Arthur/Merlin - If You Want Closure In Your Relationship... [Part 1A]
Title: If You Want Closure in Your Relationship (start with your legs)
Chapter: Part 1A of 5
Author: tsumetaikaze
Fandom/Pairing: Merlin [Arthur/Merlin, Lance/Gwen, past Gwaine/Merlin, side Leon/Morgana, side Gwaine/Anything Willing]
Genre: Fluffy romance with a healthy dash of snarky humour, and a drop of semi-productive angst
Rating: R
Warnings: mild anxiety disorder (mostly humorous - explained in notes), waffling, too many words in general, attempts at being cultured and knowing what I’m talking about, boysecks.
Word Count: 52,000+ WHY IS IT SO LONG?
Summary: Merlin discovers he likes art but shelves a lot of strange books in between, and Arthur interrupts his down time by smiling - Merlin tries to find a way around it but it doesn’t really work out as planned, and there might be a little too much alcohol involved. Lance recites poetry along the way, maybe Morgana has a point and Gwen was right after all, and everyone knows Gaius is always right. Except when it came to the therapy. No one was right about the therapy.
Notes: THE FIC! IT’S JUST SO DAMN LONG! Google was used (repeatedly), and fun was had (hysterically). This is the painting (Pompeii la Primavera) and yes, all book titles are real. I have to say that Merlin does have a mild anxiety disorder in this, but I’ve made it in a comical light. I do not believe any form of mental or other disorders to be comical, that’s just how it worked itself into my story.
***I feel like I should explain first and foremost the symptoms of anxiety, specifically in Merlin's case within this fic. He lacks an understanding/ability to cope with change to routine, and also suffers from mild OCD with regard to such routines as well as his work within the library; he can't always understand other people socially, or has trouble seeing other points of view; he is restless and doesn't sleep well; he relies on his friends (also part of a sort of routine/association) to help him stay calm and more relaxed, and when this outlet is not available to him the problem magnifies; sometimes he can't remember things, is stressed by small issues that interrupt what he feels should happen, and can become very irritable and short-tempered (sometimes suffering twitches) because of these combined issues. Within this story I feel like Merlin is, on the whole, relatively good at coping on his own. He has his friends and he has found ways to work through his anxiety because he can usually recognise when he's getting out of hand - Arthur just messes with his head. He is still snarky, and definitely still has to have the last word. Because he's Merlin.
I hope that clears up any questions with regards to Merlin's conditions. I myself do not suffer anxiety, but I have many friends that do/have in the past. I do not claim to know everything/anything on the subject - I'm not going to lie, I'm not very good at understanding mental disorders, but I try my best, and I googled a lot - so if you want to read more then these sites were helpful to me:
- http://www.calmclinic.com/anxiety
- http://thethreeseas.rtrk.com.au/?scid=118120&kw=3897375&pub_cr_id=18558894230
- http://www.anxietycentre.com/anxiety-symptoms.shtml
OKAY? COOL COOL? COOL :D ONWARD! ***
I don’t even - this sort of just ran away from me. Really far. The therapist segment popped into my head while I was writing another (serious) story for this pairing and then I got a little bit intoxicated and did the standard ‘OH WOULDN’T IT BE GREAT IF -‘, and then I googled ridiculous book titles and this is what became of it. I apologise. Well - sort of. :D
It’s not very original, I’ll be the first to admit, and it got a little Hugh-Grant-is-a-rich-but-endearing-douche mixed with Sherlock-Holmes-is-somewhat-socially-retarded at some point there, and I cannot write long fics to save my life (or - you know - stuff that’s not dialogue) buuut what can ya do? Most of it really is just me going ‘la la la, I can type words’ with not a whole lot of sense behind them.
I took a liberty with the library situation. I read on the City of London site that all libraries were connected in some way, specialising in certain areas, so I assumed it worked almost like cross-campus university libraries and that staff were interchangeable between branches. If this isn’t the case then my bad (also wow there goes my fic), but that was just what I understood from it.
Er, also, I know nothing about art. Or London. But google does.
Thank you, and enjoy.
*~*~*
A little over two years ago, Merlin discovered something.
He liked art.
