fic: i’ll be waiting (happy birthday)
Title: i’ll be waiting (happy birthday)
Rating: R
Genre(s): romance, fluff
Word Count: ~2850
Pairing(s) / Character(s): Arthur / Merlin, Mordred, Gwen / Lance
Warnings / Spoilers: None
Disclaimer: I do not own Merlin.
Summary: Arthur doesn’t know what to buy Merlin for his twenty-ninth birthday. Prequel to one day she’s going to leave us (but that day is not today). Written for eldee's birthday! Prompt was 'gift'.
“What do you want for your birthday?”
Merlin looks up from his papers, squinting at Arthur, leaning against the doorway and framed in gold light. Merlin removes his thin-rimmed glasses, pinching the side between his index finger and thumb, and smiles.
“Seriously? You’re asking me this question?”
Arthur shrugs, and steps into the room. “I was thinking about it and... I got stuck. I’ve exhausted every option in the last ten years.”
Merlin chuckles. Arthur slips his arms around his neck, burying his nose in Merlin’s hair.
“I hate buying birthday presents,” Arthur mutters, eliciting another laugh from Merlin, who puts his glasses on the desk and wraps fingers around Arthur’s wrists. Their gold rings touch.
“It’s only my birthday. You don’t have to get me anything at all.”
Arthur snorts. “That’s a lie. That’s always a lie. The last time I tried that with Morgana, she wouldn’t speak to me for a week.”
Merlin twists around and glares at Arthur indignantly. “Are you saying I’m like your sister?”
“Adopted sister,” Arthur corrects, and kisses Merlin quiet.
“That’s still a lame trick,” Merlin complains afterwards, but he’s smiling. “I’m not going to let you get away with comparing me to Morgana just because your tongue is in my mouth.”
Arthur smirks. “What about if I did this?”
The next thing Merlin knows, he’s sitting on his desk, papers forgotten and shoved to one side, straddling Arthur’s head as he sucks him off with the tenacity that had made Merlin fall in love with him so many years ago.
“Arthur,” Merlin gasps, one hand threaded through blonde hair, the other grasping the table’s edge tight.
Arthur merely chuckles around Merlin’s cock, and swallows.
Arthur doesn’t ask again.
Merlin’s birthday draws closer, but he pays it little heed; birthdays had stopped being exciting when he’d hit twenty-two, and this would be his twenty-ninth. Merlin doesn’t want to contemplate the year beyond this one, stretching into his thirties. Truth be told, he is a little daunted. Arthur himself hadn’t half freaked out when he’d turned thirty last year, much to Merlin’s amusement, but it would be Merlin’s turn sooner than he’d anticipated, and it is a scary prospect, three decades. He is beginning to understand why Arthur had suddenly found his teenage libido, and hadn’t stopped jumping Merlin for a whole month.
“Do you have any plans this weekend, professor?” Mordred, one of his students, asks him whilst waiting for Merlin to provide him feedback on his paper.
Merlin looks up from the typed print and smiles at Mordred. “It’s my birthday, actually, but I don’t have any plans yet. I’ll probably celebrate it with my family and friends at a restaurant, nothing fancy or exciting. Not like you kids like to celebrate, anyway.”
Mordred shrugs. He looks out of Merlin’s office window, at the spring sun that lights up the little space of the room. “I don’t like parties much, sir,” he says.
Merlin nods sympathetically. He understands where Mordred is coming from; he hadn’t been very outgoing at university either. “They’re not for everyone. You’ll find your niche; we all do eventually. And for goodness sake, Mordred, I told you to call me ‘Merlin’. Everyone else does.”
Mordred mumbles something about it being too personal as Merlin scrawls a final comment at the bottom of the last page. He shuffles the papers together and hands them to Mordred with an encouraging smile. “There you go; and my comments are in the margins. It’s looking promising, keep up the good work. If you need anything, email me or drop by again.”
