Keep Calm and Carry On Commentary - Part 3
The thing about Merlin is he's just really... weird. Despite the fact that Arthur teases him constantly about not knowing what e-mail is ("Merlin, the next time you think about ringing when Arsenal is about to score a goal, please consider a new invention I've heard about called electronic mail that I can check during a commercial break..."), he does know, selectively. That is, he doesn't know to forward important interdepartmental memos, but he is perfectly aware of how to e-mail Arthur when he sees one of his new weird cat images that he thinks Arthur will find funny.
Arthur does not find these very strange cat pictures funny. (I'm with Arthur on this one. Cats and macros I don't get. PEOPLE macros, however, crack me the fuck up.)
"There is a cat in the ceiling," Arthur says slowly, attempting to understand the latest one. "His name is Ceiling Cat."
"Yes," Merlin nods enthusiastically.
"And you find him... funny."
"He's symbolic. For God, you see."
"And the fact that he is watching me..."
"...is supposed to be funny, yes," Merlin says. "That's why I sent it to you. Because you like cats."
"But cats don't speak English," Arthur says. "Not, mind you, that this nonsense the cat's supposed to be saying is the Queen's bloody English, this is... for Christ's sake, Merlin, don't you have a degree in this garbage? I'm offended on behalf of the years and years of schooling you are apparently flushing down the toilet."
Merlin opens his mouth and Arthur raises his hand up to stop him.
"If you ask me if you 'can has' this year's immigration numbers, you're fired," he says before he hands over the folder. Merlin takes it with a roll of his eyes.
"Develop a sense of humor!" He shouts as he leaves the office.
"Do your job!" Arthur suggests, and dials up his counterpart at the Conservative party to yell at him about human decency, what you don't fucking say to the press, and the various inhuman acts he plans on performing on his mother. It's a wholly satisfying conversation that puts Arthur in a good mood right through lunchtime and into the early afternoon, until his e-mail pings with a message from Merlin with the subject "!!!URGENT RE: YOUR SENSE OF HUMOR!!!" The entire body is You're welcome. -M and a link to a comic with a graph showing that comments said in close proximinty to a cat become increasingly inanae. Arthur puzzles over it for a very long time before being forced to conclude:
a) the comic itself is inane, and,
b) Merlin is not utilizing his time properly.
"Merlin," he says, stomping to his assistant's desk, which is a testament to Merlin's extreme disorganization and oddity. Including the goldfish bowl, Merlin's desk contains a few day's worth of food wrappers, his battered iPod, piles of folders and books Merlin finished but forgot to take home, three action figures of Merlin's literary heroes (Shakespeare, Oscar Wilde, and Jane Austen, which Merlin has pointed out to Arthur are also all British, thus appropriate for the office as they display his national pride), a framed photograph of Merlin standing with his arm around his mother, the latest book Merlin's been reading furtively when he thinks Arthur isn't looking, and a cup full of the weird kind of pens that only Merlin likes to use because he's fond of the texturized grip. The cubicle walls around his desk that block Merlin from the other mindless department drones are full of tacked-on crooked pictures of him and Will mugging the camera, a few of Merlin smiling awkwardly with famous people who toured 10 Downing, and the weird web comics Merlin likes so much with the ugly scribbled famous authors like the Yeats or Kirkegard saying pretentious things Arthur doesn't understand. (In case you're curious, the exact comics of Kate Beaton Merlin has printed out are this one (AHAHHA LORD BYRON), this one (poor Yeats, he's printed out and on my bulletin board), this one, and this one. (BRONTES! SO TRUE!)) "Merlin, what have I told you about sending me frivolous e-mails?"
Merlin looks up from his lukewarm cup of tea he's still nursing from that morning with eyes that would melt butter. "They're delightful and brighten your day?"
"No." Arthur says emphatically, punctuating the statement with his hand slammed down on Merlin's desk for good measure.
"Well, you were cooing inanely at Sophia," Merlin points out.
"I was drugged! You drugged me!" Arthur shouts this loud enough that Gwen's head pokes out of her office.
"Boys," she says severely, "what have I told you about slipping each other sedatives?"
"He did it!" Arthur says, pointing at Merlin. "I'm innocent! He plied me with antihistamines and gave me a cat!"
"Oh, you're welcome for that!" Merlin scoffs. "You certainly didn't sound like you minded." He puts on his imitation-Arthur voice, which is very nasal and swotty sounding, like Arthur should be adjusting his spats at Eton. Never mind that Arthur went to Eton, he never wore spats there, no matter what Merlin thinks. "Oh, Sophia," he says as Arthur, "who's a perfect kitty girl? You are! Yes you are just the prettiest kitty kitty kitty cat!"
"I did not say that!" Arthur yelps. Gwen's mouth is twitching frantically, and damn her, she knows how he feels about cats, which means she knows that Merlin's probably not lying. Gwen never understood Arthur's deep and meaningful bond with cats - she's always been a dog person. It's one of the many reasons Arthur counts as evidence that it's good they broke up when they did before they made a truly terrible decision like getting married to each other. "Also, you drugged me and then sent me a mocking comic!"
"Remember, Arthur," Gwen soothes, "sticks and stones may break your bones, but words can never hurt you."
"I think the nature of our job suggests otherwise," Merlin mutters, and Arthur shoots both him and Gwen venomous looks.
"Everyone in this department is fired," he snarls, and stomps back into his office. But he does spends a good hour that afternoon going through the stupid comic out of perverse curiosity, just so he can hit the reply button and send one to send back to Merlin.
I'll have you know my sense of humor is excellent. He writes in the body, and then after a few moments of thought he adds Hah hah. Bite me. Five minutes after he presses send, he hears Merlin's laughter, bright and unexpected through the door. And when he leaves for the night, he notices that Merlin's printed the comic out and tacked it up, and then outlined in bright green so it stands out from all the rest.
- - -
Technically, Arthur's in charge of scheduling the journalism students that will occasionally tour through his department like a descending plague of locusts. By "in charge" he means "he signs off on the slips of paper", but he doesn't really have a say. The woman in charge of these things is named Kay, and she's old enough to be his mother and then some, has a bit of an older-woman mustache, and is one of those people who is terrifyingly kind yet always seems to give off the distinct impression that if they ever snapped, they would kill you in cold blood without a second thought. Arthur thereby signs off on everything she sends his way and makes sure he doesn't know the particulars. Unfortunately, this strategy is what leads to him and Merlin sitting awkwardly on his desk facing about twenty dewy-eyed journalism students.
Well, fuck.
"I really need to start listening when you brief me about my day," Arthur mutters out of the corner of his mouth to Merlin.
"So what, you can run away and leave me to deal with this on my own?" Merlin mutters back.
"Alright," Arthur claps his hands and attempts to smile brightly at the students instead of answering. "I'm Arthur Pendragon, I run this joint, and this is my assistant Merlin Emrys. And that's really his name, to answer your first question. So, what've you got to ask us?"
A lot of them have boring questions - how do you deal with the long hours, what are the worst mistakes journalists can make, did Arthur and Merlin always want to do this when they were kids? They've answered these questions more or less on the fly so many times that Arthur and Merlin have developed a seamless running dialogue they can start up at a moment's notice about their job, and it never fails to amaze Arthur that when they do, Merlin's actually quite charming. Normally, he thinks of Merlin as a bit of a bumbling idiot, but when Merlin really gets into philosophizing about the nature and importance of a free press with his eyes alight and his hands making fantastical shapes in the air (all while, somehow, managing to be obliquely insulting to Arthur), he's perhaps a little magnificent. At least when Arthur catches some of the girls (and there are always a few) gazing adoringly at Merlin, he understands and doesn't feel the need to check if they're concussed. If they knew Merlin like Arthur knew Merlin, though... Well, it would be a different story. Hell, they didn't even have to really know him, they just had to see Merlin drunk once, and all future attraction would be killed immediately. (And yet...)
"Yes, you," Arthur calls on one of the girls who at least had the decency and good sense to be ogling him, "you had a question?"
"Hi," the girl says, a bit breathless. "I'm Jennifer. But you can call me Jenn. That's with two n's." (Hey there, hermette cameo!) Next to him, Merlin makes a choking noise and Arthur's forced to kick his shin, hard.
"Very well, Jenn," he says politely. "What was your question?"
"Well," Jenn simpers a little. "You and Mr. Emrys, I mean, clearly you're a great boss, since you and he are so close, and Mr. Emrys gets to do so much hands-on work with you. I was just wondering if that's normal, if we're going to be as close with our bosses as Mr. Emrys is with you."
"Um," Arthur says vaguely. The question is semi-innocent, he knows.The girl was trying to flatter him and perhaps butter him up enough to ask for her number. She certainly didn't mean to make it sound like he and his assistant... well. It wasn't even worth thinking about. "I... that is..." He feels the brush of Merlin's fingers against where his hand is resting on the desk, like he's trying to offer comfort, but Merlin recoils and places his hand next to Arthur's instead under Arthur's glance. His pinky brushing against the side of Arthur's hand is an itch, somehow worse than if Merlin had actually covered Arthur's hand with his own.
"It's both luck and circumstance," Merlin says smoothly, betraying no emotion. "Arthur's a great boss and we get on well, it's true, but anyone you work with for as many hours as Arthur and I work together is bound to come to a sort of... understanding with you. Being close is a bit inevitable."
The question and answer session wraps up soon after that and Arthur has a full day's work ahead of him after it, so he puts his head down and just does it, but he has a sick, churning feeling in his gut all day.
"That was a good answer," Arthur says to Merlin when he comes in to give Arthur the last papers of the day before he heads back to his flat. "With the student earlier today I mean. Good quick thinking."
"Yeah well," Merlin avoids his eyes. "Someone had to."
"But, uh," Arthur clears his throat. "I think that even if we didn't work together... that is. I mean, I know you won't work for me forever and I'd... We're mates, right? After a fashion?"
Merlin snorts. "That's one word for it." He gives Arthur a small smile. "I'll see you tomorrow, okay?"
Arthur nods, but before Merlin can leave, he twists up all his courage and says, "I should have said, when she asked that question..." Merlin turns around and looks at him. "I mean," Arthur goes on doggedly, "what I should have said is that you do so much work with me because without you... I couldn't do what I do. Without you."
"Like, at work, right?" Merlin sounds a little odd. Is he coming down with a cold?
"Yeah, of course," Arthur says. "What else would I mean?" (Assfucking.)
"Nothing," Merlin gives Arthur one of his sad, unreadable looks that Arthur never understands, but never fails to make him feel deeply ashamed, like he's done something terribly wrong, if only he knew what the hell it was. (Don't worry, Arthur, I hear this is a common ailment among the menfolk.)
"Good night, Arthur."
"Good night," Arthur says. He feels like something important just happened, like Merlin just told him something he should know. But, for all that his job is in communications, when Merlin sends him these coded messages, he can never quite understand what's just out of his reach.
