Peel
Title: Peel
Author: inmemorybound
Pairing: Merlin/Arthur
Rating: G
Warnings: Modern AU. With noir fashion, because that's how this universe goes. :|
Disclaimer: I make no claims of ownership on Merlin, nor any profit from doing this.
Summary: Merlin peels away the layers; Arthur peels off the layers.
AN: Written for the prompt 'baby it's cold outside'.
Okay, so I am drawing this AU theme for the Fuh-Q-Fest in which Arthur is a cop and Merlin is a psychic and it's sort of eaten by brain, so now it even gets little related drabbles ficlets, ahaha. It's so sad that I feel I should explain my title, because it's a terrible, awful pun using really outdated slang. My summary is even worse. :( This is shameless, plotless fluff so I don't even know why I tried to be clever in the first place. I hope you enjoy it, even without all the background material. XD
PEEL
Sometimes Merlin wondered whether there was a switch inside Arthur's head that could be flicked to turn off his copper instincts. He tried to envision it for a moment: given that the other man was a Pendragon, it probably wouldn't be one of those cheap white plastic squares mounted there, instead maybe gleaming chrome, but without any greasy fingertip smudges since it was clearly never used. Then he imagined reaching out a hand, stretching his index finger so that it brushed against the little white wedge of the actual switch, and all it would take was tiny bit of pressure--
"Merlin, you idiot, you could at least pretend that you're not deranged when we're sitting in the middle of a restaurant."
Merlin started as Arthur's exasperated voice broke through his concentration, and after he blinked once or twice, it occurred to him that he was slightly leant over the table and one of his hands was held out in front of him, his fingers splayed.
He snatched it back to his side as he straightened up, and offered Arthur a sheepish grin.
"Um...?" he hazarded with a slight shrug of his shoulders, sparing a quick and mournful glance over his shoulder, directed towards the doors.
Arthur pinned him with a piercing and very incredulous stare.
"Should I ask?" Arthur queried, his tone conveying, remind me again why in god's name I choose to socialise with a lunatic.
"Well, probably not," Merlin answered honestly, since he was fairly certain that Arthur would not appreciate commentary on how Merlin hadn't sat facing an entrance for months while eating out due to Arthur's presence in his life and, consequently, his meals. The tactical positioning was sort of sweet in its inherent protectiveness, but really, Merlin wondered if Arthur was capable of ever just relaxing when he was off duty.
For a brief moment, Arthur's expression was both considering and suddenly tense, and he pursed his lips as he shifted forward.
"It's not something..." Arthur drew his eyebrows in and flicked a wrist in a gesture that Merlin had figured out a few weeks ago meant into the realms of the fantastic as he cleared his throat, "...you know?"
"Oh, no. Not at all! I was just... thinking."
"Thinking," came the mocking echo, but confirmation that it in no way involved any psychic powers bled the tension right out of Arthur's body. "In that case, be careful not to stray into dangerous territory. We all remember the last time you had a bright idea."
Not only was Arthur a brilliant policeman, he was also the son of Camelot's police commissioner, which meant that scepticism didn't even begin to cover it. When one considered that ninety-nine percent of the people who claimed to be psychic were in actual fact con-artists or plain old deluded, it came as no surprise that it had taken an awful, awful lot, including far too many close brushes with death, for Arthur to believe Merlin was genuinely gifted. Merlin could forgive him for flinching a bit and being obviously discomforted whenever the subject of his powers came up. Honestly, he was just happy that they had actually moved past the pain of distrust, accusation and opposition -- not to mention the arm-locks, tackling and other severer forms of manhandling -- that had occurred frequently during the beginning of their acquaintance. He still counted it a blessing that they could actually work together and succeed over the persistent purveyors of crime plaguing Camelot.
"At least I made it that far," he retorted with a cheerful grin, before a waitress arrived with their drinks in tow, interrupting the moment.
Once she had moved said drinks from tray to table and then left them in peace, Arthur smiled, and as a rather unfortunate side-affect, Merlin was caught in its thrall. It certainly did not help that Arthur had left the collar of his shirt unbuttoned, or that his golden hair was ever-so-slightly mussed from when he'd removed his fedora as they'd sat down at their table of choice.
"Right then," Arthur announced, taking hold of his glass and lifting it into the air, "to another victory."
Merlin curled his fingers round his own glass and raised it, his gaze never leaving the other man as he did so. "Cheers," he said, and as their glasses clinked together, warmth and a sense of righteousness, of belonging, swelled through him, searing into every part of his being; some parts so deep that the revelation actually surprised him.