“Thanks professor. Have a good weekend, I hope you enjoy your birthday.” Merlin smiles after his student as he shuffles out of his office, still refusing to call him by his first name out of politeness. Mordred is a good kid - quietly enthusiastic, diligent, thorough. Merlin’s always liked him.
Mordred leaves Merlin with his usual paperwork, which he starts to sift through with a sigh. Paperwork is by far the least impressive part of his lecturing occupation, but it’s worth standing in front of hundreds of eager, bright-eyed students to pass on his knowledge of all things historical.
Still, as he works through the latest pile Geoffrey so kindly gave him this morning, Merlin can’t help but be distracted by thoughts of his birthday. He wants it to be quiet - understated and unimportant. He doesn’t much want to remember that he’ll be twenty-nine years old. It’s not particularly important, his age; it’s not like anything special will happen to him, now that he’s found his niche in life, as he’d said to Mordred. Sometimes he feels so old - so fixed in his lifestyle that he’ll never live anything new again.
Merlin shakes his head to himself and pushes his glasses further up his nose. It doesn’t matter, his age. It doesn’t matter, how old he feels. He’s happy. He loves living in his three-bedroom house in a small town in York, waking up and going to bed every night beside Arthur, the love of his life, his husband; he loves seeing his mum every weekend, loves going out for drinks with Gwen and Lancelot, loves laughing with Geoffrey and Gaius over lunch; he loves his job, teaching bright kids about his favourite subject in the world: History. Merlin leads a blessed life, and there’s nothing else he wants. Not really.
Insistent vibrating in his pocket forces Merlin to put his pen down gratefully, and upon seeing the caller ID, answers it smiling. “Hey.”
“Hi. When are you going to be home? I’m bringing takeaway.”
Merlin rolls his eyes.
“Again?”
“I’m not cooking!” Arthur scoffs down the phone.
“Of course,” Merlin says dryly. “What was I thinking?”
“Shut up. You’re not going to cook either.”
Merlin laughs. “Hm, I’ll probably be back around six.” He hears crowds in the background. “Where are you right now? Aren’t you at work?”
“I’m in town, got something to do... for work. There’s no rest for the Police force. But I’ll be back before six, okay? I’ll see you then.”
“Yep, thanks. Bye.”
Merlin puts his mobile on his desk and looks at it fondly; the background is a photo of Arthur, which Merlin had taken during one of their weekends away up in Scotland. He’s sprawled out on the double bed in a t-shirt and shorts, and Merlin remembers laughing at him, at how exhausted he’d been that day, rundown by the excessive walking of hills in the windy weather.
The memory sits warm and fuzzy in Merlin’s chest, and his fingertips brush the brightly lit screen. It’s always been the two of them: Arthur and Merlin, and Merlin and Arthur. Merlin loves it; loves him, loves them. Together.
The day before Merlin’s birthday is a Saturday, and they have lunch with Gwen and Lance in town at their favourite Italian restaurant. They used to sit in the corner, at their four-person table, until Gwen had given birth to Tom two years ago, and they’d shifted to one of the larger tables on the other side of the ground floor. Merlin is beside Arthur and smiling, watching his husband sit Tom in his lap and bounce him up and down. It never ceases to amuse the toddler, and it’s the cutest Merlin has ever seen Arthur let himself be in front of other people. To think, how he used to hate babies, and children in general; it almost makes Merlin want to go behind Arthur’s back and adopt a child, but he won’t, because he respects Arthur, and he knows that the last thing Arthur wants is a family, after his own childhood.
“Yes, that is my nose, Tom,” Arthur says as Tom reaches out for Arthur’s face. “And no, you can’t have it. It’s mine. Yours is here, see.” His finger presses the button that is Tom’s little nose, and he shrieks with laughter. Gwen giggles into her palm at her son’s antics, and Lancelot is grinning widely at them as he sips his drink.
Merlin puts his chin in his hands and stares at Arthur and Tom. Arthur looks up at him and catches his eye, and there’s something knowing in there - Merlin can’t quite place it - before he looks down again, and kisses Tom’s forehead.