- - -
"No comment," Arthur says flatly when Morgana knocks on his door.
"I'm not here for that," Morgana says. "I just dropped by to give Merlin the key to my flat, so I thought I'd say hello."
Arthur looks up sharply. "Why would Merlin need the keys to your flat?" Are Merlin and Morgana having some sort of affair he's missed out on? How does Merlin have time to have an affair? Or Morgana, for that matter? He can picture it horribly vividly, all pale skin and dark hair and Merlin's hands going down, down... (This is my second fic in which I have used either Colin/Katie or their characters as a plot device to make Bradley/Arthur jealous. This may become my new trope, like wrists. Or adverb abuse. Look, it's not my fault they're both very attractive Irish people.)
"God, no, not that," Morgana laughs. "Merlin's far too young for me."
"He's fucking 28, not a child," Arthur snaps, typing a bit more vehemently than he needs to for a brief on Gaius' stance on strengthening the British electricity grid. "I think at the ripe old age of 32 you can lower yourself..."
"You're defensive," Morgana snorts. "I'm going to China for that story I've been talking about for ages on carbon emissions. Merlin's looking after my cats."
"One, China having high carbon emissions is the farthest thing from news I can think of," Arthur says. "While you're there, I hear the sky is blue and the earth revolves around the sun. You should get on that."
"The sky's not blue if they're cloud seeding..."
"...and two," Arthur plows over her neatly, recognizing the beginning of an environmental rant when he hears one, "why is Merlin watching your cats? I thought I usually did that."
"I know who really fed them when I was in Chernobyl," Morgana tosses a sheet of shiny black hair over her shoulder, and Arthur pouted. He'd really wanted to take care of the cats, he'd tried a new medicine and everything, just like every time Morgana went away. But, just like the time before, Arthur's eyes watered so thoroughly the second he stepped into Morgana's flat that he couldn't even see where to scoop the litter. It wasn't like Merlin minded, anyway. "Thought I'd eliminate the middleman, since you're allergic anyway. They're good judges of character, you know."
"They scratch me to hell," Arthur complains. This may be because he's stepped on their tails while nearly blind one too many times, he isn't really sure. He just knows there was yowling.
"I rest my case." Morgana sits down in the visitor's chair that Arthur usually purposefully keeps filled with file folders so no one stays to chat, but he'd had a meeting with the Queen's Press Director earlier that morning and hadn't had a chance to fill it up with his crap yet. "You didn't tell me you had a hot new speechwriter."
"Who, Lance?" Arthur asks, glancing up at her. She would find him attractive. Everyone with a pulse who wasn't Arthur, it seemed, did. "Yeah, he's really good at the inspirational stuff."
"Where did you find him, a modeling agency?"
Arthur shrugs. "No idea, he's just been working his way through the Labour Party writing speeches. Co-wrote Alvarr's speech in favor of nuclear non-proliferation and drone attacks on Pakistan. The non-proliferation parts, anyway. Made Alvarr sound like less of a bloodthirsty bastard. Gaius really liked his work and asked me to get him to sign on."
"That was a good speech," Morgana says thoughtfully, looking out the perpetual gap in Arthur's door to where Gwen is perched on Lance's desk. "You should keep him around, even though he's in love with Gwen."
"What?" Arthur says, actually closing his laptop for such a serious accusation. Morgana and Gwen had always seemed to get on almost eerily well, better than even Gwen and Arthur had at times (another thing that should have been a warning sign), and Morgana had taken their breakup with a philosophical shrug and a "well, she was too good for you, anyway", and ever since has bemoaned Arthur's inability to date someone she likes even remotely as much. (For the record, Morgana approves heartily of Merlin and Arthur and forms an utterly unholy alliance with Merlin and Arthur weeps silently into his tea. In case you were curious.)
"Look, Morgana," he says, "I'd appreciate if you didn't come in and just start shit to mess with me. I've got quite enough to do this week."
"See, this exactly, this is why I don't trust you with my cats," Morgana says, getting up. "You're too stupid to be allowed anywhere near them."
Arthur snorts. He highly doubts stupidity has anything to do with it. More likely, Nimueh and Mordred are as evil as their namesakes and have performed black magic upon Morgana, which is only unnoticeable because she was so evil to begin with. "I hope your plane crashes in China and goes up in flames and you die." Arthur says bitterly.
Morgana chuckles and leans over to brush a kiss against his cheek. "I'll miss you too, Arthur."
Of course Morgana's right, she's always fucking right. Arthur can't believe he missed how Lance looks at Gwen, tunes into every press briefing with his chin in his hands and hearts practically leaping out of his eyes. He brings her tea and coffee every day, visits her office constantly to talk or joke or sometimes even pretend he needs to work alongside her. It would be pathetic if Gwen didn't seem to enjoy it so much, or flirt back in her own, quiet, Gwen-ish way that Arthur recognized with a sudden clang of deja vu, like he was back in uni watching her and a much darker version of himself dance around each other all over again.
"So... Lance," Arthur says awkwardly to her one day after work when they're getting drinks at the pub around the corner. Gwen goes out every Friday for a bit of a wind-down, and there's always an unspoken open invitation to join her, but Arthur usually tries to avoid human interaction on the rare chance he gets the luxury to just be alone for once. This, however, is a matter that takes precedence.
Gwen blushes into her wine. "What about him?"
"You seem interested," Arthur shrugs and takes a sip of his scotch. Gwen just narrows her eyes at him.
"You don't get to do this, this," she waves her hand vaguely. "This nosing into my romantic life business."
"I think as your ex I do," Arthur shrugs. "And I think both your boss and his..."
"...ah," Gwen smiles. "The real reason."
"It's a valid reason!" Arthur says hotly. "You're the press secretary to the prime minister, Gwen, you can't go... philandering with a co-worker when you're in politics!"
"Maybe I won't be in politics forever," Gwen says. "I never planned on it, you know, I only got this job because of your recommendation to Gaius."
"But you're in it now, and it looks..."
"Arthur," Gwen says sharply, and Arthur's reminded of what ten years ago he'd found so entrancing about her, the edge of steel under all that comfort and softness. "This isn't America, it's England, and unless I'm mucking about with a duck house and a moat on expenses, no one cares. There are husband-wife teams in Parliament, and I'm not saying I'm going to marry Lance, but if maybe you could unclench around that massive stick your father's shoved up your arse, the world would be a better place." (TIME FOR A LULZ, ENGLAND BREAK. Gosh, one of the things I adored about British politics in the research of this fic is how cool they are. Married people in politics? Fine. Gay people in high office? Okey dokey. And as an American I find it unbearably adorable that their version of scandal is someone embezzling money to clean his moats. HIS MOATS. Our scandals involve prostitution rings of various sexual orientations, borderline pedophilia of the gay variety, lobbyist buy-outs, and snorting coke off toasters. Whenever I'd tell thisissirius or social_retard86 about American political scandals, they would be like "are you sure you're not stealing that from the plot of a movie????"
No, no I'm not. It's part of what makes our country the great place it is today.)
"I do not have a stick up my arse!" Arthur protests.
"Come off it," Gwen scoffs, rolling her eyes. "If that were true, you and Merlin would be at it like bunnies already. You're clearly besotted with him. Instead, you're uptight and miserable, and now you're trying to make everyone else miserable."
Arthur forgot he doesn't like Gwen when she's got a little wine in her. She becomes irritatingly direct and almost Morgana-like, and Arthur just hopes she never goes to get drinks with curious journalists. "I do not," he says, slowly and carefully, "have romantic or inappropriate feelings for Merlin."
"There's nothing inappropriate about having feelings for Merlin," Gwen sighs, "I just wish you'd let yourself be happy for a change."
"I am happy," Arthur insists.
"But if you were with Merlin..."
"...my political career would be over," Arthur finishes. "It's damning enough to date inter-departmentally, but sure, let's add gay on top of it, see how that goes." (Not that Arthur's thought about this, or anything.)
"Again, what do you think this is, America?" Gwen laughs. " People don't pay that close attention to their government. I'm the Press Secretary, I come to this bar a block away from 10 Downing every Friday, and no one pays a jot of attention to me. Unless you're performing sexual acts with Merlin on The X Factor, no one gives a damn. Ah!" She points at him and gives a slightly tipsy giggle. "You're blushing. You do love him."
"I," Arthur sniffs, "have only had one scotch, and therefore I have that sense of propriety you lost two glasses of wine ago."
"You stare at him all the time," Gwen goes on mercilessly, "hate that Alexander fellow, or anyone who pays attention to him, you two have those deep, innuendo-laden silences where you speak only with your eyes and it's like something out of a Mills and Boon novel..." (Eyebrows, Gwen, they speak with their eyebrows. That's totally less gay, right?)
"Gwen..."
"Arthur," Gwen says, covering his hand. "Please."
Arthur swallows the rest of his scotch and is silent for a long time.
"It isn't..." He says finally. "I mean, I've had... thoughts. But they're nothing... It's not worth... I mean of course I would, I see him every day, he isn't terrible looking..."
"And what if he was worth it?" Gwen asks softly, eyes intent on Arthur's face. "Just imagine if he was."
Arthur closes his eyes and turns his head away. There was that one time, that one dream, maybe a year and a half ago, the one he couldn't quite forget that's coming back to him under Gwen's not-so-gentle prodding. For a week, he'd watched Merlin go on dates with Freya and let himself think that maybe it could change, maybe it was worth it, maybe if he could just make a move... but that was a stupid week. A stupid, selfish, childish thought that had ran away with itself. If Gwen thought he wasn't happy, maybe the reason was because he'd never really let that thought go. And starting Monday, he would. Come Monday he'd walk in and steel himself completely against Merlin's big, blue eyes and dimpled smile and not be so soft on every one of Merlin's whims, spoken or unspoken. (There were a of times during this fic where I would pause writing or type in "OH, ARTHUR DDD:" in parenthesis. This was one of those times.)
"Arthur?" Gwen repeats. "Was that out of line? I'm sorry, I'm tipsy and it was terribly..."
"No," Arthur shakes his head, smiling at her. "I'm just tired. I'm going to head home."
"Arthur," Gwen says as he pulls on his coat, "will you do me a favor and think about it?"
"Sure," Arthur lies. "No, of course."
(I actually worried a lot that this was totally out of character for Gwen, but I really needed her to be the one saying these things to Arthur, so I did a Jamie Foxx and blamed it on the a-a-a-a-a-alcohol.
My hip references are the reason I'm so popular, guys.)
- - -
(This is one of my favorite bits of early Josh/Donna that I lifted out of The West Wing. A book about skis!)
