fic: untitled police AU [1.3/?]
Title: WIP Police AU [1.3/?]
Word Count: 1633
Pairing: Arthur/Merlin
Rating: PG?
Spoilers: none, really.
Summary: Merlin bumps into DCI Monmouth under questionable circumstances, witnesses a domestic spat between Arthur and Morgana, and finally meets, um, his destiny.
A/N: Decided previous posts were too short to be separate chapters, so morphed part 1 and 2 together with this third section. I put the different parts under different cuts. I swear this is the end of chapter 1. Sorry about confusion, and THANK YOU to binglejells for beta-ing (I have not dropped off the face of LJdom, really!)
Merlin caught a glimpse of himself in the window. Grainy specks, trapped between the double-glazing of the window, dotted his reflection; he wondered if he should have shaved after all. It had been nearly a month since he’d contemplated and two days since he'd actually adopted his new regime to grow facial hair. He thought it made him appear older and more sophisticated. His mother, upon the morning of his departure, had only given him a toothless smile, which translated into the vernacular meant, “I love you son, no matter what.” He was not quite sure if the coded message was a response to his newfound call to virility or a general countenance of distress to his leaving Ealdor.
Hoping to quell his doubts and fears, he called for an emergency video chat with Gwen minutes before he got into the car. To his despair, Gwen had not fallen in love with the beard as he’d suspected. Indeed, stumbling over her words like she sometimes did, she informed him politely that perhaps, on the right day, his beard might make him look like he was a cultivated adult… playing dress up with a balding chin wig - not that she was suggesting he likes to play dress up, or that he would become tragically and prematurely bald like her father - in fact, he and her father actually bear zero resemblance.
Well, Merlin hoped today was a right day because the alternative portrait would be that of a "pitiful disguise at a closet pervert."
“Pardon me?”
Merlin sat back, startled, head turning instinctively toward the direction of the voice.
“Can I sit here?”
“What?” The word slipped out reflexively, although he had heard her clearly.
The woman opened a shapely mouth, gearing for an instant replay, but he quickly grabbed his luggage and shoved them toward his feet, gesturing at the seat with a free hand.
“Oh, yeah, of course.”
She mouthed a thank you and the curls that framed her face shifted with her smile.
He dusted his hand on his trouser leg and extended it as she sat down.
“My name’s Merlin by the way.”
It was unfortunate timing as her hands were trapped within a matrix of shopping bags, computer briefcase, and purse (all very expensive and fashionable, Merlin could not help but notice). The delay could hardly have been more than three seconds but it left him grappling for words to fill the void. He clung to the image of her bags and blurted out the first and most rudimentary sentence that came to him.
“I love your purse! Lovely hue…!”
The woman, who was attempting to sort out her things, stilled her hands midair. Her face underwent an evolution of expressions: blankness, surprise, then understanding, followed immediately by hybrid of looks beyond Merlin’s current capacity to decipher.
For a moment they both sat there looking at each other. Then, abandoning the subject of Merlin’s opening mark, she grabbed his limply extended hand and shook it, with more force than he’d anticipated.
“Morgana.”
“She sells seashells by the seashore!” He’d regretted his words the moment they left his mouth. Connotation aside, she must’ve thought he specialized in exclamatory speech. Patting the thin wisps of hair along his jaw, he gave a coarse laugh.
“You know, seashore - your name…” He trailed off, eyeing balefully the ends of Morgana’s hair, which spilled over her shoulders like loosely wound threads of dark silk.
To his relief, she only laughed, “It’s a pleasure, Merlin.”
Morgana covered the silence of the rest of the train ride with her easy laugh and sideways glances. It occurred to him when she showed him photographs of her trip around the world in eighty days that she was possibly the coolest person he’d met. He mentally winced as a picture of a disapproving Gwen popped into his head.
She stopped at a Polaroid of what seemed uncannily like The Shire, complete with a young man lounging about in the background, atop a leafy-looking branch.
“I wish I was still back there, painting.”
“So you’re an artist then?”
“Of sorts,” she answered, feigning mystery. “What about you?”
Merlin blinked as he contemplated what to say. A horribly contorted image, in which he sat surrounded by a ring of greasy middle-aged blokes in tracksuits and checkered button-downs burgeoned before his eyes. In a truly admirable display of an out-of-body experience, he saw himself in a room with alarming resemblance to that scene in Fight Club, mumbling, “Hi there. My name is Merlin and I’m a temp starting my third new job for the year.”
“Really? I used to temp for a bit before I went back to university.” The image lifted like a fog, and his eyes refocused to see the corners of Morgana’s lips curling into a lopsided grin.
Christ. Had he actually said that out loud? Maybe Will was right. Maybe he really did have some sort of mental affliction.
Morgana continued, explaining, “I was trying to rebel against my dad, but now I’ve found a new way to drive him mad.” She delighted, jiggling the photograph in her hand. Merlin was glad she didn’t ask why he was a temp.
The train came to a halt with a muffled kshh. They stepped off onto the platform, kit bags in tow. Morgana brushed a smooth cheek against each of his.
“Goodbye, Merlin. Hope your new job’ll work out, yeah?”
Perhaps it was the feeling of her muscles moulding into a smile against his own or perhaps it was because he’d hurriedly pecked his mother’s forehead and rushed aboard the train without hugging her a proper goodbye but at that moment, Merlin longed for a reassuring touch. Abandoning all his inhibitions, he pulled Morgana into a deep embrace. At precisely the same instant, a man of a formidable physique, sporting jeans and a beige cotton windbreaker, rounded the corner post on the platform.
“Merlin -”
“Sorry, sorry. Don’t know what came over me.” Merlin apologized as she gently pulled away.
“It’s alright,” she said, looking at him with those pale blue eyes, which he could’ve sworn were olive just a moment ago.
“I just -” before he could choke out the rest, a strong hand grabbed him by his neckerchief and jerked him forcefully back.
“Arthur, what are you -”
“Morgana, are you alright?”