It felt like it should always be this way: him and Arthur victorious together, eking out a brighter future for Camelot.
He thought that he could see his conviction reflected there in Arthur's eyes.
Then the moment passed, and they lowered their glasses and moved onto other subjects as they waited for their food to be served.
~☆~
Sometimes Merlin wished that he had a little more common sense, but apparently there was only so much power a person could have without consequence. He was quite a bit psychic, but lacked the forethought to have brought a heavy coat with him -- the irony was not lost on him as he spared a backwards look at the restaurant, which had been a cosy temperature inside and not at all freezing unlike the street was now that the sun had fully set. He drew his flimsy jacket tighter across his chest and hunched his shoulders, repressing shivers.
It was cold outside.
Of course Arthur would have had his billowing, extremely warm trench coat, of course. Someone who'd had the experience of numerous nights patrolling, raiding and keeping vigil in the chill of winter would know better. He resorted to glaring, if not just to give himself something else to focus on.
“Stop burning holes into my back,” Arthur muttered, as he stopped underneath a street light and turned, waiting for Merlin to catch up. “Your own stupidity isn't my fault. Did it not occur to you to dress for a January night?”
“Actually, no.” Merlin was well aware that his remark made for a pathetic comeback, and so in lieu of something witty he merely intensified his glare.
Even Arthur's laughter sounded warm, which was utterly unfair.
Arthur was still smirking in his annoying and attractive imperial way when Merlin reached him. Before he could even open his mouth, Arthur had extended an arm and snagged the fingers of a hand beneath his jacket and under the elastic of his left brace, and Merlin let out a startled breath as he stumbled when Arthur closed his fist and tugged firmly, intent on dragging Merlin along the path.
“Arthur...?”
Merlin's resentment gave way to curiosity as he adjusted his stride to match Arthur's which made the dragging less awkward. His gaze flickered down to observe Arthur's grip on him, before it followed the line of the other man's arm and ran up to Arthur's shoulder, swept across Arthur's back, then over his nape and to the curl of hair there, the colour now mostly indistinguishable underneath the dim artificial lighting that broke the encroaching darkness at periodic intervals.
“Arthur,” he insisted.
Arthur merely grunted in response, leaving Merlin to puzzle over why he was being lead in this way and what purpose the action ultimately served.
Just when Merlin was about to give up, Arthur turned and planted his other hand on Merlin's chest, and with an oof Merlin found his back hitting against the solid bricks of a wall. A little stunned by the shove, he simply watched, wide-eyed, as Arthur pulled back and then thudded against the wall next to him, the fingers of his right hand still tangled in one side of his braces.
Arthur sighed and shot him a sideways glance, wearing a complicated expression that Merlin couldn't read into.
It was only natural that since they were standing there, backs against the wall, under the cover of darkness, the street silent other than for the ordinary background noises of any bustling city, Merlin's thoughts drew back to the third time that he and Arthur had met; both were similarly braced against the brickwork, though they slumped more and were panting for breath, stood further apart from each other. In the space between them, scrawled in white spray paint were the words 'the only good copper is a dead one', and though they did not realise the full enormity of their actions at the time, through sheer stubborn persistence, a touch of psychokinesis, and maybe just a tiny hint of clairsentience, Merlin had prevented Arthur from running head first into a potentially deadly trap. Arthur, the physically fitter one of the pair, had caught his breath first, and never short of courage, broke the tense and awkward silence between them.
“I won't bother asking how you knew,” he'd started, and though there was still palpable suspicion glimmering in his eyes, Merlin had been ecstatic that Arthur was curbing the brutal accusations, “What I don't understand...”
Arthur had trailed off abruptly, his jaw clenched and a mix of anger and confusion simmering in his expression, and Merlin, ever bold, had tried to prompt him to continue.
“You should try asking. I'll tell you,” he suggested, then when it occurred to him that Arthur still wasn't buying the whole I'm quite a bit psychic, you know truth, he corrected, “Probably.”
The sharp look that Arthur had sent him was rather intimidating, but Merlin had never cowered from anyone before, and he was not about to start to.
“Why?” the utterance was harsh, and Merlin was taken aback for a brief moment, surprised that that was what Arthur wanted to know.
He shrugged, and gave Arthur a hopeful smile. “You only want to do some good, even if you are a prat. You shouldn't be shot or stabbed for that.”
Arthur stared, then after a few seconds closed his eyes and raised a hand to pinch the bridge of his nose; he looked and even sounded put out as he spoke. “You really are something, alright,” after a brief silence, Arthur shook his head and dropped his hand.