For Christmas, as always, Merlin wants a magic kit. Never mind that it's not an appropriate sort of gift for a boss to give his assistant (Arthur's father always gave his secretaries bouquets or potted poinsetta or something), he wants one, and he's wanted one the first two Christmases he worked for Arthur, and pretty much since he was eight before he even knew Arthur, and he's gotten it in his head that one day, Arthur will give in and get him one.
"I don't want Gwen to, because she already gives me her tin of Christmas fudge," Merlin tells Arthur, trailing him like a puppy no matter how Arthur tries to lose him. "And I look forward all year to that Christmas fudge. And I think Lance thought I was kidding, and Gaius is too busy to get presents for anyone."
"So ask your mother for one," Arthur says absently, looking over Gaius' charitable holiday schedule, trying to make sure he's appearing everywhere he's supposed to, which is a bit difficult with Merlin hovering about.
"Mum only named me Merlin because that's what my dad wanted before he died," Merlin says, stuffing envelopes as he chatters. "She wanted to name me something sensible like Tom, or James, or Colin, or Dave, or..." (In modern AUs I always feel I must explain why Merlin is named Merlin. Also, she wanted to name him Colin. I spent an unhealthy amount of time giggling to myself over that, and it's not even that funny. And by that I mean, it's not funny to people who, unlike me, have senses of humor.)
"The point, please, Merlin," Arthur interrupts. This could go on for a while.
"The point is, she didn't want me becoming a magician and getting teased that much more, and now she won't get me a magic kit because she says I'm too old, and it's what I really want, Arthur, it's what would bring me Christmas joy. Since you make my life miserable all year round, I think you owe me some joy."
"I make your life a delight," Arthur insists vaguely. Fuck, forgot to make sure Gaius visits impoverished, ill, bald children, that won't do.
"You're right, of course," Merlin says. "While my mum and I scrimped and saved for me to get to uni, while I was working my arse off studying motifs in Russian literature, I was thinking to myself, 'thank god I'm getting this education, it will serve me really well when I achieve my life calling to be Arthur Pendragon's lackey.'"
"And don't you forget it!" Arthur calls after Merlin's righteous flounce out of his office. "I want my tea early today, and it better have the numbers on annual job losses with it!"
Thanks to Merlin's needling, Arthur does spend an uncomfortable amount of time considering his Christmas present instead of going with another very sensible fountain pen for the third year in a row,(Merlin, for the record, never writes with those fountain pens and keeps them in a special drawer at home, even though he also sort of hates them.) standing in various stores and weighing things in his hands. On one hand, Merlin should get what he wants - it is Christmas, after all, and if Merlin wants to tap hats and make things disappear, who's Arthur to stand in his way? On the other hand, it's a fairly ridiculous wish of Merlin's, and Arthur is patently against encouraging Merlin to be even more ridiculous than he already is.
When December 23rd comes around, Gwen hands out her annual Christmas chocolate that is just as divine as Arthur remembered, and Lance hands out Amazon.com giftcards with a shrug.
"Didn't have time for something personal, trying to come up with all the Christmas speeches," he says sheepishly, and Gwen and Merlin both hurry to assure him that's quite alright, cooing over him as if £25 is the greatest gift they could ever receive. Then again, Arthur wasn't so stupid he didn't catch Lance in Gwen's office earlier, shyly handing her a package of that expensive French-milled lavender soap Arthur knows she's so fond of but never can quite justify spending money on. But then again, after the pub he also hadn't be stupid enough to stick his nose in Gwen's personal life ever again.
Merlin gets them all cashmere scarves, and fusses over Arthur's particularly horribly, trying to get it to lay just right.
"I am capable of putting on a scarf myself, you know," he says crossly to Merlin, who seems fixated on how the crimson lays against the navy of Arthur's coat. (Also, he wants an excuse to grope Arthur shamelessly. Do we blame him? No. No we don't.)
"Arthur, I'm enjoying how nice my gift is," Merlin says absently, tugging it looser around Arthur's neck a little so his fingers brush the sensitive, shivery spot there. (Non-accidental.) "Please stop ruining my Christmas joy."
"If you don't stop, I can't give you your present," Arthur wheedles, holding up the package and shaking it enticingly. Merlin glares at it narrowly.
"If it's another fountain pen..."
"Just open it," Arthur says, shoving it in Merlin's hands. Greedily, Merlin rips open the paper, and then looks at his present thoughtfully.
"It's an old book," he says, voice carefully polite.
"I found it while I was looking for a gift for my father," Arthur says awkwardly. "It's a fairly famous grimoire - that's a spell-book, by the way, called The Key of Solomon. (This is a real grimoire - I spent an embarrassingly long time trying to decide which one to use.) The owner told me it was a Renaissance text, but this is from the turn of the century edition, when there was an interest in magic because of the romantic movement. (Though I didn't check to see if it was being re-published around the turn of the century. Come on. Even my dork has its limits.) Original binding."
"Wouldn't want it to be un-original binding," Merlin says. His voice sounds strange.
"There's a note." Merlin opens the cover and mouths to himself the words Arthur had spent hours agonizing over and has probably memorized by now.
(Merlin,
I know it's not the kit you wanted, but I think you can do some real damage with this. Already magical to me - no one can brew a pot like you. Please, no demons, dealing with you in the morning is punishment enough.
All my best, Arthur)
"Arthur," Merlin sounds suspiciously choked up and his eyes are a little glassy when he looks up. "Oh, Arthur..."
"There's no need to get emotional," Arthur says gruffly, stuffing his hands in his pockets. "It's really... I just..."
"See you do things like this," Merlin interrupts, "every so often there's something like this, and then it's hard to remember you're you and I just..." He trails off, overwhelmed, and then launches himself at Arthur, pulling him in for a long hug. Arthur's never been a fan of hugs, they're uncomfortable, claustrophobic affairs, in his experience. But there's something nice about Merlin hugging him, something that makes him feel a little warm inside and treasured, proud of his gift and his note and comforted by Merlin's smell of sweat and tea and Gwen's fudge and old paper. Almost Christmas-y, even. Enough to make him take his hands out of his pockets and hug Merlin back.
"It would have killed you to get a magic kit, wouldn't it?" Merlin mutters into one of Arthur's shoulders.
"Yeah," Arthur says. "Yeah, it really would have."
- - -
When Merlin seems down at the beginning of January, Arthur, naturally, assumes that it's post-holiday depression like everyone else, and that the best way to deal with this is to keep busy. Merlin doesn't seem to agree, getting mopier and mopier until that Friday, when he doesn't come into work at all.
"He has the flu, Arthur," Gwen says pityingly, "you were working him to the bone and now he's too sick to come in today."
"I thought he was depressed after the holidays like a normal person!" Arthur says, flailing a little desperately. "He didn't say anything! How was I supposed to know he wasn't coming in today?"
"You could check your voicemail?" Gwen suggests.
"You know I can't work the voicemail system without Merlin," (This is another trait I have in common with Arthur. Voicemail systems and extensions confuse the fuck out of me.) Arthur moans, burying his face in his hands. "Fuck, this is such a disaster."
The entire day is a wash. Arthur wastes a half an hour and then scalds himself trying to make his own tea and coffee, he can't find any of the files or information he needs, and it's heinously silent without Merlin chattering away to Kilgharrah or playing his awful twee music or taking calls. Kilgharrah seems particularly depressed, refusing to come out from under his little plastic castle except to mouth morosely when Arthur feeds him before leaving for the night. (HAH HAH MY INSIDE JOKES ARE THE BEST/LAMEST.)
"Look at this fish," Arthur says to Gwen, who's wrapping herself up in the cashmere scarf she got from Merlin. "He's depressed."
"He never comes out from under his castle," Gwen says, pulling on her gloves. "It's just what he does. You up for drinks? I was going to maybe take some food from the pub to Merlin after."
"Doesn't Merlin have a roommate?" Arthur asks. He's met Will a few times, but they'd never gotten on, which Merlin claims is just because Will has a problem with authority figures. Arthur thinks Will is clearly a bad influence on Merlin.
"Will's still at home for the holidays visiting his family, do you listen at all when Merlin speaks?"
"Usually," Arthur hedges. ("Though normally I'm too busy gazing helplessly into his eyes and thinking about how lovely I think his lips are and how I want to nuzzle him and tuck him in at night and smooth down his hair and then mess it up again when we fuck....") "Look, I'll go check up on him, alright?"
He gets lost three times trying to find Merlin's flat, squinting at the paper Gwen jotted down his address on. There's no surprise that Merlin lives what's a long tube ride away in a serviceable and quiet but completely unfashionable neighborhood, the kind that seems like it would go to bed at eight sharp. Arthur gets a few choice words when he buzzes the wrong flat, but finally Merlin answers with a muzzy "Hullo?"
"Merlin, let me up," Arthur says briskly.
"Arthur?" Merlin says. He sounds hoarse. "What are you doing here?"
"Coming to make sure you don't die," Arthur says. "Also, I'm freezing. Let me up."
"Fine, fine," Arthur hears the buzz and heads up gratefully. Merlin's flat, when Arthur opens it, looks like a hurricane hit. There are discarded books and sweatshirts and stacks of dirty dishes everywhere. Arthur knew that Will was a landscaper and gardener, but he didn't expect that Merlin's entire apartment would be like a greenhouse, albeit a slightly wilted one - Merlin's probably been too sick or scatterbrained to water the near jungle of plants. Merlin is curled up under a bright blue wool blanket that Arthur would bet money his mother knit, pale except for a hectic flush across his cheeks. His eyes are glassy and he looks miserable. (Edited from Arthur's brain: also, highly fuckable. Redacted both because he feels really bad thinking that and really dirty because HELLO MERLIN IS DYING OF THE PLAGUE.)
"Hi," Merlin says miserably. "I've got the flu."
"I can see that," Arthur says awkwardly. "When do you think you'll be better? I scalded my hand today trying to make coffee. And Kilgharrah's sulking."
Merlin smiles weakly. "I'm keeping things down now," he says, picking up an empty Ritz box from the couch next to him and shaking it. "Had this and orange juice." (This is a really sad and true fact - THERE ARE NO SALTINES IN ENGLAND. I know, Americans reading this. I know. For you tragic, tragic non-Americans who don't know, these are Saltine crackers. They are magical things that you eat when your tummy is angry because they fill you up and absorb stomach acid so all that gurgling that's going on doesn't make you vomit. Your digestive system is too dry to vomit. These things are fucking magical. I'm from a suburb of Boston (BEANTOWN HOLLAAAAA!!!), which means many class trips were spent on boats in various parts of the Boston harbor or off the Cape - doing Duck Tours (again, omg I feel so sad for people who did not grow up with this sort of magic), whale watches, marine wildlife tours with the aquarium, sightseeing from the water, transport out to the nature reserves and parks on the tiny islands in the Boston harbor... Saltine crackers become your friends. Nay, not just your friends, your best friends. Every time you go on one of those things with a large group (especially if that group contains children), bring like five boxes of these bad boys, because you will be force-feeding them to at least three different kids, going "STARE AT THAT HORIZON. STARE AT THAT HORIZON. DON'T GET SEASICK. STARE AT THAT HORIZON."