Merlin tried to turn to face his attacker, but a sharp jab rooted him to the ground. Keeping his head straight ahead, he saw that Morgana was equally horrified. He swallowed, still quite aware of the row of knuckles digging against the nape of his neck.
“Er, mate, I think there has been a terrible mis -” he began.
Another hand twisted his arms behind back and a face - Merlin could only make out wisps of golden hair against a pale plane of skin - neared his own.
“I am not your mate.”
Merlin began to panic. Dear god, had he been swindled by some sort of con job? He ran different escape scenarios in his head and really wished at that moment he’d joined Will in watching those Life On Mars reruns.
“Arthur, release him at once!”
Oh thank god. At least Morgana wasn’t an accomplice. He found himself sagging into the fist gripping his collar, which responded with another powerful prod.
“But he was trying to - to - proposition you -” His attacker ejaculated in a strangled voice.
Merlin, incredulous and having caught his attacker off-guard, threw his arms in the air as he twisted around, shouting, “What?” In mid-spin, the back of his palm came into contact with his attacker’s face with a sharp thwap, and Morgana’s angry objections were drowned out by Merlin’s own protests.
But, before he even knew what was happening, he found himself horizontal and yelling into the concrete, “I did no such thing!”
With one ear pressed to the ground, he could barely make out Morgana’s exasperated hisses of “Arthur, this is no time for a power play!” over the deep and raspy voice looming over him.
“You’re under arrest for assaulting a police officer. You do not have to say anything. But it may harm your defense if you do not mention when questioned something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence.”
And that is how, within five minutes and nine seconds since he’d stepped off the train, Merlin ended up prodded, cuffed, and shoved into the backseat of a police car. As he eyed the thin arc of hair across his upper lip in the rearview mirror’s reflection, he noticed an insignia reading HAMPSHIRE CONSTABULARY and groaned. He really needed to shave off that blasted beard.
*
They didn’t actually put him in a cell. In fact, his experience thus far since he’d been escorted into the station hadn’t been all that bad, really. The man who brought him in - Arthur- didn’t speak much once they entered through the doors. Not that he’d been much of a talker in the car, at least not beyond the exasperated “Will you shut up!” whenever Merlin opened his mouth to explain himself. He decided to stall the awkward truth for as long as possible, half hoping, half dreading he’d be sacked first day on the job.
Merlin could not help but notice a slight change in the demeanor of his attacker/arrester as he uncuffed him and walked into the reception area. Arthur’s gaze was tense and his mouth was set, the cool swagger reduced to a rigid march.
He inquired impassively, “Has the mail come yet?”
“Yeah. Winston left just before you came in.” The desk constable reached down and slid a parcel across the counter, “This came for you.”
“Thanks,” Arthur murmured, signing off on some paperwork and covering the small, rectangular box with a spread hand as if protecting it. He shot Merlin a vexed glance before walking into an adjacent office, shutting the door.
Merlin tried to explain that it was all a terrible misunderstanding. The constable nodded empathetically as he filled out the rest of the forms, speaking to the paper in front of him.
“Well. He’s not actually pressing charges...”
Merlin blinked. He casually glanced at the papers on the desk and saw that they were not for him. In fact, neither the constable nor the man, Arthur, asked for his full name.
“So, I can go?”
“Yes, you’re free to leave.”
He visibly deflated as he exhaled a sigh of relief. Perhaps this Arthur bloke wasn’t as unreasonable as he’d appeared.
“… I suspect he just brought you in to shake you up a bit.”
But still a twat.
“Could I use your phone?” Merlin managed gingerly, heaving a mirthless laugh.
“Go ahead,” the constable replied, sniffing lazily. He dragged the pad of his thumb across the tip of his tongue and flipped the page before him.
“Er, thank you,” Merlin added politely, “sir.”
He dialed his uncle’s number and waited.
“Hello?”
“Uncle Gaius?”
For an awful moment Merlin thought his uncle had forgotten about him, but then a voice boomed from across the line, “Merlin! I was afraid you’d gotten yourself into some sort of trouble.”
Merlin forced a laugh, swallowing, “You know me. Straight as an arrow.”
The constable raised his eyebrows but did not look up. Merlin bit his lip.
“Anyway. Just thought I’d phone you since, uh, I’m at the station already,” he mumbled as he turned his back to the desk. He thought he’d leave it at that, fearing the truth might catapult his uncle into a state of permanent shock, or worse, into calling his mother, who would then insist on giving him money that she really didn’t have and he really couldn’t accept.
“Already? I hope you didn’t waste your money on those ridiculous cab fares.”
“No, no. Don’t worry -”
“Jolly good. Listen, I’m sorry to do this but I’ve got to dash. I will see you tonight? You’ve still got those directions I gave you?”
“Yeah. See you later.”
Merlin thanked the constable a final time. He wondered if he should inquire after him about the job he was supposed to start today at the very same station. He looked up at the clock, he was technically an hour early. Perhaps he should wait, he thought as he sank down on the bench in the corner of the room. He settled his head against its wooden back and closed his eyes. He deserved a moment’s rest.
*
“Where the bollocks is the new office assistant we hired? I swear, if he doesn’t show up in the next twenty minutes I’ve -”
“Arthur. He’s here.”
“What?”
“He’s here.”
“Where?”
Detective Chief Superintendent Monmouth settled two heavy paws on Arthur’s shoulders and pivoted him around.
“I don’t see him,” Arthur said sharply. The older man raised a pair of drowsy eyebrows and slowly extended a finger, pointing toward the bench.
“You’re not serious.” Arthur made a face teetering between disbelief and disgust. “Are you sure?”
“Unless my eyes are going as well. You didn’t read his CV?”
He hadn’t. But he was not about to admit to the chief superintendent that he’d made his selection based on some ridiculous name.
“He wrote an impressive cover letter,” Arthur lied.
“Did he?” It came out less like a question than a comment.
“But I arrested him.”
Monmouth dropped his hands to his sides and wandered away, muttering sagely, “So it would seem.”
