. The fabled musician's musician, Arthur supposed, craning his neck to try to get a better look at him. From the back, he was hardly remarkable, all skinny, gangly limbs and a mess of longish black hair wrapped in a faded t-shirt and worn jeans. He had two guitars, the one sitting on its stand a battered National Steel that glimmered even in the lowered lights. A small open grip sat on the floor, full of harmonicas. Probably a folk singer, then, another bloody Dylan clone; it wouldn't have been Arthur's first choice for an evening out, but at least it still had the potential to take his mind off his own musical troubles.
“Oh, there they are,” Morgana said, waving. “I hope they've saved us a couple of seats.” She threaded her way between tables, her body stocking accentuating the sinuous motion of her hips and spine. Arthur could see she was getting quite a few looks from both men and women, but then Morgana had always had a gift for being noticed. Considering she was one of the most highly paid models in Britain, she'd managed to find a way of making it work to her advantage.
There were two people at the table Morgana was headed for, a black man with a shaved head and a woman with moon-pale skin and extraordinary blue eyes. Both were absolutely stunning, which was par for the course for Morgana's friends. “Arthur, this is Myror Allende and Nimueh St. James,” Morgana said, as Arthur extended his hand to each in turn. “My good-for-nothing stepbrother, Arthur Pendragon.”
Nimueh smiled and draped herself artfully across the back of the chair. “Oh, I'm sure he's good for something,” she drawled, looking him up and down. “Hullo, Arthur.”
“Pleasure,” Arthur said, glad the dim lighting hid his flush. He wasn't in the mood to flirt, so he hoped to hell Nimueh got the hint and left well enough alone. Luckily, she was either talented at reading people or had a short attention span, because she gave a minute shrug and turned her attention to Morgana.
“That outfit is fascinating,” Nimueh told her, “and quite possibly illegal.”
Morgana raised her eyebrows. “I don't see how; I'm covered from neck to ankles.”
Nimueh patted her hand. “You tell that to the nice copper who comes to arrest you for indecent exposure, dear.”
Morgana smiled at her. “You have such a flair for the dramatic, dear.” She turned to Arthur. “Nimueh's an actress.”
“Oh,” Arthur said, feigning interest and knowing he was doing a shit job of it. “Theatre or film? Or television?”
“Theatre, of course,” Nimueh sniffed. “Currently I'm playing Mark Antony in a production of Julius Caesar.”
“Oh,” Arthur said again, “fascinating - erm, choice.”
“The Revolutionary Shakespeare Company is dedicated to breaking free of the prisons of convention in casting, dialogue and action.”
“Right,” Arthur said, rapidly losing steam. “Where is that being put on, then?”
“Our stage is the world,” Nimueh said gravely, “and the world is our stage.”
“I see,” Arthur lied. “So, that would mean -” Nimueh sprang to her feet, and Arthur startled. He glanced at Myror for support, but he was only looking up at her with an indulgent expression on his face.
“Friends, Romans, countrymen, lend me your ears, and cast off the evil capitalist oppressors whose boot now rests upon thy naked necks!”
“Did ancient Rome have capitalists?” Arthur asked,
“Oh, loads,” Morgana murmured, leaning in. “Hadn't you heard?”
The soliloquy gathered momentum until Nimueh had the attention of a good number of people, including the musician on the stage, who had turned round and was watching her with barely contained mirth in his eyes. He caught Arthur's gaze, eyebrow raised in a question, and Arthur tried to convey Don't blame me, I just met these people in a helpless shrug and a widening of his eyes. The other man seemed to get it, because he grinned openly, then winked at Arthur as though they were co-conspirators.
When Nimueh finally finished her speech, arms upraised as though to call down the heavens, there was a smattering of applause, but whether this was to celebrate her talent or the end of the interruption, Arthur was unsure.
“So, Myror,” Arthur said, hoping to change the subject but already dreading the answer, “what is it that you do?”
“I'm an agent,” Myror said. “Not quite in your league, I'm afraid, so you needn't bother telling me how happy you are with Neddy.”
Arthur's eyebrows shot up in surprise, but on second thought, it made sense that they all knew one another. “I wouldn't - erm. Who are you currently working with?”
Myror nodded at the stage. “My best lad is right up there on the stage at the moment,” he said. “Merlin Emrys. Most talented musician I've met in years - no offence.”
“None taken,” Arthur murmured, wishing he could go back to chatting with Nimueh.