Merlin respects Arthur’s decisions. He does. But he wonders what they would be like, sometimes: Arthur, Merlin, and the word family.
That night, as they go to bed wrapped around each other - Arthur, as usual, is the big spoon - and Merlin snuggles his cheek into his pillow, warm and soft, he says, “So, did you get me a birthday present then?”
Merlin can feel Arthur tense, just the slightest, along his back, and chuckles before Arthur can answer. “Arthur, it’s fine you know,” he reassures. “It’s just another birthday-”
“I got you something.” Arthur’s voice is cautious. “I did get you something. But...”
“But what?”
Arthur is silent for a moment, and Merlin turns around in concern. “Hey, it doesn’t have to be anything mind-blowing,” Merlin insists again. Arthur’s face is unreadable in the dark. “You took me to Paris when I turned twenty-four. You proposed to me on my twenty-sixth. You bought me a car last year. You can’t always top those, and I don’t expect you to. Hell, get me books like Gwen and Lance always do; they know my tastes too well.”
Arthur sighs softly into Merlin’s forehead, and he kisses it gently. “Yeah. It’s not that, but... don’t worry about it, okay? You’ll see.”
Merlin nods, and shifts back again, turning over and feeling the secure press of Arthur’s chest against his spine.
“Merlin?” Arthur asks when Merlin’s eyelids begin to droop.
“Hm?”
“Do you want to start a family?”
Merlin’s answer is automatic, unhesitant. “Not if it means losing you, Arthur.”
Arthur quiets, then, and finally, Merlin falls asleep.
When Merlin wakes up, Arthur isn’t plastered beside him like he usually is. The curtains have been half opened, and sunlight is streaming in through the blinds. Merlin smiles and rubs his eyes; he’d expected to be alone, as he always is every year when he wakes up on his birthday.
As if on cue, Arthur steps into their bedroom with a tray of food. “Morning,” he grins, and places the tray down on Merlin’s lap, leaning forwards to kiss his breath away. “Happy Birthday.”
“Thanks.” Merlin wants to roll Arthur into the bed and have his wicked way with him, but the breakfast Arthur’s made him will go cold, and Merlin’s stomach gives a rumble of approval at the aroma rising towards his nostrils.
Afterwards, after Arthur nicks a few strips of bacon, and he’s cleared the food away, Merlin forces Arthur into bed again, straddles his lap with a wide grin.
“You’re very easy to please,” Arthur says smugly, and shifts his hips up. “Tell me what you want then, Merlin.”
Merlin laughs, and silences Arthur with a long, wet kiss.
“I’m too old for this,” Arthur pants when Merlin finally slides off him, and they curl up together beneath the covers.
“Too old to spend the whole day in bed with me?”
“Too old to spend the whole day having sex with you,” Arthur corrects, but he kisses Merlin anyway.
“You managed it half a year ago,” Merlin points out, “when you suddenly craved sex every hour of every day. That was a bit creepy.”
Arthur smirks. “Admit it, Merlin - you loved it.”
“Hm, it wasn’t exactly un-enjoyable,” Merlin grins.
They lie in silence for a few minutes, catching their breaths, until Arthur murmurs, “I need to give you your present. But I need to... go and get it first.”
Merlin turns a curious eye on Arthur. He’s looking at the ceiling, staring at the wash of white with a dazed, glassy expression.
“It might take be a while.” Arthur catches Merlin’s eyes and looks apologetic. “But... I think you’ll like it. I think it’ll be worth it, to see the look on your face.”
Now Merlin really is curious. “Go,” he smiles. “Go. I’ll be waiting.”
Arthur is gone for three hours. During those three hours, Merlin receives three phone calls - one from his mother, who promises to stop by in the evening; the second from Will, his childhood best friend, who’s living abroad and says his present’s in the post (late, as usual, which only makes Merlin laugh); and Morgana, Merlin’s sister-in-law, who he gets on rather well with, much to Arthur’s horror.