Merlin watched, feeling half-optimistic and half-wary, as Arthur pushed off of the wall and walked over to stand in front of him.
“Right,” Arthur began decisively, “You are going to leave now and I am going to forget your involvement tonight.”
Merlin hadn't needed to be told twice.
A tug with enough force to jerk his shoulder brought Merlin out of his reveries.
“Merlin.”
He shifted to better face Arthur, managing a smile. His wrist brushed against Arthur's knuckles when he folded his arms, trying to find extra heat in his too-thin layers.
“You're shaking,” Arthur commented, his eyebrows raising in surprise. “If you were that cold, why didn't you just say so?”
Merlin thought it had been rather obvious given the envying, but didn't say as much. Instead, indignant, he replied, “You do realise that I'm not actually a drama queen.”
He felt that he should be extremely offended by the scoff his protest drew.
“Yes you are, Merlin.” Arthur finally released his grip and after giving Merlin a firm pat on the shoulder, took a step away from the wall and set an expectant gaze on him. “Now, come on.”
What Merlin did not expect was for Arthur to shrug out of his trench coat whilst he moved, and any protests that had started to form in his mind about him not being a woman that Arthur could woo with a single pretence of chivalry died away the moment that, with a flourish, the warm, heavy material had settled on his shoulders and draped around his figure. He failed to hold in a sigh of bliss as he unfolded his arms so that he could curl his fingers into the lining and pull it tighter around himself, effectively snuggling it.
“Don't,” he warned Arthur in a shamefully pleasant tone, which had not been his intention at all; it was impossible not to feel the smugness that the other man was radiating.
Merlin knew that he should not have lifted his gaze, since Arthur looked twice as smug as the air he gave off, and it made Merlin wish that he had some ground to stand on so that he could complain that he wasn't so pathetically easy to please, amongst other things.
Even if he was.
“You sighed,” Arthur pointed out.
“I'm not easy,” Merlin protested - protested, not whined.
Arthur's hands clamped over the curve of his shoulders and Merlin was manhandled until they were facing each other directly.
“No, you're not,” Arthur agreed, and when faced with such radiant intensity, all that Merlin could do was lean in, close enough to feel the warm gust of Arthur's breath, close enough to rouse a new kind of heat in himself; close enough to meet Arthur's lips half-way.
Author: inmemorybound
Pairing: Merlin/Arthur
Rating: G
Warnings: Modern AU. With noir fashion, because that's how this universe goes. :|
Disclaimer: I make no claims of ownership on Merlin, nor any profit from doing this.
Summary: Merlin peels away the layers; Arthur peels off the layers.
AN: Written for the prompt 'baby it's cold outside'.
Okay, so I am drawing this AU theme for the Fuh-Q-Fest in which Arthur is a cop and Merlin is a psychic and it's sort of eaten by brain, so now it even gets little related drabbles ficlets, ahaha. It's so sad that I feel I should explain my title, because it's a terrible, awful pun using really outdated slang. My summary is even worse. :( This is shameless, plotless fluff so I don't even know why I tried to be clever in the first place. I hope you enjoy it, even without all the background material. XD
PEEL
Sometimes Merlin wondered whether there was a switch inside Arthur's head that could be flicked to turn off his copper instincts. He tried to envision it for a moment: given that the other man was a Pendragon, it probably wouldn't be one of those cheap white plastic squares mounted there, instead maybe gleaming chrome, but without any greasy fingertip smudges since it was clearly never used. Then he imagined reaching out a hand, stretching his index finger so that it brushed against the little white wedge of the actual switch, and all it would take was tiny bit of pressure--
"Merlin, you idiot, you could at least pretend that you're not deranged when we're sitting in the middle of a restaurant."
Merlin started as Arthur's exasperated voice broke through his concentration, and after he blinked once or twice, it occurred to him that he was slightly leant over the table and one of his hands was held out in front of him, his fingers splayed.
He snatched it back to his side as he straightened up, and offered Arthur a sheepish grin.
"Um...?" he hazarded with a slight shrug of his shoulders, sparing a quick and mournful glance over his shoulder, directed towards the doors.
Arthur pinned him with a piercing and very incredulous stare.
"Should I ask?" Arthur queried, his tone conveying, remind me again why in god's name I choose to socialise with a lunatic.
"Well, probably not," Merlin answered honestly, since he was fairly certain that Arthur would not appreciate commentary on how Merlin hadn't sat facing an entrance for months while eating out due to Arthur's presence in his life and, consequently, his meals. The tactical positioning was sort of sweet in its inherent protectiveness, but really, Merlin wondered if Arthur was capable of ever just relaxing when he was off duty.