“Problem is, he's allergic to success,” Myror continued. “I negotiated a recording contract for him last week, gold bloody plated, and he turned it down. Said he's not interested in prostituting himself. Prostituting himself, I ask you! Just my luck I run across the one musician who doesn't want to be famous.”
“Well, Arthur's got a recording contract,” Morgana said sweetly. “And he finds that the self-loathing subsides if he just lies back and thinks of England.”
“Morgana,” Arthur warned.
Excerpt from Love for Sale
“This is going to be a disaster!” Arthur shouted.
Morgana leaned against the counter of the dressing room, her arms crossed and her expression distinctly unsympathetic. “On the contrary, this event was planned by me, organised by me, and I will be conducting the auction. Therefore, it is going to be extremely successful.”
“And I suppose you arranged for that mob out there, then,” Arthur said, waving a hand in the general direction of the stage.
“Hardly a mob,” Morgana scoffed. “You know at least nine-tenths of them.”
“That's exactly my point! It's as though all my exes are lined up in one room, waiting eagerly for the pleasure of buying me so that they can drag me off somewhere, murder me and bury the body.”
Morgana smirked. “I can't help your questionable taste, Arthur. But even so, I hardly think all of them want to murder you. I'm sure some of them only want to bruise you a little.”
“Tell me you didn't invite them specifically,” Arthur said.
Morgana rolled her eyes. “Dear lord, your ego. In case you hadn't noticed, you tend to date young men and women with far too much money - which is exactly what this event needs to raise the needed dosh for Creative Youth. It's a coincidence, no more.”
Arthur sagged. “All right, then.”
Morgana made a show of inspecting her perfectly manicured nails. “And I may have mentioned to a couple of friends that your overlarge arse would be up for sale tonight.”
“Morgana!”
“I can't help it if word gets around,” Morgana sniffed, as Arthur advanced on her.
“I'm not going to do it,” Arthur growled. “I'm simply not.”
Morgana's chin lifted in unmistakable challenge. “I can't believe you'd be so selfish. I need every man we've got to make our target, and you're going to drop out on me at the last minute?”
“I'll be happy to write you a cheque to make up whatever you think I would have fetched on the -” he made a face “- auction block.”
Morgana's eyebrow lifted, and Arthur tried not to react. When Morgana deployed the eyebrow, it never boded well. “I knew you wouldn't go through with it,” she said, nodding.
“I had every intention -”
“Oh, come off it, Arthur. You've been against this from the beginning, and not because you don't like to support charity - I know you do - but because ever since we've been children, your greatest fear has been looking silly.”
Arthur drew himself up. “There's nothing wrong with wanting to preserve your dignity.”
“There is when it means you never take a chance.”
“Morgana -”
“When you said you'd do it, I couldn't quite believe it, you know. I thought you were actually starting to -” She trailed off, shaking her head.
“What?”
“Nothing,” Morgana said softly, shoving herself off the counter. “Do what you like, Arthur. As you say, it's the money that counts.”
After she was gone, Arthur ground his teeth together for a minute. He knew full well he was being manipulated, and that he'd be an idiot to go up on that stage.
“Fuck,” he breathed, scrubbing his face with his hands. He couldn't do it. Why couldn't Morgana understand -
A soft knock sounded on the door, and Arthur smoothed down his suit jacket. “Yes?”
“Arthur? It's me, Merlin. Are you ready? We're about to start, and Gwen said you had told her you wanted to go on first.”
It took a split second for Arthur to remember who Merlin was, and then it came to him. Merlin was one of Morgana's friends, and co-runner of the charity that was currently making his life a living hell. Morgana was constantly prattling on about his artistic genius and trying to get him to put together a show for her gallery. The only time Arthur had ever met him had been at one of her parties, and while he hadn't seen any evidence of Merlin's artistic talent, he had to admit Merlin had a singular gift for spilling drinks on people. Arthur never had been able to get the wine stain out of that shirt.
Quite suddenly, a desperate, slightly mad plan sprang fully formed into Arthur's head. After all, Merlin owed him, and there was no one else, and Morgana would be impossible if he dropped out now. Somewhere in the back of his brain, a voice was screaming about a distinct flaw in his logic, but that didn't stop him from yanking the door open and saying to a startled-looking Merlin:
“Buy me.”
ETA: Ahahahaha, I missed the "one sentence to three paragraphs" stipulation. WHOOPS. /o\
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