Arthur walked up to the very edge of the bench. Crossing his arms, he hovered over a sleeping Merlin whose ridiculous neckerchief had swallowed up a good portion of his face so that the tips of his ears were half submerged in a sea of scarlet fabric. There was something in the way his chin drooped to the side, tucked serenely in the nook of his collarbone that made Arthur’s mouth twitch with annoyance. He nudged Merlin with the edge of his foot.
Merlin was having a splendidly relaxing dream. In it, he was lying down in the field, his eyelids drawn like curtains shielding against a hot sun. He heard the soft thud of his horse approaching and felt her nuzzling his shin.
He opened his eyes to see a white dress shirt opened at the collar, loosely defining the expansive chest beneath it.
“I should arrest you for loitering,” a familiar voice drawled dryly.
Despite his nap, Merlin was suddenly very tired. “Look, I’m sorry we got off the wrong foot. I really didn’t mean to do anything to Morgana - your girlfriend -”
“She’s not my girlfriend, she’s my sister,” Arthur said quickly.
“Oh.” Merlin replied dumbly. Arthur’s interjection made him lose his momentum; this family seemed to leave him floundering a lot, he noted darkly.
“Anyway. I’m going to be working here, so can we at least try to get along?” he finished rather lamely.
“I know. You’ll be working under me.”
If Gwen were here, she’d be telling him to stop blinking and start thinking.
“Wait, you’re A. Pendragon?”
Merlin wished Arthur would stop doing that, sizing him up and down like he was inspecting for defects on a piece of display furniture. Merlin also wished he’d taken the job sorting library books in a dank room underground, or distributing payroll to people who made much more than he would, or even getting paper cuts filing tax returns. He mulled over possible episodes from different third-new-jobs-of-the-year, none of which included that retreating figure striding down the hall.
When he noticed Merlin was still at the bench, Arthur turned around, raising his eyebrows.
“Well?”
When he received no response, he rolled his eyes, demanding rhetorically, “Are you going to follow me, or do you prefer sitting around like an idiot?”
What Merlin should have said right then and there was a firm “No, I will not comply to this kind of abuse,” followed by a dignified exit out the front door. But instead, he let out a faint “Oh,” and followed Arthur dejectedly around the corner.
*
“Right. So these are our records, dating all the way back to, well, the war. Your job is to sort through them and pick out the high profile ones through the years so you can input them into the PNC. That’s the computer,” Arthur explained, leafing through the contents of a folder in his hand.
“What about the others?” Merlin asked, choosing to ignore the veiled insult.
“What about them?”
“You said to keep the high profile ones. What about the other records? Where do they go?”
Arthur pretended to think hard. “Into the rubbish.”
“Okay,” Merlin started hesitantly, “Um.”
Arthur sighed, set the folder he had in his hands down beside him, and leaned back on the mahogany desk barely visible beneath piles of papers. He directed his gaze toward Merlin.
“What is it, Merlin?”
He’d heard his own name probably a million times before, but coming from the man standing two paces away, the word seemed foreign.
“Nothing.”
“You’re here ‘til 5. Fill out the paperwork on your way out,” Arthur related before turning his heels and walking out the door. A moment later he retraced his steps backward until he was halfway between the doorframes. “And Merlin,” he called out, tapping the wooden frame with a ringed index finger.
“Yes?”
“I was being metaphorical when I mentioned rubbish bins. The extraneous files should be shredded or incinerated.”
“Of course. I knew that.”
Arthur gave him a lidded look that said I know I’m right and I’m not even going to bother contradicting you before disappearing once again.
Merlin exhaled, gathering strength. Tiny dust particles surrounded his head, resettling in different corners of the room. He looked around but could not find a clock. He picked up the folder Arthur left behind. He supposed he could start there.
*
It was difficult to assess the time when there was no clock to be found. He dreaded what new forms of mockery Arthur may concoct if he resurfaced from the room before five, so Merlin worked until he could barely make out the name and date on the missing persons report he clutched in his hands. He glanced up and saw the rim of the moon through the hopper window. Definitely past five.
He dropped the file onto one of the dozen piles on the floor, walked out and shut the door behind him. Making his way back the way he’d come in the afternoon, he soon became aware of how eerily quiet and dark it was.
Merlin had a morbid impulse to whistle. A few uncoordinated notes passed through his lips before he paused, taking a moment to appreciate the irony. As he gave a lighthearted laugh, he realized someone else was still whistling and his chuckle died in his throat.
“Bernard Herrmann, Twisted Nerve,” a voice rumbled in the dark.
There was a moment of strangled silence as Merlin looked on helplessly at the approaching black shape, which had at the time seemed grotesquely deformed and barely human. The thing reached out towards him. Merlin screamed, flailing his arms in defense.
*
Merlin did not recall the words “being tackled” as one of his lines of duty in the job description and yet, here he was, becoming excessively close and personal with the ground for the second time of the day. He wondered if he should start keeping tally on his bedpost.
“You…! I should have known.”
“Ugh,” Merlin groaned, his cheeks still pressed against the cold, hard floor.
“Sir, he didn’t -” Arthur paused, clearing his throat. For an awful moment, Merlin thought he would finish his sentence with try to proposition you as well?
“ - hurt you, did he?”
“Good lord, no. I was just leaving for the day and ran into him. We were having a nice chat about a film.”
“Oh.” Arthur sounded almost disappointed.
“Twisted Nerve. Cult classic. Have you seen it?”
“No, sir, I have not.”
“‘Twas before your time. Anyway, I don’t think your father would’ve approved of it very much.”
“He’s… not a fan of the genre,” came a tight-lipped reply.
“Shame. Ah well, one man’s meat is another’s poison!”
Merlin wondered if Arthur forgot that he was still pinned to the ground. He moved a shoulder blade suggestively, which to his surprise, did the trick. No longer feeling the pressure of Arthur’s knee on his back, Merlin got up, dusted himself and ventured a look.
Alright, so the figure wasn’t all that imposing now that there was a tackling machine standing next to him. Anyway, he’d learned that people who knew their proverbs generally couldn’t be all bad.
“Merlin, this is Detective Chief Superintendent Geoffrey Monmouth.”