Between the phone conversations, Merlin finds himself slumped in front of the TV, catching up on all the shows they’d taped on Sky Plus. Halfway through an episode of Will & Grace, though, he finds himself looking for Arthur’s solid weight beside him; the entwining of their hands together, feeling their rings clink, Arthur’s lips soft along his neck. Merlin misses him with a deep sense of loss, and suddenly, the house is alarmingly empty.
Merlin doesn’t let himself worry, but he still wants to call. Instead, he ignores the compulsion and forces himself to stay in front of the TV, watching Grace make a fool of herself again, and then have Will pull her out of one of her usual messes. Merlin smiles; their relationship rather reminds him of that of his and Arthur’s - the banter, the way they know each other inside-out, the loyalty - only with the sex. Merlin is more than glad for the sex.
Finally, the front door slams shut, and Merlin is on his feet straight away. He rushes towards the hallway, Grace’s loud laughter following him, and stops when he sees Arthur, looking flushed and clutching a bundle of blankets in his arms.
Arthur spots Merlin, and his face lifts into a nervous smile. “Hey. Sorry I’m so late, signing the paperwork was horrendous.”
He takes a step forward and Merlin’s eyes fall on the weight Arthur is carrying. He’s being awfully careful with mere blankets, until the bundle shifts, and Merlin feels his heart practically stop. His throat constricts.
“Arthur,” he whispers. He’s in such shock he can barely talk. “What is... that?” He clutches the door frame of the living-room unsteadily.
Arthur looks down, then at Merlin again, and his face is so anxious, Merlin already knows his answer. He can’t believe it, though; he won’t ever believe this in his wildest dreams, until Arthur says it out loud.
“This is Freya,” Arthur replies, and he takes another step forwards. Merlin can’t breathe. He can’t breathe, because now he can see the - her - face, the beautiful button nose that all babies have, the tiny, tiny hands.
“Arthur.” Merlin stares at Freya, then at his husband. He’s struck speechless.
“Happy Birthday,” Arthur swallows.
“But Arthur,” Merlin tries again, shaking, “you don’t want kids, we’ve talked about this. You’ve never wanted kids.”
A look flashes across Arthur’s face - a doubtful expression Merlin recognises from moments playing with Tom, or chatting with Hunith, or watching Gwen and Lance and their son. He understands now. Merlin understands it all now.
“You want kids,” Arthur begins to explain, shifting a quiet Freya higher into the nook of his right arm. “And you’re great with them. You were born to be around kids, however young or old. You’re a natural and... I love you. I love you, Merlin, and I can’t deny you fatherhood if I love you. And then I realised, I want a family. I do want a family. With you. I want it and I trust you to... save me where I go wrong. You always have, and seeing you with Tom has always made me think.” He looks down at Freya, and he looks thoughtful for a moment. “What if we had our own kid? And it was only a thought for months, maybe for the past two years, but then last week, Lance and I found Freya - just found her abandoned on our doorstep, and the Station have been trying to locate her family, but we can’t, and I thought. I thought.”
Merlin doesn’t finish his sentence for him. He knows what Arthur wants to say. Instead, he takes a deep breath and steps forward, carefully lifting Freya into his arms. Arthur lets her go without protest, watching Merlin’s face intently as he places Freya’s head against his arm.
“Hello there, Freya,” Merlin whispers. “Hello.” He looks up at Arthur, then; sees the emotion deep in his eyes, and Merlin realises with a start that he’s crying.
“Ssh,” Arthur murmurs before Merlin can say a word, and then he’s leaning forwards, licking away Merlin’s tears, every drop along his cheek, above their Freya, fast asleep.
Merlin chokes back a laugh as Arthur draws away with a tender smile, and says tearfully, “I think you topped your other gifts once again.” He clutches Freya tight in his arms.
Arthur’s grin is wide and loving and affectionate, and wordlessly, he presses a kiss to Merlin’s forehead.