But I digress from my reigonal nostalgia - the point is, I wanted Merlin to be eating Saltines, because, as someone who frequently suffers from upset stomach myself, there is nothing that works half so well as eating besides Saltine crackers. However, when I asked my Britpickers if they had Saltines (or something similar) they went "no" or "what the fuck are those things?" When I went "WELL WHAT DO YOU EAT IF YOU'RE SICK AND YOUR STOMACH IS IN A STATE OF REBELLION???" they went "...we don't."
THIS IS SO TRAGIC I CANNOT EVEN. I settled on Ritz because they were the closest, even though they're ALL WRONG because they're way too buttery to eat on an upset stomach. Effing Brits and their effing cracker deficiencies.)
"That isn't food," Arthur crisply takes off his jacket. "Tell me you have soup."
"I dunno," Merlin mumbles, sinking back into the couch, "but go ahead, make yourself at home, don't wait for my invite."
Arthur does just that, going into Merlin's postage-stamp sized kitchen and banging around until he finally manages to find a can of soup and dusts out a pot to heat it up. There's a weird smell coming from the refrigerator, so Arthur cleans that out too, and collects all the dishes around the living room and washes those while Merlin snores on the couch. He even manages to water half the plants before Merlin blinks himself awake and smiles in a way that makes Arthur's stomach try a strange escape out of his mouth. "This is nice," Merlin whispers.
"What, being sick?"
"Having you wait on me for a change."
"Don't get used to it," Arthur says shortly. "I know I've got about a billion voicemails to get to and I can't access any of them. I need you back."
"Yeah, I'm working on it," Merlin says, and then hacks out a cough. "Do I smell chicken noodle soup?"
"Yeah," Arthur says, embarrassed. "My nanny used to always say it was the best thing when you're sick."
Merlin looks bemused, like he's got a smart retort, but he manages to bite his tongue and instead ask, very politely, "Would you mind terribly bringing me some?"
"Needy, needy, needy," Arthur sighs, but he dutifully brings Merlin a bowl and spoon, and refills his watering can while he's in there so he can finish the plants, Merlin's eyes on him the entire time.
"You're being very nice to me," Merlin says suspiciously, setting aside his mostly-finished bowl. "Too nice."
"You're sick," Arthur shrugs. "And maybe I'm a nice guy."
"Don't you think you can try to pull a fast one on me," Merlin's voice is already fading fast, but he's shivering, so Arthur pulls up another blanket, this one a fleece in Manchester United colors, (This probably causes him ACTUAL PHYSICAL PAIN, being an Arsenal fan, but that's how much he loves Merlin.) and tucks it under his chin.
"You going to be able to take care of yourself this weekend?" He asks gently. "I need you on Monday, healthy or not."
"Yeah," Merlin sighs, getting comfortable under his blankets. "Will's due back tomorrow afternoon. You can let yourself out, right?"
"Of course," Arthur says softly. He waits until Merlin's fallen back asleep to take his bowl back, wash out the remains of the soup, and put the leftover in the refrigerator. He feels wrong, leaving Merlin alone for the night, but Merlin's all but dismissed him. There isn't anything Arthur can do but put the phone next to Merlin's hand, lax in sleep, and then scrawl out a note - CALL IF YOU NEED SOMETHING! OR ELSE! ARTHUR. Still, when he bends down to place the note, he feels guilty leaving. He's pretty sure this counts under law as abandonment, or at least criminal neglect. There's a fine sheen of sweat on Merlin's forehead, and when Arthur gently wipes it off, it pops back up again, making his bangs stick down. Arthur tries to brush Merlin's bangs up so they won't bother him, but the touch makes Merlin stir under his hand, restless, brows drawn together as he murmurs to himself. He doesn't still until Arthur keeps petting him like a dog, muttering shut up shut up shut up, but as soothingly as possible.
"You're difficult," he tells Merlin when he finally calms. "And quite probably not worth all this effort."
Merlin doesn't say anything.
"I'm not in love with you, though," Arthur says stubbornly. "Just to clarify. I don't know what Gwen's been telling you." (Oh, Arthur.)
Merlin snores a little.
"I just miss you, is all." Arthur sweeps his thumb across Merlin's brow, dry now but still furrowed in thoughtful sleep. "There's nothing wrong with that. You're useful, in your own way."
Merlin's still silent, and it suddenly strikes Arthur that he's crouching there like an idiot fondling his assistant's fevered face, probably catching his flu germs, and carrying on a one-sided conversation with him. (COMING THIS SUMMER - CROUCHING ARTHUR, FEVERED ASSISTANT.
Oh my god, my sense of humor needs to be taken out back and shot.)
"Well, buck up then," Arthur says bracingly, retracting his hand as if it's been burned, and then closing the door softly behind him.
- - -
Arthur makes it a rule to agree to every date his father sets up for him. It's easier to do that and then find some flaw or reason than to outright refuse him, after all. It's not like Uther ever chooses someone unattractive - that would be beneath him. No, the women his father sets Arthur up with are all very good looking, very conservative, and very rich, though never because they have worked a day in their life.
Charlotte didn't believe in tipping waiters or waitresses because "they chose to have a bad job" (My apologies to Charlotte/social_retard86. She gave me so much help and unlike Jenn, who got a really awesome cameo, she inadvertently got a terrible cameo. THIS DOES NOT MEAN I DON'T LOVE HER) and she didn't understand why their salary wasn't enough. Harriet wanted to know why he only drove a Toyota if he was such a supposedly influential man. Jemma had been told that Arthur used to date Gwen, and spent the entire dinner dissecting her middle-class accent. Dessert was spent crowing over Arthur's unfortunate slip-up in mentioning that while he and Gwen had met at Oxford, she'd spent all her schooling before that in public schools. Lettie just stared at him, large-eyed and nearly unblinking, and had no opinion on anything except what colors she wanted to paint the nurseries of her future children.
(I spent a long, long time trying to figure British snobbery. It is very, very different from how Americans view snobs. (Or, as British people call it, "being rah". I think? I still find myself bewildered by this.) To Americans, being snobby usually involves being super culturally/racially/ethnically offensive, and the relative age of your money makes no difference. Americans also tend to be very superficial snobs. They don't go digging around to know exactly how rich someone is so long as they look and act rich. (Or at least, not poor.) There's none of this British fixation on family history, on how old or new your money is or where it came from (and if it -gasp! - came from working). In fact, Americans look down on people who just inherit money instead of earning it. It goes against our very national ideal.
Furthermore, the idea that if you SOUND or LOOK like you don't come from old money/education, apparently, in British eyes, is enough to make you have troubles if you want to achieve some sort of high position, like, say, a politician. In America, unless you're, say, a newscaster, your accent is sort of viewed as an endearing touchpoint, a way to identify kin. Politicians actually fake or exaggerate drawls to make them appear more "folksy". When I told this to my Britpickers, they were completely befuddled by this idea.
Oh, cultural differences. You are endlessly fascinating.)
The latest girl that's been foisted on Arthur is Vivian Alined. She's self-involved, materialistic, shrill, and generally offensive to anyone who hasn't been ostentatiously wealthy for at least three generations. She doesn't give a toss for politics except to bat her eyes and say "well, I agree with father" - meaning, of course, MP Alined, who petitions to drop nuclear weapons on various countries on a near weekly basis. Arthur's pretty sure if nuclear bombs could be better contained, he'd advocate to drop them on the poorer parts of London, too.
Arthur isn't sure, then, why three months later he's still dating her, except that it's easy. He hasn't done anything his father's approved of for so long he's forgotten how good it feels to just get a pass for once, to be able to answer a few quick questions about continuing to see Vivian and family dinners and then have the luxury of ignoring whatever new full-scale assault Uther and Morgana are engaged in. He shamefully sought his father's approving eyes when he mentioned taking Vivian to the theatre or a new fancy restaurant, longed for a heavy hand of approval on his shoulder while carefully avoiding Morgana's glares. It felt nice. There was no shame in taking refuge in that.
"You're a coward," Morgana scoffs when they get outside, tugging her green wool coat tightly to her against the chill winter air. (For some reason, Morgana's green wool coat seemed to tug at people's fancy a lot. I'm not sure why, but I'm glad you all liked it.)
"For what?" Arthur asks. "Choosing not to get involved in another political fight? Because I do that at work, thank you, and I've no desire to get into another one when just listening already gives me a headache."
Morgana rolls her eyes. "I meant about Vivian, you giant arse."
"We've only been on a few dates, Morgana. It's nothing to get in a twist over."
"But you're seeing her again." It's not a question.
"I see no reason not to," Arthur says slowly.
"I imagine you spend lots of time talking about your common interests," Morgana says airily. "What were they, again?"
"You're acting like it's a crime to date someone long enough to get my father off my back," Arthur gripes.
"Please," Morgana says. "The only crime I see here is you buying into your father's ridiculous bit about love being some sort of political liability."
"Christ, it's a few dates. No one's in love."
"And isn't that a convenient system to keep it that way," Morgana goes on airily, and Arthur is re-visited by the childish, often-present urge to kick her shins or yank her hair. "Only go out with bints you could never possibly have any sort of feelings for, all the while acting like it's not your fault you'll be single and alone forever, when really all you'd ever have to do to make yourself happy..."
"What the fuck do you know about my happiness?" Arthur snaps. "What do any of you know?"
Morgana raises one terrifyingly perfect eyebrow. "Any of us?"
"You and Gwen are worse than any mother in the world," Arthur says bitterly. "Hounding me about my love life, about Mer-" he cuts himself off at Morgana's too-interested reporter expression. "No. No. I'm not doing this with you too."
"I didn't say anything," Morgana says serenely. "But it is interesting that you thought of Merlin when we were discussing something completely unrelated to him, don't you agree?"
"I only did because Gwen's got this ridiculous notion in her head." Arthur crosses his arms before realizing how defensive that looks, and then awkwardly stuffs his hands back in his pockets. "You're a bunch of matchmaking harpies, is what you are, seeing things that aren't there."
"We are terrible people," Morgana agrees sarcastically. "Trying to see to your happiness. Unforgivable, really."
"This has nothing to do with my happiness!" Arthur hisses. He would yell, but his father would probably send someone out to see to the noise. "If you really cared about my happiness, you'd realize Merlin has nothing to do with it and leave me alone!"
"Oh, Arthur," Morgana sighs in her most pitying tone. "You can't really believe that."
"Watch me," Arthur snarls, and stalks off before Morgana can utter another word.
(This was actually the last section I wrote in this story, and then I finished it and went "... is this done? Oh my god. I think I'm done."