He swallowed. “Pleased to meet your acquaintance, sir.”
*
Merlin walked into Arthur’s office to find Morgana sitting with her feet propped up casually on the table, a book opened in her lap. He didn’t realize until now how vexed he actually was that she hadn’t followed him into the police station and demanded to see things set right.
“Merlin!” she exclaimed, grinning. That was when Merlin learned what Arthur had accepted as fact twenty years ago: it was impossible to stay cross at Morgana for very long.
“You’ve met the Mammoth then?” she teased.
“Er…”
“You should show him some respect, Morgana. He is our godfather,” Arthur pointed out; then, to Merlin, nodded toward several sheets of paper spread out near his sister’s feet. “Fill those out.”
“Get off your high horse, Penny. You know I adore Geoffrey.”
Penny? Merlin stilled his pen and looked at Arthur, who shot him a venomous look that said Drop it.
“Anyway, you used to call him much worse things when he teased you about your - ”
“Morgana.” Arthur warned her.
“ - bladder problems,” she said in an exaggerated whisper, and the hand pressed near the corner of her mouth curled, touching the tip of her nose as she giggled.
Deliberately ignoring her words, Arthur turned around and reached for his jacket. Merlin, feeling as though he’d intruded on a family spat, shifted uncomfortably as he continued to read and sign his contract.
Untangling her long legs, Morgana pushed herself off the chair and rolled her eyes affectionately at him. Walking up to her brother, she pinched the shoulders of his windbreaker and helped him into it.
“Oh, forgive me, his royal princess Penny,” Morgana put on, turning him toward her, “I grovel at your manicured feet.”
Arthur’s lips twitched into a faint smile.
“Morgana, go home. Father’s waiting for you,” he informed her.
“I doubt an extra hour will kill him,” she replied.
“He’ll be worried,” Arthur continued. “Do you remember last time?”
Morgana considered this. Four years ago she had a mental breakdown; she’d dropped everything, her job, her friends, her family, and disappeared for a week. Her disappearance led to a series of proposal rejections in the Red Chamber from her father, which understandably made the noble Earl of Mercia very upset. Uther had also riled up a storm in the local police department and eventually put an agent from Scotland Yard on the case - some big-shot named Valiant - which put another dent in his relationship with his son. It was Arthur who had eventually tracked her down on a massive patch of ice near the center of the Arctic Circle. He stayed with her for another week before coaxing her home.
“Yes, but I’m already at the police station,” she deliberated. Merlin could hear from the tone of her voice that she had already changed her mind and was only arguing for argument’s sake.
Arthur gave her a look, sliding the zip of his windbreaker halfway over his chest.
“Alright, alright. Don’t get your knickers in a twist. I’m going, satisfied?” she conceded, pecking her brother on the cheek and yanking his zip all the way up.
“Bye.” Merlin straightened himself and began to wave, but Morgana wrapped her hands around him and leaned her head toward his ear.
“I hope you can forgive me too for earlier today. My brother really isn’t all that bad, you’ll see,” she murmured softly, and Merlin couldn’t help but wonder if the scent he smelt on her cheek was hers or her brother’s.
She glided out of the room, and Arthur returned to his table.
“If you try to seduce her I will hunt you down,” Arthur said matter-of-factly as he signed off on the completed contract.
“I won’t,” Merlin replied, contemplating the notion that very possibly, Arthur was bipolar.
“I’ve been trained to kill since birth.” He looked up briefly with emphasis, which he really needn’t have, because he’d already convinced Merlin of that when they' first met earlier that day.
*
“Merlin? Is that you?”
Merlin heard his uncle say from behind the swivelling ‘Employees Only’ door. He swallowed the noodles in his mouth and took one last sip of his tea.
“My favourite nephew!”
“Uncle Gaius, I’m your only nephew,” Merlin pointed out as he sank into his uncle’s welcoming arms.
Gaius chuckled, “Let me have a good look at you.”
Merlin obeyed, grinning shyly as his uncle took a step back.
“Good heavens, boy! Have you been rolling in cement powder?”
“No, no,” Merlin contemplated, once again, telling Gaius everything. “Work,” he offered, knowing his uncle would settle for anything for work.
His uncle patted him on the shoulder, nodding with sympathy.
“You finish your dinner. I’ve got a few things to tend to, but I’ll be back soon and I expect a full report on your mother!” He boomed.
Merlin nodded, smiling, but as he watched his uncle stride away, the skirt of his robe swinging like a pendulum, he felt a strange twinge in the back of his throat. He wished his uncle had stayed behind and hammered the truth out of him, like when he was little. Falling back onto the wooden chair, Merlin attacked his still steaming chow main with renewed vigour.
*
Merlin deftly picked up the lingering strand of noodle in his bowl, slurping it down slowly. He wiped his mouth and exhaled a deep, contented sigh.
“Nothing like a full stomach, is there?” an elderly woman said, the lines near the corners of her eyes crinkling.
“It was ace!” Merlin quipped. “Who made it?”
“Why, your uncle, of course!” she replied, slightly surprised. “I’ll just clear this away if you’re done, love.”
“You don’t have to - I can - ” he stammered.
“Don’t worry about it, love,” she insisted. “I work here, after all.”
She reached into her apron, which read in fancy letters LUCKY DRAGON TEAHOUSE, and handed him a sealed plastic pack.
“Here, have a fortune cookie.” She winked at him before heading toward the swivel doors.
Merlin smiled to himself, his day was finally looking up. He looked out the window, patting his bearded jaw. He could do this. He could lead a fresh life, with meaning and without regrets. All he had to do was avoid Arthur. He saw a glimmer of hope and opened his fortune cookie. It split with a satisfying crunch. Munching on half of the cookie, he brought the slip of fortune paper toward him.
“Ying… bi,” Merlin sounded out the letters next to the Chinese characters, which translated into ‘coin.’ Shoving the other half of the cookie in his mouth, he flipped the paper over.
Merlin promptly spat out on the remains of the cookie, whose fortune read: You cannot do this alone. You are but one side of a coin, Arthur is the other.