Rating: R
Genre(s): romance, fluff
Word Count: ~2850
Pairing(s) / Character(s): Arthur / Merlin, Mordred, Gwen / Lance
Warnings / Spoilers: None
Disclaimer: I do not own Merlin.
Summary: Arthur doesn’t know what to buy Merlin for his twenty-ninth birthday. Prequel to one day she’s going to leave us (but that day is not today). Written for eldee's birthday! Prompt was 'gift'.
“What do you want for your birthday?”
Merlin looks up from his papers, squinting at Arthur, leaning against the doorway and framed in gold light. Merlin removes his thin-rimmed glasses, pinching the side between his index finger and thumb, and smiles.
“Seriously? You’re asking me this question?”
Arthur shrugs, and steps into the room. “I was thinking about it and... I got stuck. I’ve exhausted every option in the last ten years.”
Merlin chuckles. Arthur slips his arms around his neck, burying his nose in Merlin’s hair.
“I hate buying birthday presents,” Arthur mutters, eliciting another laugh from Merlin, who puts his glasses on the desk and wraps fingers around Arthur’s wrists. Their gold rings touch.
“It’s only my birthday. You don’t have to get me anything at all.”
Arthur snorts. “That’s a lie. That’s always a lie. The last time I tried that with Morgana, she wouldn’t speak to me for a week.”
Merlin twists around and glares at Arthur indignantly. “Are you saying I’m like your sister?”
“Adopted sister,” Arthur corrects, and kisses Merlin quiet.
“That’s still a lame trick,” Merlin complains afterwards, but he’s smiling. “I’m not going to let you get away with comparing me to Morgana just because your tongue is in my mouth.”
Arthur smirks. “What about if I did this?”
The next thing Merlin knows, he’s sitting on his desk, papers forgotten and shoved to one side, straddling Arthur’s head as he sucks him off with the tenacity that had made Merlin fall in love with him so many years ago.
“Arthur,” Merlin gasps, one hand threaded through blonde hair, the other grasping the table’s edge tight.
Arthur merely chuckles around Merlin’s cock, and swallows.
Arthur doesn’t ask again.
Merlin’s birthday draws closer, but he pays it little heed; birthdays had stopped being exciting when he’d hit twenty-two, and this would be his twenty-ninth. Merlin doesn’t want to contemplate the year beyond this one, stretching into his thirties. Truth be told, he is a little daunted. Arthur himself hadn’t half freaked out when he’d turned thirty last year, much to Merlin’s amusement, but it would be Merlin’s turn sooner than he’d anticipated, and it is a scary prospect, three decades. He is beginning to understand why Arthur had suddenly found his teenage libido, and hadn’t stopped jumping Merlin for a whole month.
“Do you have any plans this weekend, professor?” Mordred, one of his students, asks him whilst waiting for Merlin to provide him feedback on his paper.
Merlin looks up from the typed print and smiles at Mordred. “It’s my birthday, actually, but I don’t have any plans yet. I’ll probably celebrate it with my family and friends at a restaurant, nothing fancy or exciting. Not like you kids like to celebrate, anyway.”
Mordred shrugs. He looks out of Merlin’s office window, at the spring sun that lights up the little space of the room. “I don’t like parties much, sir,” he says.
Merlin nods sympathetically. He understands where Mordred is coming from; he hadn’t been very outgoing at university either. “They’re not for everyone. You’ll find your niche; we all do eventually. And for goodness sake, Mordred, I told you to call me ‘Merlin’. Everyone else does.”
Mordred mumbles something about it being too personal as Merlin scrawls a final comment at the bottom of the last page. He shuffles the papers together and hands them to Mordred with an encouraging smile. “There you go; and my comments are in the margins. It’s looking promising, keep up the good work. If you need anything, email me or drop by again.”