It was a rather spontaneous discovery, really. He was procrastinating the trip home from the library after his morning coffee with Gwen, hunching down into his upturned collar and squinting his eyes against the wind, feeling all a manner of sorry for himself and everything that was due for assessment in the next two weeks and feeling on the verge of an anxiety-induced breakdown that he simply didn’t have time for - and quite suddenly found himself in the downtown art gallery. After a minute or two of wild blinking, looking about and wondering how on earth he’d got there, he decided there was nothing else for it, and inconspicuously joined the tail end of a free tour run by an old man with leather elbow patches, drastically receding hairline and a voice like an old toad.
It didn’t take very long.
In a matter of minutes he was enthralled, the old sad-sack tour guide completely forgotten as he stared about, wanting to look at everything at once and not quite sure where to start. He walked through the years displayed on the walls of every room, every nook and cranny, his footsteps echoing against the polished floorboards and his heartbeat a steady rhythm in his ears as he looked at Dali, Warhol, Matisse, Picasso, Monet, local photographers, upcoming contemporary artists, Japanese wall screens, and sculptures that made him tilt his head and think for a little too long. It was weird and new and frightening, and he felt a bit lost and unsure how to quite go about appreciating it all - but then he found her.
The phrase ‘life-changing revelation’ didn’t quite seem strong enough, but it was all he could think of as he sat down heavily on the next old bench he came across.
He took a breath.
Well, who would’ve guessed it?
Merlin had grown up around the written word, had studied creative writing and linguistics and modern literature. His childhood home was practically a library in itself, he may as well have moved into the 820.3 shelves while at university to save time, and he wanted to work in one. He had never understood visual artists, never understood the point in painting a picture to be interpreted a hundred different ways when you could weave words like magic and make people believe anything you wanted.
Yet there he was, utterly stumped and staring at a patchworked painting of a girl in a yellow dress, revived and pieced together as much as the restorers could manage - and the most remarkable blanket of calm tucked itself around him.
He stared and he stared and he stared some more, knowing it was a copy - that the painting the artist had slaved over, the girl he had seen, the care and the thought he worked through his fingers to paint what he couldn’t say was not sitting in front of him - and honestly not caring in the slightest.
He didn’t care about a lot at that moment. The upcoming final exams didn’t bother him, that literature review that was still due stopped being so life-threatening, the mortifying crush on his linguistics tutor suddenly insignificant. He just wanted to sit there for the rest of his life and look and look and memorise and think and lose himself in all of it.
He was rudely interrupted by the elbow-patch man coming and booting him out much later on than he’d care to admit, but he vowed to return - and return he did, every Friday morning after coffee next to the library with Gwen. Two years later, ‘educated, procrastinated and graduated’ as Gaius liked to say, and he still came back.
Sometimes he went every Friday for several months in a row, sometimes he missed a whole month’s worth, sometimes he only spent minutes there and other times he spent hours, the rest of the day, sometimes he went and had lunch at the café upstairs and looked out over the Thames and other times he forgot to eat entirely - but he never forgot her, and any time he needed to clear his head, any time his imagination started ruling his life a little too much for comfort, he would return and - well, everything was all right, wasn’t it?
Until he showed up.
Him and all his blonde and shoulders and teeth and eyes and this was Merlin’s spot. This was where Merlin went, this was where he sat, the girl he looked to - he hadn’t been coming here for two years now just to be shunted aside by him.
*~*
“Why didn’t you just sit next to him?” Gwen asks over an emergency takeaway dinner that night. “Share the moment together, or some such.”
Merlin looks exasperated. “Because I shouldn’t have to share, Gwen. It’s where I think, you know? I have you and I have books and then I have the girl. Even the damn tour guides know not to disturb me. The cleaners know my name and so do the receptionists. I might as well be part of the furniture and basically, she’s my painting to sit with and I’m not bloody sharing her.”
Gwen looks slightly worried as she pauses with her chopsticks halfway to her open mouth. “Merlin, have you got a crush on a painting?”
“Wha- no! What’re you -?” He rolls his eyes and leans forward, jabbing his chopsticks in her direction. “All I’m saying is that everyone there knows me and understands that I want to be left alone, so who does he think he is just waltzing in there and - invading.”
Gwen gives him her best ‘oh, please’ look and says as much with her hands as her voice, “Look, maybe he’s just a tourist and he’s taking a gander at the gallery - happens all the time, believe it or not. You’re not the only one to sit in front of a silly painting for hours on end on a Friday morning, you know.”
“Well yes, and obviously I’ve confronted tourists before, but they don’t - they don’t hang about. They jabber on and make pretentious remarks to themselves in twenty different languages and move on. But this guy - just - he has no right to walk in there like he owns the place, not leave, and - practically steal my therapist!”