Here is a sad story - for Valentine's day, my mom got me a bunch of truffles. I had most of them at the time, but I saved the chocolate peppermint one (my favorite) and said "no, I'm not going to eat this until I finish the story", thinking that it would only be, oh, a week. And then I ended up eating it in mid-May.
Oh, my life.)
- - -
Part the Fourth
Arthur does not find these very strange cat pictures funny. (I'm with Arthur on this one. Cats and macros I don't get. PEOPLE macros, however, crack me the fuck up.)
"There is a cat in the ceiling," Arthur says slowly, attempting to understand the latest one. "His name is Ceiling Cat."
"Yes," Merlin nods enthusiastically.
"And you find him... funny."
"He's symbolic. For God, you see."
"And the fact that he is watching me..."
"...is supposed to be funny, yes," Merlin says. "That's why I sent it to you. Because you like cats."
"But cats don't speak English," Arthur says. "Not, mind you, that this nonsense the cat's supposed to be saying is the Queen's bloody English, this is... for Christ's sake, Merlin, don't you have a degree in this garbage? I'm offended on behalf of the years and years of schooling you are apparently flushing down the toilet."
Merlin opens his mouth and Arthur raises his hand up to stop him.
"If you ask me if you 'can has' this year's immigration numbers, you're fired," he says before he hands over the folder. Merlin takes it with a roll of his eyes.
"Develop a sense of humor!" He shouts as he leaves the office.
"Do your job!" Arthur suggests, and dials up his counterpart at the Conservative party to yell at him about human decency, what you don't fucking say to the press, and the various inhuman acts he plans on performing on his mother. It's a wholly satisfying conversation that puts Arthur in a good mood right through lunchtime and into the early afternoon, until his e-mail pings with a message from Merlin with the subject "!!!URGENT RE: YOUR SENSE OF HUMOR!!!" The entire body is You're welcome. -M and a link to a comic with a graph showing that comments said in close proximinty to a cat become increasingly inanae. Arthur puzzles over it for a very long time before being forced to conclude:
a) the comic itself is inane, and,
b) Merlin is not utilizing his time properly.
"Merlin," he says, stomping to his assistant's desk, which is a testament to Merlin's extreme disorganization and oddity. Including the goldfish bowl, Merlin's desk contains a few day's worth of food wrappers, his battered iPod, piles of folders and books Merlin finished but forgot to take home, three action figures of Merlin's literary heroes (Shakespeare, Oscar Wilde, and Jane Austen, which Merlin has pointed out to Arthur are also all British, thus appropriate for the office as they display his national pride), a framed photograph of Merlin standing with his arm around his mother, the latest book Merlin's been reading furtively when he thinks Arthur isn't looking, and a cup full of the weird kind of pens that only Merlin likes to use because he's fond of the texturized grip. The cubicle walls around his desk that block Merlin from the other mindless department drones are full of tacked-on crooked pictures of him and Will mugging the camera, a few of Merlin smiling awkwardly with famous people who toured 10 Downing, and the weird web comics Merlin likes so much with the ugly scribbled famous authors like the Yeats or Kirkegard saying pretentious things Arthur doesn't understand. (In case you're curious, the exact comics of Kate Beaton Merlin has printed out are this one (AHAHHA LORD BYRON), this one (poor Yeats, he's printed out and on my bulletin board), this one, and this one. (BRONTES! SO TRUE!)) "Merlin, what have I told you about sending me frivolous e-mails?"
Merlin looks up from his lukewarm cup of tea he's still nursing from that morning with eyes that would melt butter. "They're delightful and brighten your day?"
"No." Arthur says emphatically, punctuating the statement with his hand slammed down on Merlin's desk for good measure.
"Well, you were cooing inanely at Sophia," Merlin points out.
"I was drugged! You drugged me!" Arthur shouts this loud enough that Gwen's head pokes out of her office.
"Boys," she says severely, "what have I told you about slipping each other sedatives?"
"He did it!" Arthur says, pointing at Merlin. "I'm innocent! He plied me with antihistamines and gave me a cat!"
"Oh, you're welcome for that!" Merlin scoffs. "You certainly didn't sound like you minded." He puts on his imitation-Arthur voice, which is very nasal and swotty sounding, like Arthur should be adjusting his spats at Eton. Never mind that Arthur went to Eton, he never wore spats there, no matter what Merlin thinks. "Oh, Sophia," he says as Arthur, "who's a perfect kitty girl? You are! Yes you are just the prettiest kitty kitty kitty cat!"
"I did not say that!" Arthur yelps. Gwen's mouth is twitching frantically, and damn her, she knows how he feels about cats, which means she knows that Merlin's probably not lying. Gwen never understood Arthur's deep and meaningful bond with cats - she's always been a dog person. It's one of the many reasons Arthur counts as evidence that it's good they broke up when they did before they made a truly terrible decision like getting married to each other. "Also, you drugged me and then sent me a mocking comic!"
"Remember, Arthur," Gwen soothes, "sticks and stones may break your bones, but words can never hurt you."
"I think the nature of our job suggests otherwise," Merlin mutters, and Arthur shoots both him and Gwen venomous looks.
"Everyone in this department is fired," he snarls, and stomps back into his office. But he does spends a good hour that afternoon going through the stupid comic out of perverse curiosity, just so he can hit the reply button and send one to send back to Merlin.
I'll have you know my sense of humor is excellent. He writes in the body, and then after a few moments of thought he adds Hah hah. Bite me. Five minutes after he presses send, he hears Merlin's laughter, bright and unexpected through the door. And when he leaves for the night, he notices that Merlin's printed the comic out and tacked it up, and then outlined in bright green so it stands out from all the rest.
- - -
Technically, Arthur's in charge of scheduling the journalism students that will occasionally tour through his department like a descending plague of locusts. By "in charge" he means "he signs off on the slips of paper", but he doesn't really have a say. The woman in charge of these things is named Kay, and she's old enough to be his mother and then some, has a bit of an older-woman mustache, and is one of those people who is terrifyingly kind yet always seems to give off the distinct impression that if they ever snapped, they would kill you in cold blood without a second thought. Arthur thereby signs off on everything she sends his way and makes sure he doesn't know the particulars. Unfortunately, this strategy is what leads to him and Merlin sitting awkwardly on his desk facing about twenty dewy-eyed journalism students.
Well, fuck.
"I really need to start listening when you brief me about my day," Arthur mutters out of the corner of his mouth to Merlin.
"So what, you can run away and leave me to deal with this on my own?" Merlin mutters back.
"Alright," Arthur claps his hands and attempts to smile brightly at the students instead of answering. "I'm Arthur Pendragon, I run this joint, and this is my assistant Merlin Emrys. And that's really his name, to answer your first question. So, what've you got to ask us?"
A lot of them have boring questions - how do you deal with the long hours, what are the worst mistakes journalists can make, did Arthur and Merlin always want to do this when they were kids? They've answered these questions more or less on the fly so many times that Arthur and Merlin have developed a seamless running dialogue they can start up at a moment's notice about their job, and it never fails to amaze Arthur that when they do, Merlin's actually quite charming. Normally, he thinks of Merlin as a bit of a bumbling idiot, but when Merlin really gets into philosophizing about the nature and importance of a free press with his eyes alight and his hands making fantastical shapes in the air (all while, somehow, managing to be obliquely insulting to Arthur), he's perhaps a little magnificent. At least when Arthur catches some of the girls (and there are always a few) gazing adoringly at Merlin, he understands and doesn't feel the need to check if they're concussed. If they knew Merlin like Arthur knew Merlin, though... Well, it would be a different story. Hell, they didn't even have to really know him, they just had to see Merlin drunk once, and all future attraction would be killed immediately. (And yet...)
"Yes, you," Arthur calls on one of the girls who at least had the decency and good sense to be ogling him, "you had a question?"
"Hi," the girl says, a bit breathless. "I'm Jennifer. But you can call me Jenn. That's with two n's." (Hey there, hermette cameo!) Next to him, Merlin makes a choking noise and Arthur's forced to kick his shin, hard.
"Very well, Jenn," he says politely. "What was your question?"
"Well," Jenn simpers a little. "You and Mr. Emrys, I mean, clearly you're a great boss, since you and he are so close, and Mr. Emrys gets to do so much hands-on work with you. I was just wondering if that's normal, if we're going to be as close with our bosses as Mr. Emrys is with you."
"Um," Arthur says vaguely. The question is semi-innocent, he knows.The girl was trying to flatter him and perhaps butter him up enough to ask for her number. She certainly didn't mean to make it sound like he and his assistant... well. It wasn't even worth thinking about. "I... that is..." He feels the brush of Merlin's fingers against where his hand is resting on the desk, like he's trying to offer comfort, but Merlin recoils and places his hand next to Arthur's instead under Arthur's glance. His pinky brushing against the side of Arthur's hand is an itch, somehow worse than if Merlin had actually covered Arthur's hand with his own.
"It's both luck and circumstance," Merlin says smoothly, betraying no emotion. "Arthur's a great boss and we get on well, it's true, but anyone you work with for as many hours as Arthur and I work together is bound to come to a sort of... understanding with you. Being close is a bit inevitable."
The question and answer session wraps up soon after that and Arthur has a full day's work ahead of him after it, so he puts his head down and just does it, but he has a sick, churning feeling in his gut all day.
"That was a good answer," Arthur says to Merlin when he comes in to give Arthur the last papers of the day before he heads back to his flat. "With the student earlier today I mean. Good quick thinking."
"Yeah well," Merlin avoids his eyes. "Someone had to."
"But, uh," Arthur clears his throat. "I think that even if we didn't work together... that is. I mean, I know you won't work for me forever and I'd... We're mates, right? After a fashion?"
Merlin snorts. "That's one word for it." He gives Arthur a small smile. "I'll see you tomorrow, okay?"
Arthur nods, but before Merlin can leave, he twists up all his courage and says, "I should have said, when she asked that question..." Merlin turns around and looks at him. "I mean," Arthur goes on doggedly, "what I should have said is that you do so much work with me because without you... I couldn't do what I do. Without you."
"Like, at work, right?" Merlin sounds a little odd. Is he coming down with a cold?
"Yeah, of course," Arthur says. "What else would I mean?" (Assfucking.)
"Nothing," Merlin gives Arthur one of his sad, unreadable looks that Arthur never understands, but never fails to make him feel deeply ashamed, like he's done something terribly wrong, if only he knew what the hell it was. (Don't worry, Arthur, I hear this is a common ailment among the menfolk.)
"Good night, Arthur."
"Good night," Arthur says. He feels like something important just happened, like Merlin just told him something he should know. But, for all that his job is in communications, when Merlin sends him these coded messages, he can never quite understand what's just out of his reach.
- - -
"No comment," Arthur says flatly when Morgana knocks on his door.
"I'm not here for that," Morgana says. "I just dropped by to give Merlin the key to my flat, so I thought I'd say hello."