“Thanks professor. Have a good weekend, I hope you enjoy your birthday.” Merlin smiles after his student as he shuffles out of his office, still refusing to call him by his first name out of politeness. Mordred is a good kid - quietly enthusiastic, diligent, thorough. Merlin’s always liked him.
Mordred leaves Merlin with his usual paperwork, which he starts to sift through with a sigh. Paperwork is by far the least impressive part of his lecturing occupation, but it’s worth standing in front of hundreds of eager, bright-eyed students to pass on his knowledge of all things historical.
Still, as he works through the latest pile Geoffrey so kindly gave him this morning, Merlin can’t help but be distracted by thoughts of his birthday. He wants it to be quiet - understated and unimportant. He doesn’t much want to remember that he’ll be twenty-nine years old. It’s not particularly important, his age; it’s not like anything special will happen to him, now that he’s found his niche in life, as he’d said to Mordred. Sometimes he feels so old - so fixed in his lifestyle that he’ll never live anything new again.
Merlin shakes his head to himself and pushes his glasses further up his nose. It doesn’t matter, his age. It doesn’t matter, how old he feels. He’s happy. He loves living in his three-bedroom house in a small town in York, waking up and going to bed every night beside Arthur, the love of his life, his husband; he loves seeing his mum every weekend, loves going out for drinks with Gwen and Lancelot, loves laughing with Geoffrey and Gaius over lunch; he loves his job, teaching bright kids about his favourite subject in the world: History. Merlin leads a blessed life, and there’s nothing else he wants. Not really.
Insistent vibrating in his pocket forces Merlin to put his pen down gratefully, and upon seeing the caller ID, answers it smiling. “Hey.”
“Hi. When are you going to be home? I’m bringing takeaway.”
Merlin rolls his eyes.
“Again?”
“I’m not cooking!” Arthur scoffs down the phone.
“Of course,” Merlin says dryly. “What was I thinking?”
“Shut up. You’re not going to cook either.”
Merlin laughs. “Hm, I’ll probably be back around six.” He hears crowds in the background. “Where are you right now? Aren’t you at work?”
“I’m in town, got something to do... for work. There’s no rest for the Police force. But I’ll be back before six, okay? I’ll see you then.”
“Yep, thanks. Bye.”
Merlin puts his mobile on his desk and looks at it fondly; the background is a photo of Arthur, which Merlin had taken during one of their weekends away up in Scotland. He’s sprawled out on the double bed in a t-shirt and shorts, and Merlin remembers laughing at him, at how exhausted he’d been that day, rundown by the excessive walking of hills in the windy weather.
The memory sits warm and fuzzy in Merlin’s chest, and his fingertips brush the brightly lit screen. It’s always been the two of them: Arthur and Merlin, and Merlin and Arthur. Merlin loves it; loves him, loves them. Together.
The day before Merlin’s birthday is a Saturday, and they have lunch with Gwen and Lance in town at their favourite Italian restaurant. They used to sit in the corner, at their four-person table, until Gwen had given birth to Tom two years ago, and they’d shifted to one of the larger tables on the other side of the ground floor. Merlin is beside Arthur and smiling, watching his husband sit Tom in his lap and bounce him up and down. It never ceases to amuse the toddler, and it’s the cutest Merlin has ever seen Arthur let himself be in front of other people. To think, how he used to hate babies, and children in general; it almost makes Merlin want to go behind Arthur’s back and adopt a child, but he won’t, because he respects Arthur, and he knows that the last thing Arthur wants is a family, after his own childhood.
“Yes, that is my nose, Tom,” Arthur says as Tom reaches out for Arthur’s face. “And no, you can’t have it. It’s mine. Yours is here, see.” His finger presses the button that is Tom’s little nose, and he shrieks with laughter. Gwen giggles into her palm at her son’s antics, and Lancelot is grinning widely at them as he sips his drink.
Merlin puts his chin in his hands and stares at Arthur and Tom. Arthur looks up at him and catches his eye, and there’s something knowing in there - Merlin can’t quite place it - before he looks down again, and kisses Tom’s forehead.