Word Count: 1633
Pairing: Arthur/Merlin
Rating: PG?
Spoilers: none, really.
Summary: Merlin bumps into DCI Monmouth under questionable circumstances, witnesses a domestic spat between Arthur and Morgana, and finally meets, um, his destiny.
A/N: Decided previous posts were too short to be separate chapters, so morphed part 1 and 2 together with this third section. I put the different parts under different cuts. I swear this is the end of chapter 1. Sorry about confusion, and THANK YOU to binglejells for beta-ing (I have not dropped off the face of LJdom, really!)
Merlin caught a glimpse of himself in the window. Grainy specks, trapped between the double-glazing of the window, dotted his reflection; he wondered if he should have shaved after all. It had been nearly a month since he’d contemplated and two days since he'd actually adopted his new regime to grow facial hair. He thought it made him appear older and more sophisticated. His mother, upon the morning of his departure, had only given him a toothless smile, which translated into the vernacular meant, “I love you son, no matter what.” He was not quite sure if the coded message was a response to his newfound call to virility or a general countenance of distress to his leaving Ealdor.
Hoping to quell his doubts and fears, he called for an emergency video chat with Gwen minutes before he got into the car. To his despair, Gwen had not fallen in love with the beard as he’d suspected. Indeed, stumbling over her words like she sometimes did, she informed him politely that perhaps, on the right day, his beard might make him look like he was a cultivated adult… playing dress up with a balding chin wig - not that she was suggesting he likes to play dress up, or that he would become tragically and prematurely bald like her father - in fact, he and her father actually bear zero resemblance.
Well, Merlin hoped today was a right day because the alternative portrait would be that of a "pitiful disguise at a closet pervert."
“Pardon me?”
Merlin sat back, startled, head turning instinctively toward the direction of the voice.
“Can I sit here?”
“What?” The word slipped out reflexively, although he had heard her clearly.
The woman opened a shapely mouth, gearing for an instant replay, but he quickly grabbed his luggage and shoved them toward his feet, gesturing at the seat with a free hand.
“Oh, yeah, of course.”
She mouthed a thank you and the curls that framed her face shifted with her smile.
He dusted his hand on his trouser leg and extended it as she sat down.
“My name’s Merlin by the way.”
It was unfortunate timing as her hands were trapped within a matrix of shopping bags, computer briefcase, and purse (all very expensive and fashionable, Merlin could not help but notice). The delay could hardly have been more than three seconds but it left him grappling for words to fill the void. He clung to the image of her bags and blurted out the first and most rudimentary sentence that came to him.
“I love your purse! Lovely hue…!”
The woman, who was attempting to sort out her things, stilled her hands midair. Her face underwent an evolution of expressions: blankness, surprise, then understanding, followed immediately by hybrid of looks beyond Merlin’s current capacity to decipher.
For a moment they both sat there looking at each other. Then, abandoning the subject of Merlin’s opening mark, she grabbed his limply extended hand and shook it, with more force than he’d anticipated.
“Morgana.”
“She sells seashells by the seashore!” He’d regretted his words the moment they left his mouth. Connotation aside, she must’ve thought he specialized in exclamatory speech. Patting the thin wisps of hair along his jaw, he gave a coarse laugh.
“You know, seashore - your name…” He trailed off, eyeing balefully the ends of Morgana’s hair, which spilled over her shoulders like loosely wound threads of dark silk.
To his relief, she only laughed, “It’s a pleasure, Merlin.”
Morgana covered the silence of the rest of the train ride with her easy laugh and sideways glances. It occurred to him when she showed him photographs of her trip around the world in eighty days that she was possibly the coolest person he’d met. He mentally winced as a picture of a disapproving Gwen popped into his head.
She stopped at a Polaroid of what seemed uncannily like The Shire, complete with a young man lounging about in the background, atop a leafy-looking branch.
“I wish I was still back there, painting.”
“So you’re an artist then?”
“Of sorts,” she answered, feigning mystery. “What about you?”
Merlin blinked as he contemplated what to say. A horribly contorted image, in which he sat surrounded by a ring of greasy middle-aged blokes in tracksuits and checkered button-downs burgeoned before his eyes. In a truly admirable display of an out-of-body experience, he saw himself in a room with alarming resemblance to that scene in Fight Club, mumbling, “Hi there. My name is Merlin and I’m a temp starting my third new job for the year.”
“Really? I used to temp for a bit before I went back to university.” The image lifted like a fog, and his eyes refocused to see the corners of Morgana’s lips curling into a lopsided grin.
Christ. Had he actually said that out loud? Maybe Will was right. Maybe he really did have some sort of mental affliction.
Morgana continued, explaining, “I was trying to rebel against my dad, but now I’ve found a new way to drive him mad.” She delighted, jiggling the photograph in her hand. Merlin was glad she didn’t ask why he was a temp.
The train came to a halt with a muffled kshh. They stepped off onto the platform, kit bags in tow. Morgana brushed a smooth cheek against each of his.
“Goodbye, Merlin. Hope your new job’ll work out, yeah?”
Perhaps it was the feeling of her muscles moulding into a smile against his own or perhaps it was because he’d hurriedly pecked his mother’s forehead and rushed aboard the train without hugging her a proper goodbye but at that moment, Merlin longed for a reassuring touch. Abandoning all his inhibitions, he pulled Morgana into a deep embrace. At precisely the same instant, a man of a formidable physique, sporting jeans and a beige cotton windbreaker, rounded the corner post on the platform.
“Merlin -”
“Sorry, sorry. Don’t know what came over me.” Merlin apologized as she gently pulled away.
“It’s alright,” she said, looking at him with those pale blue eyes, which he could’ve sworn were olive just a moment ago.
“I just -” before he could choke out the rest, a strong hand grabbed him by his neckerchief and jerked him forcefully back.
“Arthur, what are you -”
“Morgana, are you alright?”
Merlin tried to turn to face his attacker, but a sharp jab rooted him to the ground. Keeping his head straight ahead, he saw that Morgana was equally horrified. He swallowed, still quite aware of the row of knuckles digging against the nape of his neck.