Gwen gives an unrestrained snort of laughter and covers her mouth quickly to stifle it, but Merlin can still see her shoulders shaking. “I’m sorry - but - therapist? Merlin, what - I was ready to believe you were having some sordid affair with one of the guides or something, you spent so much time there, but this is so much better!”
Merlin scowls and shovels more noodles into his mouth. “Yeah, whatever, you can -“
“Oh, oh, why doesn’t she ask you how you feel about this guy coming and taking your spot? And you can gush and moan and grumble about how terrible your life is now -“
“Gwen.”
“Ooo - and what do you tell her about me? Do you tell her how much I have to suffer your incompetence at the library?”
“I am not -“
“You sort of are, always reading instead of working - but does she have an opinion on your sexual repression?”
“I am not repressed!”
Gwen just raises an eyebrow and says in a whiny voice, “Gwen, Gwen! Will and I were - you know - and he - you know and I couldn’t - I - you know?”
He splutters through a mouthful, trying to convey that he does not sound like that, but Gwen continues.
“Or how about that time with you and Gwaine and it took me about six months to piece together a simple story about how he had you against a wall and sh-“
“I know what happened! No need to - say it!”
Gwen just gives him her biggest shit-eating grin and drops a prawn into her mouth. “See? Repressed. You prude.”
Merlin throws the empty takeaway box at her and sinks into the cushions. “Have I ever told you what a terrible friend you are?”
“Oh, Merlin,” she cackles, curled into a contented ball of pure, witchy evil. “You walk right into it, darling. You really do.”
“I miss the old shy Gwen,” he mumbles into his chest, arms folded like a petulant child.
“Ah, she’s long gone, my friend,” she sighs happily, tucking into her Chinese food with gusto.
Merlin instantly decides that she just doesn’t understand, despite being that motherly, nurturing type that likes to think she’s attuned to people’s emotions or some such wank, and doesn’t bring it up again. Until the next week, that is, when things start to go a little bit pear-shaped.
It’s the next visit to the gallery that does it. On the way, Merlin hopes like he’s never hoped before that the man was just a tourist and didn’t have the same fancy for the painting as himself, and he is relieved to find the space empty of suited blondes for all of five minutes before he’s back and Merlin’s internally running around like a headless chicken, not quite sure what to do with himself.
He tries to ignore him. Three hours later it’s getting harder. He tries to say he doesn’t care and that it doesn’t matter, it’s just a painting and there are plenty more out there, so whatever, really. He can find another one just as good - if not better - than the girl, and this whoever can be left alone as Merlin wants to.
So he spends the next month trawling gallery after gallery in his spare time. He goes to every London art gallery in the tourist books, even travels to Liverpool one long weekend to visit the Tate there (the girl is in that one as well, and he does his utmost to ignore her but before he knows it it’s dark out and he hasn’t moved), he goes to local shows and competitions, sees sculpture exhibitions and photography exhibitions, Asian art and renaissance art, he gets his hand on as many Australian Aboriginal books and American Indian books that he can, and he stalks down alleyways at odd hours to absorb the graffiti spread out on the stone walls - but all it leads him to is Friday mornings in front of the girl, kicking himself and staring at the familiar rough edges, the faded colours and that sense of calm washing over him all over again.
“Beautiful, isn’t she?”
So much for calm. Merlin wants to punch his lights out.
That would be counterproductive, says the sensible, Gwen side of his mind that doesn’t act rashly and thinks before he does things - so he says, “Yes,” in a way that he hopes conveys his overwhelming hatred.
It might work, because he doesn’t say anything else, and when Merlin turns to leave it is to see that the intruder has already gone without him noticing.
He frowns.
Well that’s just great.
*~*
“So, you’re complaining that he… no I’m lost.”
Merlin sighs over Penetrating Wagner’s Ring and shelves it next to the second copy. “He was there and he was unobtrusive and it was annoying because that means I can’t really object to him being there because I didn’t even notice when he left. “
Gwen raises her eyebrows and breathes, “Right.”
“Yes,” Merlin emphasises.
“You’re complaining because there’s nothing to complain about.”
Merlin sets his jaw and nods, then mutters, “I still hate him.”
“Of course.”
*~*
The next Friday sees Merlin arrive at the gallery after a hearty deep and meaningful with Gwen before her shift, and promptly turn around again. He’d like to clear his head, sure, but now that he’s seen that obnoxious blonde head parked in his spot he decides that maybe it can wait.