Arthur looks up sharply. "Why would Merlin need the keys to your flat?" Are Merlin and Morgana having some sort of affair he's missed out on? How does Merlin have time to have an affair? Or Morgana, for that matter? He can picture it horribly vividly, all pale skin and dark hair and Merlin's hands going down, down... (This is my second fic in which I have used either Colin/Katie or their characters as a plot device to make Bradley/Arthur jealous. This may become my new trope, like wrists. Or adverb abuse. Look, it's not my fault they're both very attractive Irish people.)
"God, no, not that," Morgana laughs. "Merlin's far too young for me."
"He's fucking 28, not a child," Arthur snaps, typing a bit more vehemently than he needs to for a brief on Gaius' stance on strengthening the British electricity grid. "I think at the ripe old age of 32 you can lower yourself..."
"You're defensive," Morgana snorts. "I'm going to China for that story I've been talking about for ages on carbon emissions. Merlin's looking after my cats."
"One, China having high carbon emissions is the farthest thing from news I can think of," Arthur says. "While you're there, I hear the sky is blue and the earth revolves around the sun. You should get on that."
"The sky's not blue if they're cloud seeding..."
"...and two," Arthur plows over her neatly, recognizing the beginning of an environmental rant when he hears one, "why is Merlin watching your cats? I thought I usually did that."
"I know who really fed them when I was in Chernobyl," Morgana tosses a sheet of shiny black hair over her shoulder, and Arthur pouted. He'd really wanted to take care of the cats, he'd tried a new medicine and everything, just like every time Morgana went away. But, just like the time before, Arthur's eyes watered so thoroughly the second he stepped into Morgana's flat that he couldn't even see where to scoop the litter. It wasn't like Merlin minded, anyway. "Thought I'd eliminate the middleman, since you're allergic anyway. They're good judges of character, you know."
"They scratch me to hell," Arthur complains. This may be because he's stepped on their tails while nearly blind one too many times, he isn't really sure. He just knows there was yowling.
"I rest my case." Morgana sits down in the visitor's chair that Arthur usually purposefully keeps filled with file folders so no one stays to chat, but he'd had a meeting with the Queen's Press Director earlier that morning and hadn't had a chance to fill it up with his crap yet. "You didn't tell me you had a hot new speechwriter."
"Who, Lance?" Arthur asks, glancing up at her. She would find him attractive. Everyone with a pulse who wasn't Arthur, it seemed, did. "Yeah, he's really good at the inspirational stuff."
"Where did you find him, a modeling agency?"
Arthur shrugs. "No idea, he's just been working his way through the Labour Party writing speeches. Co-wrote Alvarr's speech in favor of nuclear non-proliferation and drone attacks on Pakistan. The non-proliferation parts, anyway. Made Alvarr sound like less of a bloodthirsty bastard. Gaius really liked his work and asked me to get him to sign on."
"That was a good speech," Morgana says thoughtfully, looking out the perpetual gap in Arthur's door to where Gwen is perched on Lance's desk. "You should keep him around, even though he's in love with Gwen."
"What?" Arthur says, actually closing his laptop for such a serious accusation. Morgana and Gwen had always seemed to get on almost eerily well, better than even Gwen and Arthur had at times (another thing that should have been a warning sign), and Morgana had taken their breakup with a philosophical shrug and a "well, she was too good for you, anyway", and ever since has bemoaned Arthur's inability to date someone she likes even remotely as much. (For the record, Morgana approves heartily of Merlin and Arthur and forms an utterly unholy alliance with Merlin and Arthur weeps silently into his tea. In case you were curious.)
"Look, Morgana," he says, "I'd appreciate if you didn't come in and just start shit to mess with me. I've got quite enough to do this week."
"See, this exactly, this is why I don't trust you with my cats," Morgana says, getting up. "You're too stupid to be allowed anywhere near them."
Arthur snorts. He highly doubts stupidity has anything to do with it. More likely, Nimueh and Mordred are as evil as their namesakes and have performed black magic upon Morgana, which is only unnoticeable because she was so evil to begin with. "I hope your plane crashes in China and goes up in flames and you die." Arthur says bitterly.
Morgana chuckles and leans over to brush a kiss against his cheek. "I'll miss you too, Arthur."
Of course Morgana's right, she's always fucking right. Arthur can't believe he missed how Lance looks at Gwen, tunes into every press briefing with his chin in his hands and hearts practically leaping out of his eyes. He brings her tea and coffee every day, visits her office constantly to talk or joke or sometimes even pretend he needs to work alongside her. It would be pathetic if Gwen didn't seem to enjoy it so much, or flirt back in her own, quiet, Gwen-ish way that Arthur recognized with a sudden clang of deja vu, like he was back in uni watching her and a much darker version of himself dance around each other all over again.
"So... Lance," Arthur says awkwardly to her one day after work when they're getting drinks at the pub around the corner. Gwen goes out every Friday for a bit of a wind-down, and there's always an unspoken open invitation to join her, but Arthur usually tries to avoid human interaction on the rare chance he gets the luxury to just be alone for once. This, however, is a matter that takes precedence.
Gwen blushes into her wine. "What about him?"
"You seem interested," Arthur shrugs and takes a sip of his scotch. Gwen just narrows her eyes at him.
"You don't get to do this, this," she waves her hand vaguely. "This nosing into my romantic life business."
"I think as your ex I do," Arthur shrugs. "And I think both your boss and his..."
"...ah," Gwen smiles. "The real reason."
"It's a valid reason!" Arthur says hotly. "You're the press secretary to the prime minister, Gwen, you can't go... philandering with a co-worker when you're in politics!"
"Maybe I won't be in politics forever," Gwen says. "I never planned on it, you know, I only got this job because of your recommendation to Gaius."
"But you're in it now, and it looks..."
"Arthur," Gwen says sharply, and Arthur's reminded of what ten years ago he'd found so entrancing about her, the edge of steel under all that comfort and softness. "This isn't America, it's England, and unless I'm mucking about with a duck house and a moat on expenses, no one cares. There are husband-wife teams in Parliament, and I'm not saying I'm going to marry Lance, but if maybe you could unclench around that massive stick your father's shoved up your arse, the world would be a better place." (TIME FOR A LULZ, ENGLAND BREAK. Gosh, one of the things I adored about British politics in the research of this fic is how cool they are. Married people in politics? Fine. Gay people in high office? Okey dokey. And as an American I find it unbearably adorable that their version of scandal is someone embezzling money to clean his moats. HIS MOATS. Our scandals involve prostitution rings of various sexual orientations, borderline pedophilia of the gay variety, lobbyist buy-outs, and snorting coke off toasters. Whenever I'd tell thisissirius or social_retard86 about American political scandals, they would be like "are you sure you're not stealing that from the plot of a movie????"
No, no I'm not. It's part of what makes our country the great place it is today.)
"I do not have a stick up my arse!" Arthur protests.
"Come off it," Gwen scoffs, rolling her eyes. "If that were true, you and Merlin would be at it like bunnies already. You're clearly besotted with him. Instead, you're uptight and miserable, and now you're trying to make everyone else miserable."
Arthur forgot he doesn't like Gwen when she's got a little wine in her. She becomes irritatingly direct and almost Morgana-like, and Arthur just hopes she never goes to get drinks with curious journalists. "I do not," he says, slowly and carefully, "have romantic or inappropriate feelings for Merlin."
"There's nothing inappropriate about having feelings for Merlin," Gwen sighs, "I just wish you'd let yourself be happy for a change."
"I am happy," Arthur insists.
"But if you were with Merlin..."
"...my political career would be over," Arthur finishes. "It's damning enough to date inter-departmentally, but sure, let's add gay on top of it, see how that goes." (Not that Arthur's thought about this, or anything.)
"Again, what do you think this is, America?" Gwen laughs. " People don't pay that close attention to their government. I'm the Press Secretary, I come to this bar a block away from 10 Downing every Friday, and no one pays a jot of attention to me. Unless you're performing sexual acts with Merlin on The X Factor, no one gives a damn. Ah!" She points at him and gives a slightly tipsy giggle. "You're blushing. You do love him."
"I," Arthur sniffs, "have only had one scotch, and therefore I have that sense of propriety you lost two glasses of wine ago."
"You stare at him all the time," Gwen goes on mercilessly, "hate that Alexander fellow, or anyone who pays attention to him, you two have those deep, innuendo-laden silences where you speak only with your eyes and it's like something out of a Mills and Boon novel..." (Eyebrows, Gwen, they speak with their eyebrows. That's totally less gay, right?)
"Gwen..."
"Arthur," Gwen says, covering his hand. "Please."
Arthur swallows the rest of his scotch and is silent for a long time.
"It isn't..." He says finally. "I mean, I've had... thoughts. But they're nothing... It's not worth... I mean of course I would, I see him every day, he isn't terrible looking..."
"And what if he was worth it?" Gwen asks softly, eyes intent on Arthur's face. "Just imagine if he was."
Arthur closes his eyes and turns his head away. There was that one time, that one dream, maybe a year and a half ago, the one he couldn't quite forget that's coming back to him under Gwen's not-so-gentle prodding. For a week, he'd watched Merlin go on dates with Freya and let himself think that maybe it could change, maybe it was worth it, maybe if he could just make a move... but that was a stupid week. A stupid, selfish, childish thought that had ran away with itself. If Gwen thought he wasn't happy, maybe the reason was because he'd never really let that thought go. And starting Monday, he would. Come Monday he'd walk in and steel himself completely against Merlin's big, blue eyes and dimpled smile and not be so soft on every one of Merlin's whims, spoken or unspoken. (There were a of times during this fic where I would pause writing or type in "OH, ARTHUR DDD:" in parenthesis. This was one of those times.)
"Arthur?" Gwen repeats. "Was that out of line? I'm sorry, I'm tipsy and it was terribly..."
"No," Arthur shakes his head, smiling at her. "I'm just tired. I'm going to head home."
"Arthur," Gwen says as he pulls on his coat, "will you do me a favor and think about it?"
"Sure," Arthur lies. "No, of course."
(I actually worried a lot that this was totally out of character for Gwen, but I really needed her to be the one saying these things to Arthur, so I did a Jamie Foxx and blamed it on the a-a-a-a-a-alcohol.
My hip references are the reason I'm so popular, guys.)
- - -
(This is one of my favorite bits of early Josh/Donna that I lifted out of The West Wing. A book about skis!)
For Christmas, as always, Merlin wants a magic kit. Never mind that it's not an appropriate sort of gift for a boss to give his assistant (Arthur's father always gave his secretaries bouquets or potted poinsetta or something), he wants one, and he's wanted one the first two Christmases he worked for Arthur, and pretty much since he was eight before he even knew Arthur, and he's gotten it in his head that one day, Arthur will give in and get him one.