“Er, mate, I think there has been a terrible mis -” he began.
Another hand twisted his arms behind back and a face - Merlin could only make out wisps of golden hair against a pale plane of skin - neared his own.
“I am not your mate.”
Merlin began to panic. Dear god, had he been swindled by some sort of con job? He ran different escape scenarios in his head and really wished at that moment he’d joined Will in watching those Life On Mars reruns.
“Arthur, release him at once!”
Oh thank god. At least Morgana wasn’t an accomplice. He found himself sagging into the fist gripping his collar, which responded with another powerful prod.
“But he was trying to - to - proposition you -” His attacker ejaculated in a strangled voice.
Merlin, incredulous and having caught his attacker off-guard, threw his arms in the air as he twisted around, shouting, “What?” In mid-spin, the back of his palm came into contact with his attacker’s face with a sharp thwap, and Morgana’s angry objections were drowned out by Merlin’s own protests.
But, before he even knew what was happening, he found himself horizontal and yelling into the concrete, “I did no such thing!”
With one ear pressed to the ground, he could barely make out Morgana’s exasperated hisses of “Arthur, this is no time for a power play!” over the deep and raspy voice looming over him.
“You’re under arrest for assaulting a police officer. You do not have to say anything. But it may harm your defense if you do not mention when questioned something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence.”
And that is how, within five minutes and nine seconds since he’d stepped off the train, Merlin ended up prodded, cuffed, and shoved into the backseat of a police car. As he eyed the thin arc of hair across his upper lip in the rearview mirror’s reflection, he noticed an insignia reading HAMPSHIRE CONSTABULARY and groaned. He really needed to shave off that blasted beard.
*
They didn’t actually put him in a cell. In fact, his experience thus far since he’d been escorted into the station hadn’t been all that bad, really. The man who brought him in - Arthur- didn’t speak much once they entered through the doors. Not that he’d been much of a talker in the car, at least not beyond the exasperated “Will you shut up!” whenever Merlin opened his mouth to explain himself. He decided to stall the awkward truth for as long as possible, half hoping, half dreading he’d be sacked first day on the job.
Merlin could not help but notice a slight change in the demeanor of his attacker/arrester as he uncuffed him and walked into the reception area. Arthur’s gaze was tense and his mouth was set, the cool swagger reduced to a rigid march.
He inquired impassively, “Has the mail come yet?”
“Yeah. Winston left just before you came in.” The desk constable reached down and slid a parcel across the counter, “This came for you.”
“Thanks,” Arthur murmured, signing off on some paperwork and covering the small, rectangular box with a spread hand as if protecting it. He shot Merlin a vexed glance before walking into an adjacent office, shutting the door.
Merlin tried to explain that it was all a terrible misunderstanding. The constable nodded empathetically as he filled out the rest of the forms, speaking to the paper in front of him.
“Well. He’s not actually pressing charges...”
Merlin blinked. He casually glanced at the papers on the desk and saw that they were not for him. In fact, neither the constable nor the man, Arthur, asked for his full name.
“So, I can go?”
“Yes, you’re free to leave.”
He visibly deflated as he exhaled a sigh of relief. Perhaps this Arthur bloke wasn’t as unreasonable as he’d appeared.
“… I suspect he just brought you in to shake you up a bit.”
But still a twat.
“Could I use your phone?” Merlin managed gingerly, heaving a mirthless laugh.
“Go ahead,” the constable replied, sniffing lazily. He dragged the pad of his thumb across the tip of his tongue and flipped the page before him.
“Er, thank you,” Merlin added politely, “sir.”
He dialed his uncle’s number and waited.
“Hello?”
“Uncle Gaius?”
For an awful moment Merlin thought his uncle had forgotten about him, but then a voice boomed from across the line, “Merlin! I was afraid you’d gotten yourself into some sort of trouble.”
Merlin forced a laugh, swallowing, “You know me. Straight as an arrow.”
The constable raised his eyebrows but did not look up. Merlin bit his lip.
“Anyway. Just thought I’d phone you since, uh, I’m at the station already,” he mumbled as he turned his back to the desk. He thought he’d leave it at that, fearing the truth might catapult his uncle into a state of permanent shock, or worse, into calling his mother, who would then insist on giving him money that she really didn’t have and he really couldn’t accept.
“Already? I hope you didn’t waste your money on those ridiculous cab fares.”
“No, no. Don’t worry -”
“Jolly good. Listen, I’m sorry to do this but I’ve got to dash. I will see you tonight? You’ve still got those directions I gave you?”
“Yeah. See you later.”
Merlin thanked the constable a final time. He wondered if he should inquire after him about the job he was supposed to start today at the very same station. He looked up at the clock, he was technically an hour early. Perhaps he should wait, he thought as he sank down on the bench in the corner of the room. He settled his head against its wooden back and closed his eyes. He deserved a moment’s rest.
*
“Where the bollocks is the new office assistant we hired? I swear, if he doesn’t show up in the next twenty minutes I’ve -”
“Arthur. He’s here.”
“What?”
“He’s here.”
“Where?”
Detective Chief Superintendent Monmouth settled two heavy paws on Arthur’s shoulders and pivoted him around.
“I don’t see him,” Arthur said sharply. The older man raised a pair of drowsy eyebrows and slowly extended a finger, pointing toward the bench.
“You’re not serious.” Arthur made a face teetering between disbelief and disgust. “Are you sure?”
“Unless my eyes are going as well. You didn’t read his CV?”
He hadn’t. But he was not about to admit to the chief superintendent that he’d made his selection based on some ridiculous name.
“He wrote an impressive cover letter,” Arthur lied.
“Did he?” It came out less like a question than a comment.
“But I arrested him.”
Monmouth dropped his hands to his sides and wandered away, muttering sagely, “So it would seem.”