So he goes home, puts the kettle on and chews his way through a block and a half of chocolate while getting completely carried away in Days of Our lives. It doesn’t quite work the same way, at all, but at least his consuming frustration is somewhat overshadowed by speculating over whose long-lost sister’s best friend’s brother-in-law is next in line to either have an affair, get shot or come back to life after dying of some terminal disease.
The Friday after is a similar story, but Merlin is there first and he refuses to move. He needs inspiration for the library in support of upcoming One World Week (why Geoffrey is getting him to come up with a focus, Merlin will never quite understand), and he’ll be damned if he gets pushed away from his spot just because some blonde prat decides he likes the same painting as him. He needs inspiration, he needs a clear head, and he needs it now.
But he can’t think, because the other man is sitting closer than is polite and is just so very there and confronting and in his personal space that Merlin actually has to concentrate on the painting rather than absorb it, and that just itches.
The third Friday is the worst. Merlin can’t even bring himself to sit down and get comfortable because he knows that as soon as he does, he will turn up and ruin everything in that aggravating, larger-than-life way. So he paces. And paces and paces and paces until he’s sure there’s a dent in the floorboards and the worst part is - he doesn’t even show up.
Once three hours have gone by Merlin declares the area safe of lurkers and throws himself onto the antique bench against the wall, finally allowing himself to breathe. He rolls his neck from side to side, closes his eyes, counts to ten (twice) and opens them -
To see a broad-shouldered, suit-wearing, impeccable blonde figure that reeks arrogance, and life just sucks, doesn’t it?
He starts to feel the effects by the end of the month, his only respite being a brief period at the end of the previous week where he was able to say to himself ,”One World week is over. Huzzah”. But his nerves are getting the better of him now, and that old anxiety deal is coming back with a vengeance. He can only be glad that his paranoia was forgotten all those years ago, because it’s definitely gone too far past ‘coincidence’ now and he really doesn’t need to believe that the man is actually employed by the Secret Service and is tailing him for suspicion of stealing precious artefacts and now that he’s thought of it he can’t get the idea out of his head and he really needs time to himself.
He doesn’t know whether it’s worth the risk of his frustration getting the better of him if he goes to the gallery, quickly decides that it is, and grabs his coat at the same time as winding his scarf around his neck and braving the fierce cold.
The walk there just winds him up even more, an impenetrable cloud of pure frustration building around him with every fogged breath, and when he storms into the gallery (nodding politely to Freya on the front desk - he never forgets his manners, after all) he is about ready to kill someone. Namely the Prat, but anyone will do, really.
So it’s a surprise when he gets there to see an elegant woman with long dark hair standing before his girl, wearing a knee-length dark purple dress, sharp black heels, and looking entirely lost in thought. He stops at the room’s entrance, unsure whether to walk in and take his rightful place or just give it all up as lost and stare at the picture online or something.
He waits for the annoyance to kick in as he dithers back and forth, indecisive, and is even more surprised to find that it is instead seeping away slowly, curiously. Well that’s just not right. He frowns to himself, makes a decision, and steps forward to claim his seat.
The lady turns at the sound of his footsteps (how he can be so silent, Merlin will never know), and sends him a disarming smile.
“Sorry, I’m so lost in myself I didn’t see you there,” she says in a breathy, smothered Irish accent. “Am I in your way?”
Merlin can’t quite bring it upon himself to speak, so he gives a tight shake of the head and focuses on breathing.
She lets out a tiny laugh and comes to stand beside him. “She’s just so beautiful, really.”
He nods sharply, feeling like a deer in the headlights, not sure which way to run.
“Are you the one that comes here every week, then?
Merlin’s head jerks up at that, and he raises his eyebrows. “Er - how did you know that?”
She tilts her head and smiles, “The staff talk about you all the time. You’re quite popular around here, did you know?”
He shifts awkwardly, not quite sure where this is headed and feeling all sorts of intimidated in his ratty coat and early morning hair, when she extends a perfectly manicured hand to him and apologises, “Oh, I’ve forgotten my manners. I’m Morgana Pendragon, Executive Director of the Tate galleries.”
Merlin blinks, accepts the hand automatically and splutters out, “I - Merlin Emrys.” He pauses. “Librarian - of sorts.”
Morgana shakes his hand firmly but pleasantly and continues that secretive smile. “Librarian of sorts? How does that work, then?”