Merlin respects Arthur’s decisions. He does. But he wonders what they would be like, sometimes: Arthur, Merlin, and the word family.
That night, as they go to bed wrapped around each other - Arthur, as usual, is the big spoon - and Merlin snuggles his cheek into his pillow, warm and soft, he says, “So, did you get me a birthday present then?”
Merlin can feel Arthur tense, just the slightest, along his back, and chuckles before Arthur can answer. “Arthur, it’s fine you know,” he reassures. “It’s just another birthday-”
“I got you something.” Arthur’s voice is cautious. “I did get you something. But...”
“But what?”
Arthur is silent for a moment, and Merlin turns around in concern. “Hey, it doesn’t have to be anything mind-blowing,” Merlin insists again. Arthur’s face is unreadable in the dark. “You took me to Paris when I turned twenty-four. You proposed to me on my twenty-sixth. You bought me a car last year. You can’t always top those, and I don’t expect you to. Hell, get me books like Gwen and Lance always do; they know my tastes too well.”
Arthur sighs softly into Merlin’s forehead, and he kisses it gently. “Yeah. It’s not that, but... don’t worry about it, okay? You’ll see.”
Merlin nods, and shifts back again, turning over and feeling the secure press of Arthur’s chest against his spine.
“Merlin?” Arthur asks when Merlin’s eyelids begin to droop.
“Hm?”
“Do you want to start a family?”
Merlin’s answer is automatic, unhesitant. “Not if it means losing you, Arthur.”
Arthur quiets, then, and finally, Merlin falls asleep.
When Merlin wakes up, Arthur isn’t plastered beside him like he usually is. The curtains have been half opened, and sunlight is streaming in through the blinds. Merlin smiles and rubs his eyes; he’d expected to be alone, as he always is every year when he wakes up on his birthday.
As if on cue, Arthur steps into their bedroom with a tray of food. “Morning,” he grins, and places the tray down on Merlin’s lap, leaning forwards to kiss his breath away. “Happy Birthday.”
“Thanks.” Merlin wants to roll Arthur into the bed and have his wicked way with him, but the breakfast Arthur’s made him will go cold, and Merlin’s stomach gives a rumble of approval at the aroma rising towards his nostrils.
Afterwards, after Arthur nicks a few strips of bacon, and he’s cleared the food away, Merlin forces Arthur into bed again, straddles his lap with a wide grin.
“You’re very easy to please,” Arthur says smugly, and shifts his hips up. “Tell me what you want then, Merlin.”
Merlin laughs, and silences Arthur with a long, wet kiss.
“I’m too old for this,” Arthur pants when Merlin finally slides off him, and they curl up together beneath the covers.
“Too old to spend the whole day in bed with me?”
“Too old to spend the whole day having sex with you,” Arthur corrects, but he kisses Merlin anyway.
“You managed it half a year ago,” Merlin points out, “when you suddenly craved sex every hour of every day. That was a bit creepy.”
Arthur smirks. “Admit it, Merlin - you loved it.”
“Hm, it wasn’t exactly un-enjoyable,” Merlin grins.
They lie in silence for a few minutes, catching their breaths, until Arthur murmurs, “I need to give you your present. But I need to... go and get it first.”
Merlin turns a curious eye on Arthur. He’s looking at the ceiling, staring at the wash of white with a dazed, glassy expression.
“It might take be a while.” Arthur catches Merlin’s eyes and looks apologetic. “But... I think you’ll like it. I think it’ll be worth it, to see the look on your face.”
Now Merlin really is curious. “Go,” he smiles. “Go. I’ll be waiting.”
Arthur is gone for three hours. During those three hours, Merlin receives three phone calls - one from his mother, who promises to stop by in the evening; the second from Will, his childhood best friend, who’s living abroad and says his present’s in the post (late, as usual, which only makes Merlin laugh); and Morgana, Merlin’s sister-in-law, who he gets on rather well with, much to Arthur’s horror.