For a brief moment, Arthur's expression was both considering and suddenly tense, and he pursed his lips as he shifted forward.
"It's not something..." Arthur drew his eyebrows in and flicked a wrist in a gesture that Merlin had figured out a few weeks ago meant into the realms of the fantastic as he cleared his throat, "...you know?"
"Oh, no. Not at all! I was just... thinking."
"Thinking," came the mocking echo, but confirmation that it in no way involved any psychic powers bled the tension right out of Arthur's body. "In that case, be careful not to stray into dangerous territory. We all remember the last time you had a bright idea."
Not only was Arthur a brilliant policeman, he was also the son of Camelot's police commissioner, which meant that scepticism didn't even begin to cover it. When one considered that ninety-nine percent of the people who claimed to be psychic were in actual fact con-artists or plain old deluded, it came as no surprise that it had taken an awful, awful lot, including far too many close brushes with death, for Arthur to believe Merlin was genuinely gifted. Merlin could forgive him for flinching a bit and being obviously discomforted whenever the subject of his powers came up. Honestly, he was just happy that they had actually moved past the pain of distrust, accusation and opposition -- not to mention the arm-locks, tackling and other severer forms of manhandling -- that had occurred frequently during the beginning of their acquaintance. He still counted it a blessing that they could actually work together and succeed over the persistent purveyors of crime plaguing Camelot.
"At least I made it that far," he retorted with a cheerful grin, before a waitress arrived with their drinks in tow, interrupting the moment.
Once she had moved said drinks from tray to table and then left them in peace, Arthur smiled, and as a rather unfortunate side-affect, Merlin was caught in its thrall. It certainly did not help that Arthur had left the collar of his shirt unbuttoned, or that his golden hair was ever-so-slightly mussed from when he'd removed his fedora as they'd sat down at their table of choice.
"Right then," Arthur announced, taking hold of his glass and lifting it into the air, "to another victory."
Merlin curled his fingers round his own glass and raised it, his gaze never leaving the other man as he did so. "Cheers," he said, and as their glasses clinked together, warmth and a sense of righteousness, of belonging, swelled through him, searing into every part of his being; some parts so deep that the revelation actually surprised him.
It felt like it should always be this way: him and Arthur victorious together, eking out a brighter future for Camelot.
He thought that he could see his conviction reflected there in Arthur's eyes.
Then the moment passed, and they lowered their glasses and moved onto other subjects as they waited for their food to be served.
~☆~
Sometimes Merlin wished that he had a little more common sense, but apparently there was only so much power a person could have without consequence. He was quite a bit psychic, but lacked the forethought to have brought a heavy coat with him -- the irony was not lost on him as he spared a backwards look at the restaurant, which had been a cosy temperature inside and not at all freezing unlike the street was now that the sun had fully set. He drew his flimsy jacket tighter across his chest and hunched his shoulders, repressing shivers.
It was cold outside.
Of course Arthur would have had his billowing, extremely warm trench coat, of course. Someone who'd had the experience of numerous nights patrolling, raiding and keeping vigil in the chill of winter would know better. He resorted to glaring, if not just to give himself something else to focus on.
“Stop burning holes into my back,” Arthur muttered, as he stopped underneath a street light and turned, waiting for Merlin to catch up. “Your own stupidity isn't my fault. Did it not occur to you to dress for a January night?”
“Actually, no.” Merlin was well aware that his remark made for a pathetic comeback, and so in lieu of something witty he merely intensified his glare.
Even Arthur's laughter sounded warm, which was utterly unfair.
Arthur was still smirking in his annoying and attractive imperial way when Merlin reached him. Before he could even open his mouth, Arthur had extended an arm and snagged the fingers of a hand beneath his jacket and under the elastic of his left brace, and Merlin let out a startled breath as he stumbled when Arthur closed his fist and tugged firmly, intent on dragging Merlin along the path.
“Arthur...?”
Merlin's resentment gave way to curiosity as he adjusted his stride to match Arthur's which made the dragging less awkward. His gaze flickered down to observe Arthur's grip on him, before it followed the line of the other man's arm and ran up to Arthur's shoulder, swept across Arthur's back, then over his nape and to the curl of hair there, the colour now mostly indistinguishable underneath the dim artificial lighting that broke the encroaching darkness at periodic intervals.
“Arthur,” he insisted.
Arthur merely grunted in response, leaving Merlin to puzzle over why he was being lead in this way and what purpose the action ultimately served.