She sits next to him with a soft ruffle of fabric and crosses one ankle behind the other, dark hair falling over one shoulder and eyes boring into him with a disconcerting level of intensity. He shifts to accommodate her on the bench easier, and possibly out of sheer panic finds himself explaining, “Well I’m technically not a librarian because I never did a librarianship course, but I work in the London libraries - Barbican, at the moment - and I probably know more than the actual librarians in the place, so… I’m a librarian. Of sorts.”
She laughs with genuine amusement and he smiles back before he can help himself, a strange sense of ease settling over him.
“I always wanted to work in a library,” she says wistfully, still smiling. “I’ve had this image in my head since I was a child, of myself with long grey hair, hunched over old dusty books with my glasses sliding off the end of my nose…”
“Sounds like my godfather,” Merlin grins.
“Ah, it would be wonderful.”
“Why didn’t you, then?”
She waves her hand vaguely and makes a ‘pfft’ sound that doesn’t quite fit the regal appearance, but couldn’t fit more all the same. “The pull of art got to me - couldn’t resist.”
“I know the feeling.”
She finally looks away from him then, maintaining that eerie, serene smile, and resumes gazing at the girl. “I can see that - quite the regular, aren’t you?”
“Well -“
“How long’s it been then? More than a year, surely.”
“Two, actually,” Merlin concedes.
Morgana nods. “Fascinating… And what brought you here to begin with? None of the modern stuff, of course, you don’t seem the type to like shiny sculptures and all that new-wave contemporary nonsense.” She turns, giving him a quick, calculating once-over. “No, you look like you belong in the medieval history section, or with Dali. One extreme or the other. Yet here you are…”
Merlin isn’t quite sure what to do with all this attention, but he at least tries to take it in his stride as he shrugs helplessly, “To be honest I don’t even like art -“ Morgana looks affronted, and he laughs. “Well, no, that’s not strictly true. Not anymore, anyway. I never understood it - still don’t think I do, but I can appreciate it now, at the very least.”
She just nods slowly, understanding, and he wonders why he has the sudden urge to continue - then he figures it’s because she owns the damn place, so she might as well know the creep that’s been overstaying his welcome.
“I like it here. It calms me. I get - well, I get ridiculously stressed about little things when I don’t have an outlet, and when I was studying it was awful. I used to read books but then sometimes they would make me anxious, and then I’d get nervous because I wouldn’t know what else to do and it was this whole horrible cycle that kept going round and round and getting worse and worse - and then in the last few weeks before finals I wound up here, completely by accident.”
Morgana’s still not looking at him, but her serene smile has a more mischievous quality about it as she agrees, “Literally couldn’t resist, then.”
“I suppose…”
She rearranges her skirt as she crosses her legs, putting an elbow on her knee and propping up her chin in the way that Gwen does when she’s trying to be polite but is actually about to fall asleep. “That sounds like there’s a ‘but’ in there somewhere,” she encourages, smirking.
Merlin sighs and leans back against the wall heavily. “But there’s this prat, right, and he won’t go away - he just took over -”
Morgana laughs, sudden and intense, head up and hands clapping erratically. “Oh I knew it, Merlin. I knew it wasn’t the painting you were looking at -“
“No!” He protests violently, unable to resist shoving her to the side as easy as if they’d known each other for years. “I was here first and then he just - he just waltzed on in with complete disregard for anyone else and oh god he tried to talk to me - who talks to people in art galleries? Seriously? Well, apart from you, but you own it so you’re forgiven - but - couldn’t he see that I was there to enjoy the peace and quiet and tranquillity, if you will? You don’t talk to people in those situations. You avoid them like the plague. It’s the done thing. You know?”
Morgana’s got a hand to her mouth and her eyes are sparkling with amusement as she breathes, “Of course, Merlin, you’re absolutely right. Now, tell me who he is so I can get him banned.”
Merlin smiles, shrugs, knows she’s joking but replies, “Blonde, short, built like a footballer, wears expensive suits - you know the type. Just reeks arrogance. Thinks he owns the place - which, evidently, he doesn’t,” he adds, with a gracious gesture towards the woman beside him.
She rolls her eyes and that smile still hasn’t moved, but there’s a curiosity in her eyes now. “How long has he been disrupting your pilgrimage, then? Not sure we can have that - a regular patron such as yourself being inconvenienced in my gallery is just not on.”