"I don't want Gwen to, because she already gives me her tin of Christmas fudge," Merlin tells Arthur, trailing him like a puppy no matter how Arthur tries to lose him. "And I look forward all year to that Christmas fudge. And I think Lance thought I was kidding, and Gaius is too busy to get presents for anyone."
"So ask your mother for one," Arthur says absently, looking over Gaius' charitable holiday schedule, trying to make sure he's appearing everywhere he's supposed to, which is a bit difficult with Merlin hovering about.
"Mum only named me Merlin because that's what my dad wanted before he died," Merlin says, stuffing envelopes as he chatters. "She wanted to name me something sensible like Tom, or James, or Colin, or Dave, or..." (In modern AUs I always feel I must explain why Merlin is named Merlin. Also, she wanted to name him Colin. I spent an unhealthy amount of time giggling to myself over that, and it's not even that funny. And by that I mean, it's not funny to people who, unlike me, have senses of humor.)
"The point, please, Merlin," Arthur interrupts. This could go on for a while.
"The point is, she didn't want me becoming a magician and getting teased that much more, and now she won't get me a magic kit because she says I'm too old, and it's what I really want, Arthur, it's what would bring me Christmas joy. Since you make my life miserable all year round, I think you owe me some joy."
"I make your life a delight," Arthur insists vaguely. Fuck, forgot to make sure Gaius visits impoverished, ill, bald children, that won't do.
"You're right, of course," Merlin says. "While my mum and I scrimped and saved for me to get to uni, while I was working my arse off studying motifs in Russian literature, I was thinking to myself, 'thank god I'm getting this education, it will serve me really well when I achieve my life calling to be Arthur Pendragon's lackey.'"
"And don't you forget it!" Arthur calls after Merlin's righteous flounce out of his office. "I want my tea early today, and it better have the numbers on annual job losses with it!"
Thanks to Merlin's needling, Arthur does spend an uncomfortable amount of time considering his Christmas present instead of going with another very sensible fountain pen for the third year in a row,(Merlin, for the record, never writes with those fountain pens and keeps them in a special drawer at home, even though he also sort of hates them.) standing in various stores and weighing things in his hands. On one hand, Merlin should get what he wants - it is Christmas, after all, and if Merlin wants to tap hats and make things disappear, who's Arthur to stand in his way? On the other hand, it's a fairly ridiculous wish of Merlin's, and Arthur is patently against encouraging Merlin to be even more ridiculous than he already is.
When December 23rd comes around, Gwen hands out her annual Christmas chocolate that is just as divine as Arthur remembered, and Lance hands out Amazon.com giftcards with a shrug.
"Didn't have time for something personal, trying to come up with all the Christmas speeches," he says sheepishly, and Gwen and Merlin both hurry to assure him that's quite alright, cooing over him as if £25 is the greatest gift they could ever receive. Then again, Arthur wasn't so stupid he didn't catch Lance in Gwen's office earlier, shyly handing her a package of that expensive French-milled lavender soap Arthur knows she's so fond of but never can quite justify spending money on. But then again, after the pub he also hadn't be stupid enough to stick his nose in Gwen's personal life ever again.
Merlin gets them all cashmere scarves, and fusses over Arthur's particularly horribly, trying to get it to lay just right.
"I am capable of putting on a scarf myself, you know," he says crossly to Merlin, who seems fixated on how the crimson lays against the navy of Arthur's coat. (Also, he wants an excuse to grope Arthur shamelessly. Do we blame him? No. No we don't.)
"Arthur, I'm enjoying how nice my gift is," Merlin says absently, tugging it looser around Arthur's neck a little so his fingers brush the sensitive, shivery spot there. (Non-accidental.) "Please stop ruining my Christmas joy."
"If you don't stop, I can't give you your present," Arthur wheedles, holding up the package and shaking it enticingly. Merlin glares at it narrowly.
"If it's another fountain pen..."
"Just open it," Arthur says, shoving it in Merlin's hands. Greedily, Merlin rips open the paper, and then looks at his present thoughtfully.
"It's an old book," he says, voice carefully polite.
"I found it while I was looking for a gift for my father," Arthur says awkwardly. "It's a fairly famous grimoire - that's a spell-book, by the way, called The Key of Solomon. (This is a real grimoire - I spent an embarrassingly long time trying to decide which one to use.) The owner told me it was a Renaissance text, but this is from the turn of the century edition, when there was an interest in magic because of the romantic movement. (Though I didn't check to see if it was being re-published around the turn of the century. Come on. Even my dork has its limits.) Original binding."
"Wouldn't want it to be un-original binding," Merlin says. His voice sounds strange.
"There's a note." Merlin opens the cover and mouths to himself the words Arthur had spent hours agonizing over and has probably memorized by now.
(Merlin,
I know it's not the kit you wanted, but I think you can do some real damage with this. Already magical to me - no one can brew a pot like you. Please, no demons, dealing with you in the morning is punishment enough.
All my best, Arthur)
"Arthur," Merlin sounds suspiciously choked up and his eyes are a little glassy when he looks up. "Oh, Arthur..."
"There's no need to get emotional," Arthur says gruffly, stuffing his hands in his pockets. "It's really... I just..."
"See you do things like this," Merlin interrupts, "every so often there's something like this, and then it's hard to remember you're you and I just..." He trails off, overwhelmed, and then launches himself at Arthur, pulling him in for a long hug. Arthur's never been a fan of hugs, they're uncomfortable, claustrophobic affairs, in his experience. But there's something nice about Merlin hugging him, something that makes him feel a little warm inside and treasured, proud of his gift and his note and comforted by Merlin's smell of sweat and tea and Gwen's fudge and old paper. Almost Christmas-y, even. Enough to make him take his hands out of his pockets and hug Merlin back.
"It would have killed you to get a magic kit, wouldn't it?" Merlin mutters into one of Arthur's shoulders.
"Yeah," Arthur says. "Yeah, it really would have."
- - -
When Merlin seems down at the beginning of January, Arthur, naturally, assumes that it's post-holiday depression like everyone else, and that the best way to deal with this is to keep busy. Merlin doesn't seem to agree, getting mopier and mopier until that Friday, when he doesn't come into work at all.
"He has the flu, Arthur," Gwen says pityingly, "you were working him to the bone and now he's too sick to come in today."
"I thought he was depressed after the holidays like a normal person!" Arthur says, flailing a little desperately. "He didn't say anything! How was I supposed to know he wasn't coming in today?"
"You could check your voicemail?" Gwen suggests.
"You know I can't work the voicemail system without Merlin," (This is another trait I have in common with Arthur. Voicemail systems and extensions confuse the fuck out of me.) Arthur moans, burying his face in his hands. "Fuck, this is such a disaster."
The entire day is a wash. Arthur wastes a half an hour and then scalds himself trying to make his own tea and coffee, he can't find any of the files or information he needs, and it's heinously silent without Merlin chattering away to Kilgharrah or playing his awful twee music or taking calls. Kilgharrah seems particularly depressed, refusing to come out from under his little plastic castle except to mouth morosely when Arthur feeds him before leaving for the night. (HAH HAH MY INSIDE JOKES ARE THE BEST/LAMEST.)
"Look at this fish," Arthur says to Gwen, who's wrapping herself up in the cashmere scarf she got from Merlin. "He's depressed."
"He never comes out from under his castle," Gwen says, pulling on her gloves. "It's just what he does. You up for drinks? I was going to maybe take some food from the pub to Merlin after."
"Doesn't Merlin have a roommate?" Arthur asks. He's met Will a few times, but they'd never gotten on, which Merlin claims is just because Will has a problem with authority figures. Arthur thinks Will is clearly a bad influence on Merlin.
"Will's still at home for the holidays visiting his family, do you listen at all when Merlin speaks?"
"Usually," Arthur hedges. ("Though normally I'm too busy gazing helplessly into his eyes and thinking about how lovely I think his lips are and how I want to nuzzle him and tuck him in at night and smooth down his hair and then mess it up again when we fuck....") "Look, I'll go check up on him, alright?"
He gets lost three times trying to find Merlin's flat, squinting at the paper Gwen jotted down his address on. There's no surprise that Merlin lives what's a long tube ride away in a serviceable and quiet but completely unfashionable neighborhood, the kind that seems like it would go to bed at eight sharp. Arthur gets a few choice words when he buzzes the wrong flat, but finally Merlin answers with a muzzy "Hullo?"
"Merlin, let me up," Arthur says briskly.
"Arthur?" Merlin says. He sounds hoarse. "What are you doing here?"
"Coming to make sure you don't die," Arthur says. "Also, I'm freezing. Let me up."
"Fine, fine," Arthur hears the buzz and heads up gratefully. Merlin's flat, when Arthur opens it, looks like a hurricane hit. There are discarded books and sweatshirts and stacks of dirty dishes everywhere. Arthur knew that Will was a landscaper and gardener, but he didn't expect that Merlin's entire apartment would be like a greenhouse, albeit a slightly wilted one - Merlin's probably been too sick or scatterbrained to water the near jungle of plants. Merlin is curled up under a bright blue wool blanket that Arthur would bet money his mother knit, pale except for a hectic flush across his cheeks. His eyes are glassy and he looks miserable. (Edited from Arthur's brain: also, highly fuckable. Redacted both because he feels really bad thinking that and really dirty because HELLO MERLIN IS DYING OF THE PLAGUE.)
"Hi," Merlin says miserably. "I've got the flu."
"I can see that," Arthur says awkwardly. "When do you think you'll be better? I scalded my hand today trying to make coffee. And Kilgharrah's sulking."
Merlin smiles weakly. "I'm keeping things down now," he says, picking up an empty Ritz box from the couch next to him and shaking it. "Had this and orange juice." (This is a really sad and true fact - THERE ARE NO SALTINES IN ENGLAND. I know, Americans reading this. I know. For you tragic, tragic non-Americans who don't know, these are Saltine crackers. They are magical things that you eat when your tummy is angry because they fill you up and absorb stomach acid so all that gurgling that's going on doesn't make you vomit. Your digestive system is too dry to vomit. These things are fucking magical. I'm from a suburb of Boston (BEANTOWN HOLLAAAAA!!!), which means many class trips were spent on boats in various parts of the Boston harbor or off the Cape - doing Duck Tours (again, omg I feel so sad for people who did not grow up with this sort of magic), whale watches, marine wildlife tours with the aquarium, sightseeing from the water, transport out to the nature reserves and parks on the tiny islands in the Boston harbor... Saltine crackers become your friends. Nay, not just your friends, your best friends. Every time you go on one of those things with a large group (especially if that group contains children), bring like five boxes of these bad boys, because you will be force-feeding them to at least three different kids, going "STARE AT THAT HORIZON. STARE AT THAT HORIZON. DON'T GET SEASICK. STARE AT THAT HORIZON."