Arthur walked up to the very edge of the bench. Crossing his arms, he hovered over a sleeping Merlin whose ridiculous neckerchief had swallowed up a good portion of his face so that the tips of his ears were half submerged in a sea of scarlet fabric. There was something in the way his chin drooped to the side, tucked serenely in the nook of his collarbone that made Arthur’s mouth twitch with annoyance. He nudged Merlin with the edge of his foot.
Merlin was having a splendidly relaxing dream. In it, he was lying down in the field, his eyelids drawn like curtains shielding against a hot sun. He heard the soft thud of his horse approaching and felt her nuzzling his shin.
He opened his eyes to see a white dress shirt opened at the collar, loosely defining the expansive chest beneath it.
“I should arrest you for loitering,” a familiar voice drawled dryly.
Despite his nap, Merlin was suddenly very tired. “Look, I’m sorry we got off the wrong foot. I really didn’t mean to do anything to Morgana - your girlfriend -”
“She’s not my girlfriend, she’s my sister,” Arthur said quickly.
“Oh.” Merlin replied dumbly. Arthur’s interjection made him lose his momentum; this family seemed to leave him floundering a lot, he noted darkly.
“Anyway. I’m going to be working here, so can we at least try to get along?” he finished rather lamely.
“I know. You’ll be working under me.”
If Gwen were here, she’d be telling him to stop blinking and start thinking.
“Wait, you’re A. Pendragon?”
Merlin wished Arthur would stop doing that, sizing him up and down like he was inspecting for defects on a piece of display furniture. Merlin also wished he’d taken the job sorting library books in a dank room underground, or distributing payroll to people who made much more than he would, or even getting paper cuts filing tax returns. He mulled over possible episodes from different third-new-jobs-of-the-year, none of which included that retreating figure striding down the hall.
When he noticed Merlin was still at the bench, Arthur turned around, raising his eyebrows.
“Well?”
When he received no response, he rolled his eyes, demanding rhetorically, “Are you going to follow me, or do you prefer sitting around like an idiot?”
What Merlin should have said right then and there was a firm “No, I will not comply to this kind of abuse,” followed by a dignified exit out the front door. But instead, he let out a faint “Oh,” and followed Arthur dejectedly around the corner.
*
“Right. So these are our records, dating all the way back to, well, the war. Your job is to sort through them and pick out the high profile ones through the years so you can input them into the PNC. That’s the computer,” Arthur explained, leafing through the contents of a folder in his hand.
“What about the others?” Merlin asked, choosing to ignore the veiled insult.
“What about them?”
“You said to keep the high profile ones. What about the other records? Where do they go?”
Arthur pretended to think hard. “Into the rubbish.”
“Okay,” Merlin started hesitantly, “Um.”
Arthur sighed, set the folder he had in his hands down beside him, and leaned back on the mahogany desk barely visible beneath piles of papers. He directed his gaze toward Merlin.
“What is it, Merlin?”
He’d heard his own name probably a million times before, but coming from the man standing two paces away, the word seemed foreign.
“Nothing.”
“You’re here ‘til 5. Fill out the paperwork on your way out,” Arthur related before turning his heels and walking out the door. A moment later he retraced his steps backward until he was halfway between the doorframes. “And Merlin,” he called out, tapping the wooden frame with a ringed index finger.
“Yes?”
“I was being metaphorical when I mentioned rubbish bins. The extraneous files should be shredded or incinerated.”
“Of course. I knew that.”
Arthur gave him a lidded look that said I know I’m right and I’m not even going to bother contradicting you before disappearing once again.
Merlin exhaled, gathering strength. Tiny dust particles surrounded his head, resettling in different corners of the room. He looked around but could not find a clock. He picked up the folder Arthur left behind. He supposed he could start there.
*
It was difficult to assess the time when there was no clock to be found. He dreaded what new forms of mockery Arthur may concoct if he resurfaced from the room before five, so Merlin worked until he could barely make out the name and date on the missing persons report he clutched in his hands. He glanced up and saw the rim of the moon through the hopper window. Definitely past five.
He dropped the file onto one of the dozen piles on the floor, walked out and shut the door behind him. Making his way back the way he’d come in the afternoon, he soon became aware of how eerily quiet and dark it was.
Merlin had a morbid impulse to whistle. A few uncoordinated notes passed through his lips before he paused, taking a moment to appreciate the irony. As he gave a lighthearted laugh, he realized someone else was still whistling and his chuckle died in his throat.
“Bernard Herrmann, Twisted Nerve,” a voice rumbled in the dark.
There was a moment of strangled silence as Merlin looked on helplessly at the approaching black shape, which had at the time seemed grotesquely deformed and barely human. The thing reached out towards him. Merlin screamed, flailing his arms in defense.
*
Merlin did not recall the words “being tackled” as one of his lines of duty in the job description and yet, here he was, becoming excessively close and personal with the ground for the second time of the day. He wondered if he should start keeping tally on his bedpost.
“You…! I should have known.”
“Ugh,” Merlin groaned, his cheeks still pressed against the cold, hard floor.
“Sir, he didn’t -” Arthur paused, clearing his throat. For an awful moment, Merlin thought he would finish his sentence with try to proposition you as well?
“ - hurt you, did he?”
“Good lord, no. I was just leaving for the day and ran into him. We were having a nice chat about a film.”
“Oh.” Arthur sounded almost disappointed.
“Twisted Nerve. Cult classic. Have you seen it?”
“No, sir, I have not.”
“‘Twas before your time. Anyway, I don’t think your father would’ve approved of it very much.”
“He’s… not a fan of the genre,” came a tight-lipped reply.
“Shame. Ah well, one man’s meat is another’s poison!”
Merlin wondered if Arthur forgot that he was still pinned to the ground. He moved a shoulder blade suggestively, which to his surprise, did the trick. No longer feeling the pressure of Arthur’s knee on his back, Merlin got up, dusted himself and ventured a look.
Alright, so the figure wasn’t all that imposing now that there was a tackling machine standing next to him. Anyway, he’d learned that people who knew their proverbs generally couldn’t be all bad.
“Merlin, this is Detective Chief Superintendent Geoffrey Monmouth.”