Between the phone conversations, Merlin finds himself slumped in front of the TV, catching up on all the shows they’d taped on Sky Plus. Halfway through an episode of Will & Grace, though, he finds himself looking for Arthur’s solid weight beside him; the entwining of their hands together, feeling their rings clink, Arthur’s lips soft along his neck. Merlin misses him with a deep sense of loss, and suddenly, the house is alarmingly empty.
Merlin doesn’t let himself worry, but he still wants to call. Instead, he ignores the compulsion and forces himself to stay in front of the TV, watching Grace make a fool of herself again, and then have Will pull her out of one of her usual messes. Merlin smiles; their relationship rather reminds him of that of his and Arthur’s - the banter, the way they know each other inside-out, the loyalty - only with the sex. Merlin is more than glad for the sex.
Finally, the front door slams shut, and Merlin is on his feet straight away. He rushes towards the hallway, Grace’s loud laughter following him, and stops when he sees Arthur, looking flushed and clutching a bundle of blankets in his arms.
Arthur spots Merlin, and his face lifts into a nervous smile. “Hey. Sorry I’m so late, signing the paperwork was horrendous.”
He takes a step forward and Merlin’s eyes fall on the weight Arthur is carrying. He’s being awfully careful with mere blankets, until the bundle shifts, and Merlin feels his heart practically stop. His throat constricts.
“Arthur,” he whispers. He’s in such shock he can barely talk. “What is... that?” He clutches the door frame of the living-room unsteadily.
Arthur looks down, then at Merlin again, and his face is so anxious, Merlin already knows his answer. He can’t believe it, though; he won’t ever believe this in his wildest dreams, until Arthur says it out loud.
“This is Freya,” Arthur replies, and he takes another step forwards. Merlin can’t breathe. He can’t breathe, because now he can see the - her - face, the beautiful button nose that all babies have, the tiny, tiny hands.
“Arthur.” Merlin stares at Freya, then at his husband. He’s struck speechless.
“Happy Birthday,” Arthur swallows.
“But Arthur,” Merlin tries again, shaking, “you don’t want kids, we’ve talked about this. You’ve never wanted kids.”
A look flashes across Arthur’s face - a doubtful expression Merlin recognises from moments playing with Tom, or chatting with Hunith, or watching Gwen and Lance and their son. He understands now. Merlin understands it all now.
“You want kids,” Arthur begins to explain, shifting a quiet Freya higher into the nook of his right arm. “And you’re great with them. You were born to be around kids, however young or old. You’re a natural and... I love you. I love you, Merlin, and I can’t deny you fatherhood if I love you. And then I realised, I want a family. I do want a family. With you. I want it and I trust you to... save me where I go wrong. You always have, and seeing you with Tom has always made me think.” He looks down at Freya, and he looks thoughtful for a moment. “What if we had our own kid? And it was only a thought for months, maybe for the past two years, but then last week, Lance and I found Freya - just found her abandoned on our doorstep, and the Station have been trying to locate her family, but we can’t, and I thought. I thought.”
Merlin doesn’t finish his sentence for him. He knows what Arthur wants to say. Instead, he takes a deep breath and steps forward, carefully lifting Freya into his arms. Arthur lets her go without protest, watching Merlin’s face intently as he places Freya’s head against his arm.
“Hello there, Freya,” Merlin whispers. “Hello.” He looks up at Arthur, then; sees the emotion deep in his eyes, and Merlin realises with a start that he’s crying.
“Ssh,” Arthur murmurs before Merlin can say a word, and then he’s leaning forwards, licking away Merlin’s tears, every drop along his cheek, above their Freya, fast asleep.
Merlin chokes back a laugh as Arthur draws away with a tender smile, and says tearfully, “I think you topped your other gifts once again.” He clutches Freya tight in his arms.
Arthur’s grin is wide and loving and affectionate, and wordlessly, he presses a kiss to Merlin’s forehead.