Just when Merlin was about to give up, Arthur turned and planted his other hand on Merlin's chest, and with an oof Merlin found his back hitting against the solid bricks of a wall. A little stunned by the shove, he simply watched, wide-eyed, as Arthur pulled back and then thudded against the wall next to him, the fingers of his right hand still tangled in one side of his braces.
Arthur sighed and shot him a sideways glance, wearing a complicated expression that Merlin couldn't read into.
It was only natural that since they were standing there, backs against the wall, under the cover of darkness, the street silent other than for the ordinary background noises of any bustling city, Merlin's thoughts drew back to the third time that he and Arthur had met; both were similarly braced against the brickwork, though they slumped more and were panting for breath, stood further apart from each other. In the space between them, scrawled in white spray paint were the words 'the only good copper is a dead one', and though they did not realise the full enormity of their actions at the time, through sheer stubborn persistence, a touch of psychokinesis, and maybe just a tiny hint of clairsentience, Merlin had prevented Arthur from running head first into a potentially deadly trap. Arthur, the physically fitter one of the pair, had caught his breath first, and never short of courage, broke the tense and awkward silence between them.
“I won't bother asking how you knew,” he'd started, and though there was still palpable suspicion glimmering in his eyes, Merlin had been ecstatic that Arthur was curbing the brutal accusations, “What I don't understand...”
Arthur had trailed off abruptly, his jaw clenched and a mix of anger and confusion simmering in his expression, and Merlin, ever bold, had tried to prompt him to continue.
“You should try asking. I'll tell you,” he suggested, then when it occurred to him that Arthur still wasn't buying the whole I'm quite a bit psychic, you know truth, he corrected, “Probably.”
The sharp look that Arthur had sent him was rather intimidating, but Merlin had never cowered from anyone before, and he was not about to start to.
“Why?” the utterance was harsh, and Merlin was taken aback for a brief moment, surprised that that was what Arthur wanted to know.
He shrugged, and gave Arthur a hopeful smile. “You only want to do some good, even if you are a prat. You shouldn't be shot or stabbed for that.”
Arthur stared, then after a few seconds closed his eyes and raised a hand to pinch the bridge of his nose; he looked and even sounded put out as he spoke. “You really are something, alright,” after a brief silence, Arthur shook his head and dropped his hand.
Merlin watched, feeling half-optimistic and half-wary, as Arthur pushed off of the wall and walked over to stand in front of him.
“Right,” Arthur began decisively, “You are going to leave now and I am going to forget your involvement tonight.”
Merlin hadn't needed to be told twice.
A tug with enough force to jerk his shoulder brought Merlin out of his reveries.
“Merlin.”
He shifted to better face Arthur, managing a smile. His wrist brushed against Arthur's knuckles when he folded his arms, trying to find extra heat in his too-thin layers.
“You're shaking,” Arthur commented, his eyebrows raising in surprise. “If you were that cold, why didn't you just say so?”
Merlin thought it had been rather obvious given the envying, but didn't say as much. Instead, indignant, he replied, “You do realise that I'm not actually a drama queen.”
He felt that he should be extremely offended by the scoff his protest drew.
“Yes you are, Merlin.” Arthur finally released his grip and after giving Merlin a firm pat on the shoulder, took a step away from the wall and set an expectant gaze on him. “Now, come on.”
What Merlin did not expect was for Arthur to shrug out of his trench coat whilst he moved, and any protests that had started to form in his mind about him not being a woman that Arthur could woo with a single pretence of chivalry died away the moment that, with a flourish, the warm, heavy material had settled on his shoulders and draped around his figure. He failed to hold in a sigh of bliss as he unfolded his arms so that he could curl his fingers into the lining and pull it tighter around himself, effectively snuggling it.
“Don't,” he warned Arthur in a shamefully pleasant tone, which had not been his intention at all; it was impossible not to feel the smugness that the other man was radiating.
Merlin knew that he should not have lifted his gaze, since Arthur looked twice as smug as the air he gave off, and it made Merlin wish that he had some ground to stand on so that he could complain that he wasn't so pathetically easy to please, amongst other things.
Even if he was.
“You sighed,” Arthur pointed out.
“I'm not easy,” Merlin protested - protested, not whined.
Arthur's hands clamped over the curve of his shoulders and Merlin was manhandled until they were facing each other directly.
“No, you're not,” Arthur agreed, and when faced with such radiant intensity, all that Merlin could do was lean in, close enough to feel the warm gust of Arthur's breath, close enough to rouse a new kind of heat in himself; close enough to meet Arthur's lips half-way.