He swallowed. “Pleased to meet your acquaintance, sir.”
*
Merlin walked into Arthur’s office to find Morgana sitting with her feet propped up casually on the table, a book opened in her lap. He didn’t realize until now how vexed he actually was that she hadn’t followed him into the police station and demanded to see things set right.
“Merlin!” she exclaimed, grinning. That was when Merlin learned what Arthur had accepted as fact twenty years ago: it was impossible to stay cross at Morgana for very long.
“You’ve met the Mammoth then?” she teased.
“Er…”
“You should show him some respect, Morgana. He is our godfather,” Arthur pointed out; then, to Merlin, nodded toward several sheets of paper spread out near his sister’s feet. “Fill those out.”
“Get off your high horse, Penny. You know I adore Geoffrey.”
Penny? Merlin stilled his pen and looked at Arthur, who shot him a venomous look that said Drop it.
“Anyway, you used to call him much worse things when he teased you about your - ”
“Morgana.” Arthur warned her.
“ - bladder problems,” she said in an exaggerated whisper, and the hand pressed near the corner of her mouth curled, touching the tip of her nose as she giggled.
Deliberately ignoring her words, Arthur turned around and reached for his jacket. Merlin, feeling as though he’d intruded on a family spat, shifted uncomfortably as he continued to read and sign his contract.
Untangling her long legs, Morgana pushed herself off the chair and rolled her eyes affectionately at him. Walking up to her brother, she pinched the shoulders of his windbreaker and helped him into it.
“Oh, forgive me, his royal princess Penny,” Morgana put on, turning him toward her, “I grovel at your manicured feet.”
Arthur’s lips twitched into a faint smile.
“Morgana, go home. Father’s waiting for you,” he informed her.
“I doubt an extra hour will kill him,” she replied.
“He’ll be worried,” Arthur continued. “Do you remember last time?”
Morgana considered this. Four years ago she had a mental breakdown; she’d dropped everything, her job, her friends, her family, and disappeared for a week. Her disappearance led to a series of proposal rejections in the Red Chamber from her father, which understandably made the noble Earl of Mercia very upset. Uther had also riled up a storm in the local police department and eventually put an agent from Scotland Yard on the case - some big-shot named Valiant - which put another dent in his relationship with his son. It was Arthur who had eventually tracked her down on a massive patch of ice near the center of the Arctic Circle. He stayed with her for another week before coaxing her home.
“Yes, but I’m already at the police station,” she deliberated. Merlin could hear from the tone of her voice that she had already changed her mind and was only arguing for argument’s sake.
Arthur gave her a look, sliding the zip of his windbreaker halfway over his chest.
“Alright, alright. Don’t get your knickers in a twist. I’m going, satisfied?” she conceded, pecking her brother on the cheek and yanking his zip all the way up.
“Bye.” Merlin straightened himself and began to wave, but Morgana wrapped her hands around him and leaned her head toward his ear.
“I hope you can forgive me too for earlier today. My brother really isn’t all that bad, you’ll see,” she murmured softly, and Merlin couldn’t help but wonder if the scent he smelt on her cheek was hers or her brother’s.
She glided out of the room, and Arthur returned to his table.
“If you try to seduce her I will hunt you down,” Arthur said matter-of-factly as he signed off on the completed contract.
“I won’t,” Merlin replied, contemplating the notion that very possibly, Arthur was bipolar.
“I’ve been trained to kill since birth.” He looked up briefly with emphasis, which he really needn’t have, because he’d already convinced Merlin of that when they' first met earlier that day.
*
“Merlin? Is that you?”
Merlin heard his uncle say from behind the swivelling ‘Employees Only’ door. He swallowed the noodles in his mouth and took one last sip of his tea.
“My favourite nephew!”
“Uncle Gaius, I’m your only nephew,” Merlin pointed out as he sank into his uncle’s welcoming arms.
Gaius chuckled, “Let me have a good look at you.”
Merlin obeyed, grinning shyly as his uncle took a step back.
“Good heavens, boy! Have you been rolling in cement powder?”
“No, no,” Merlin contemplated, once again, telling Gaius everything. “Work,” he offered, knowing his uncle would settle for anything for work.
His uncle patted him on the shoulder, nodding with sympathy.
“You finish your dinner. I’ve got a few things to tend to, but I’ll be back soon and I expect a full report on your mother!” He boomed.
Merlin nodded, smiling, but as he watched his uncle stride away, the skirt of his robe swinging like a pendulum, he felt a strange twinge in the back of his throat. He wished his uncle had stayed behind and hammered the truth out of him, like when he was little. Falling back onto the wooden chair, Merlin attacked his still steaming chow main with renewed vigour.
*
Merlin deftly picked up the lingering strand of noodle in his bowl, slurping it down slowly. He wiped his mouth and exhaled a deep, contented sigh.
“Nothing like a full stomach, is there?” an elderly woman said, the lines near the corners of her eyes crinkling.
“It was ace!” Merlin quipped. “Who made it?”
“Why, your uncle, of course!” she replied, slightly surprised. “I’ll just clear this away if you’re done, love.”
“You don’t have to - I can - ” he stammered.
“Don’t worry about it, love,” she insisted. “I work here, after all.”
She reached into her apron, which read in fancy letters LUCKY DRAGON TEAHOUSE, and handed him a sealed plastic pack.
“Here, have a fortune cookie.” She winked at him before heading toward the swivel doors.
Merlin smiled to himself, his day was finally looking up. He looked out the window, patting his bearded jaw. He could do this. He could lead a fresh life, with meaning and without regrets. All he had to do was avoid Arthur. He saw a glimmer of hope and opened his fortune cookie. It split with a satisfying crunch. Munching on half of the cookie, he brought the slip of fortune paper toward him.
“Ying… bi,” Merlin sounded out the letters next to the Chinese characters, which translated into ‘coin.’ Shoving the other half of the cookie in his mouth, he flipped the paper over.
Merlin promptly spat out on the remains of the cookie, whose fortune read: You cannot do this alone. You are but one side of a coin, Arthur is the other.