But I digress from my reigonal nostalgia - the point is, I wanted Merlin to be eating Saltines, because, as someone who frequently suffers from upset stomach myself, there is nothing that works half so well as eating besides Saltine crackers. However, when I asked my Britpickers if they had Saltines (or something similar) they went "no" or "what the fuck are those things?" When I went "WELL WHAT DO YOU EAT IF YOU'RE SICK AND YOUR STOMACH IS IN A STATE OF REBELLION???" they went "...we don't."
THIS IS SO TRAGIC I CANNOT EVEN. I settled on Ritz because they were the closest, even though they're ALL WRONG because they're way too buttery to eat on an upset stomach. Effing Brits and their effing cracker deficiencies.)
"That isn't food," Arthur crisply takes off his jacket. "Tell me you have soup."
"I dunno," Merlin mumbles, sinking back into the couch, "but go ahead, make yourself at home, don't wait for my invite."
Arthur does just that, going into Merlin's postage-stamp sized kitchen and banging around until he finally manages to find a can of soup and dusts out a pot to heat it up. There's a weird smell coming from the refrigerator, so Arthur cleans that out too, and collects all the dishes around the living room and washes those while Merlin snores on the couch. He even manages to water half the plants before Merlin blinks himself awake and smiles in a way that makes Arthur's stomach try a strange escape out of his mouth. "This is nice," Merlin whispers.
"What, being sick?"
"Having you wait on me for a change."
"Don't get used to it," Arthur says shortly. "I know I've got about a billion voicemails to get to and I can't access any of them. I need you back."
"Yeah, I'm working on it," Merlin says, and then hacks out a cough. "Do I smell chicken noodle soup?"
"Yeah," Arthur says, embarrassed. "My nanny used to always say it was the best thing when you're sick."
Merlin looks bemused, like he's got a smart retort, but he manages to bite his tongue and instead ask, very politely, "Would you mind terribly bringing me some?"
"Needy, needy, needy," Arthur sighs, but he dutifully brings Merlin a bowl and spoon, and refills his watering can while he's in there so he can finish the plants, Merlin's eyes on him the entire time.
"You're being very nice to me," Merlin says suspiciously, setting aside his mostly-finished bowl. "Too nice."
"You're sick," Arthur shrugs. "And maybe I'm a nice guy."
"Don't you think you can try to pull a fast one on me," Merlin's voice is already fading fast, but he's shivering, so Arthur pulls up another blanket, this one a fleece in Manchester United colors, (This probably causes him ACTUAL PHYSICAL PAIN, being an Arsenal fan, but that's how much he loves Merlin.) and tucks it under his chin.
"You going to be able to take care of yourself this weekend?" He asks gently. "I need you on Monday, healthy or not."
"Yeah," Merlin sighs, getting comfortable under his blankets. "Will's due back tomorrow afternoon. You can let yourself out, right?"
"Of course," Arthur says softly. He waits until Merlin's fallen back asleep to take his bowl back, wash out the remains of the soup, and put the leftover in the refrigerator. He feels wrong, leaving Merlin alone for the night, but Merlin's all but dismissed him. There isn't anything Arthur can do but put the phone next to Merlin's hand, lax in sleep, and then scrawl out a note - CALL IF YOU NEED SOMETHING! OR ELSE! ARTHUR. Still, when he bends down to place the note, he feels guilty leaving. He's pretty sure this counts under law as abandonment, or at least criminal neglect. There's a fine sheen of sweat on Merlin's forehead, and when Arthur gently wipes it off, it pops back up again, making his bangs stick down. Arthur tries to brush Merlin's bangs up so they won't bother him, but the touch makes Merlin stir under his hand, restless, brows drawn together as he murmurs to himself. He doesn't still until Arthur keeps petting him like a dog, muttering shut up shut up shut up, but as soothingly as possible.
"You're difficult," he tells Merlin when he finally calms. "And quite probably not worth all this effort."
Merlin doesn't say anything.
"I'm not in love with you, though," Arthur says stubbornly. "Just to clarify. I don't know what Gwen's been telling you." (Oh, Arthur.)
Merlin snores a little.
"I just miss you, is all." Arthur sweeps his thumb across Merlin's brow, dry now but still furrowed in thoughtful sleep. "There's nothing wrong with that. You're useful, in your own way."
Merlin's still silent, and it suddenly strikes Arthur that he's crouching there like an idiot fondling his assistant's fevered face, probably catching his flu germs, and carrying on a one-sided conversation with him. (COMING THIS SUMMER - CROUCHING ARTHUR, FEVERED ASSISTANT.
Oh my god, my sense of humor needs to be taken out back and shot.)
"Well, buck up then," Arthur says bracingly, retracting his hand as if it's been burned, and then closing the door softly behind him.
- - -
Arthur makes it a rule to agree to every date his father sets up for him. It's easier to do that and then find some flaw or reason than to outright refuse him, after all. It's not like Uther ever chooses someone unattractive - that would be beneath him. No, the women his father sets Arthur up with are all very good looking, very conservative, and very rich, though never because they have worked a day in their life.
Charlotte didn't believe in tipping waiters or waitresses because "they chose to have a bad job" (My apologies to Charlotte/social_retard86. She gave me so much help and unlike Jenn, who got a really awesome cameo, she inadvertently got a terrible cameo. THIS DOES NOT MEAN I DON'T LOVE HER) and she didn't understand why their salary wasn't enough. Harriet wanted to know why he only drove a Toyota if he was such a supposedly influential man. Jemma had been told that Arthur used to date Gwen, and spent the entire dinner dissecting her middle-class accent. Dessert was spent crowing over Arthur's unfortunate slip-up in mentioning that while he and Gwen had met at Oxford, she'd spent all her schooling before that in public schools. Lettie just stared at him, large-eyed and nearly unblinking, and had no opinion on anything except what colors she wanted to paint the nurseries of her future children.
(I spent a long, long time trying to figure British snobbery. It is very, very different from how Americans view snobs. (Or, as British people call it, "being rah". I think? I still find myself bewildered by this.) To Americans, being snobby usually involves being super culturally/racially/ethnically offensive, and the relative age of your money makes no difference. Americans also tend to be very superficial snobs. They don't go digging around to know exactly how rich someone is so long as they look and act rich. (Or at least, not poor.) There's none of this British fixation on family history, on how old or new your money is or where it came from (and if it -gasp! - came from working). In fact, Americans look down on people who just inherit money instead of earning it. It goes against our very national ideal.
Furthermore, the idea that if you SOUND or LOOK like you don't come from old money/education, apparently, in British eyes, is enough to make you have troubles if you want to achieve some sort of high position, like, say, a politician. In America, unless you're, say, a newscaster, your accent is sort of viewed as an endearing touchpoint, a way to identify kin. Politicians actually fake or exaggerate drawls to make them appear more "folksy". When I told this to my Britpickers, they were completely befuddled by this idea.
Oh, cultural differences. You are endlessly fascinating.)
The latest girl that's been foisted on Arthur is Vivian Alined. She's self-involved, materialistic, shrill, and generally offensive to anyone who hasn't been ostentatiously wealthy for at least three generations. She doesn't give a toss for politics except to bat her eyes and say "well, I agree with father" - meaning, of course, MP Alined, who petitions to drop nuclear weapons on various countries on a near weekly basis. Arthur's pretty sure if nuclear bombs could be better contained, he'd advocate to drop them on the poorer parts of London, too.
Arthur isn't sure, then, why three months later he's still dating her, except that it's easy. He hasn't done anything his father's approved of for so long he's forgotten how good it feels to just get a pass for once, to be able to answer a few quick questions about continuing to see Vivian and family dinners and then have the luxury of ignoring whatever new full-scale assault Uther and Morgana are engaged in. He shamefully sought his father's approving eyes when he mentioned taking Vivian to the theatre or a new fancy restaurant, longed for a heavy hand of approval on his shoulder while carefully avoiding Morgana's glares. It felt nice. There was no shame in taking refuge in that.
"You're a coward," Morgana scoffs when they get outside, tugging her green wool coat tightly to her against the chill winter air. (For some reason, Morgana's green wool coat seemed to tug at people's fancy a lot. I'm not sure why, but I'm glad you all liked it.)
"For what?" Arthur asks. "Choosing not to get involved in another political fight? Because I do that at work, thank you, and I've no desire to get into another one when just listening already gives me a headache."
Morgana rolls her eyes. "I meant about Vivian, you giant arse."
"We've only been on a few dates, Morgana. It's nothing to get in a twist over."
"But you're seeing her again." It's not a question.
"I see no reason not to," Arthur says slowly.
"I imagine you spend lots of time talking about your common interests," Morgana says airily. "What were they, again?"
"You're acting like it's a crime to date someone long enough to get my father off my back," Arthur gripes.
"Please," Morgana says. "The only crime I see here is you buying into your father's ridiculous bit about love being some sort of political liability."
"Christ, it's a few dates. No one's in love."
"And isn't that a convenient system to keep it that way," Morgana goes on airily, and Arthur is re-visited by the childish, often-present urge to kick her shins or yank her hair. "Only go out with bints you could never possibly have any sort of feelings for, all the while acting like it's not your fault you'll be single and alone forever, when really all you'd ever have to do to make yourself happy..."
"What the fuck do you know about my happiness?" Arthur snaps. "What do any of you know?"
Morgana raises one terrifyingly perfect eyebrow. "Any of us?"
"You and Gwen are worse than any mother in the world," Arthur says bitterly. "Hounding me about my love life, about Mer-" he cuts himself off at Morgana's too-interested reporter expression. "No. No. I'm not doing this with you too."
"I didn't say anything," Morgana says serenely. "But it is interesting that you thought of Merlin when we were discussing something completely unrelated to him, don't you agree?"
"I only did because Gwen's got this ridiculous notion in her head." Arthur crosses his arms before realizing how defensive that looks, and then awkwardly stuffs his hands back in his pockets. "You're a bunch of matchmaking harpies, is what you are, seeing things that aren't there."
"We are terrible people," Morgana agrees sarcastically. "Trying to see to your happiness. Unforgivable, really."
"This has nothing to do with my happiness!" Arthur hisses. He would yell, but his father would probably send someone out to see to the noise. "If you really cared about my happiness, you'd realize Merlin has nothing to do with it and leave me alone!"
"Oh, Arthur," Morgana sighs in her most pitying tone. "You can't really believe that."
"Watch me," Arthur snarls, and stalks off before Morgana can utter another word.
(This was actually the last section I wrote in this story, and then I finished it and went "... is this done? Oh my god. I think I'm done."
Here is a sad story - for Valentine's day, my mom got me a bunch of truffles. I had most of them at the time, but I saved the chocolate peppermint one (my favorite) and said "no, I'm not going to eat this until I finish the story", thinking that it would only be, oh, a week. And then I ended up eating it in mid-May.
Oh, my life.)
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Part the Fourth