Merlin tilts his head, humouring her and thinking seriously about it. “Three months or so. A little more, perhaps. I even did a huge gallery hunt for a while there, went to the Tate Liverpool and back to find something else that had the same… effect, as this girl. But -“ he gives an embarrassed laugh, folding his hands in his lap, “- she’s the only one for me, I guess.”
Morgana is silent for a moment, ‘hm’s quietly to herself, then stands up suddenly, her skirt falling around her knees gracefully as she looks down at him. “Well, Merlin, I can honestly say it was a pleasure meeting you and finally put a face to the name. I do hope you’ll join me upstairs for brunch next week?”
Merlin is taken aback, but manages to stutter out a “Me? You - what?”
She leans closer to pat him patronisingly on the shoulder. “You’re very interesting, Merlin. I’d like to take the time to get to know you better.”
“Y-Yes, er, of course - Ms. Pendragon.”
She scoffs and waves the title away. “Morgana, please. Ms. Pendragon is for people who want to kiss my arse and earn more money.”
Merlin snorts. “And I’m sure there’s a lot of those.”
She grimaces. “You have no idea.” Then she’s all sly smiles and sparkling eyes again as she says, “Eleven o’clock next Friday, then? I’m sure you’ll find me.”
He can only say, “Yes, I’m sure I will,” nod his head and watch her leave with a curious frown.
*~*
The first thing he does when he has his thoughts in order several hours later is whip out his phone and dial a number that he doesn’t even have to think about.
“Hello, you,” the familiar voice scratches down the line.
“Gwen.”
“Yes?”
“The strangest thing happened to me today.”
“Do tell.”
“I met someone.”
Gwen makes an exaggerated gasp-squeal noise that only women with hyperactive imaginations are capable of, and rushes, “Oh Merlin! Is he pretty? Where’d you meet him? What’s he like? Was he in the library? Oh I bet it’s that devastatingly handsome scruffy-haired fellow you’ve had your eye on for a while, isn’t it - you grew the balls to talk to him! Did he -“
“No, you big gossip, and Lance is certainly not interested in me, I can assure you of that. No, it… She was the gallery Director. The one with the girl.”
“Oh, she supports your therapeutic sessions then?”
Merlin rolls his eyes. “Yes.”
There’s the sound of a door closing and keys being dropped as she asks, “So, what’s so strange?”
Merlin purses his lips and looks both ways before crossing the road towards his flat. “She was just… Well, stunning for one, it was sort of distracting really -“
“She’s not going to turn you, is she? I don’t know how I feel about that after my failure.”
Merlin snorts and swaps ears quickly. “There’s absolutely no doubt that I’ll be gay till the day I die, love, don’t even worry about it.”
“Oh good, I wouldn’t know who to go shopping with otherwise.”
“ Well I’m glad that’s - anyway. She was actually really lovely. Got me to - er… well, talk, to be honest.”
There’s a pause. “Gosh well that’s news, isn’t it? Did she hypnotise you with her breasts or something?”
“You know, that could - because if that’s not it then I don’t think I’d have an explanation for why I agreed to meet her next Friday for brunch.”
“Definitely hypnotism, then.”
“Oh good.”
*~*
The week passes by entirely uneventful, unless you count the minor case of what-the-fuck Merlin suffered when he found Cheese Problems Solved on the entirely wrong shelf on Wednesday - but Gwen diffused it fast enough that nobody except that ‘devastatingly handsome scruffy-haired fellow’ noticed, and he’s really the loveliest person either of them have ever met so it was all okay, in the end. There is a lot of speculating about what exactly Morgana wants from him, because neither of them can work out why Merlin is so interesting (he’s really not) to warrant a second meeting -
“I mean, normally I make a right cock of myself in front of new people -“
“You can say that again.”
“Your opinion was not asked for.”
“I know you better than you know yourself - you were about to.”
“Shut up.”
- and in the end Gwen decides that she’s an evil temptress who just wants to bottle his ears for some bizarre art project she’s got going on in the dungeons. That or she works for some Secret Service type agency and he’s under suspicion of stealing precious artefacts (Merlin swears he didn’t tell her his horrid paranoia delusions, they just happen to be on the same wavelength disturbingly often).
It turns out Morgana Pendragon is neither of those things, and is indeed quite lovely.
She’s quick and witty and before Merlin knows it it’s their third brunch date and they can never seem to stop talking. She’s as fascinated with Merlin’s literature studies as he is with her art history knowledge, their backgrounds could not be more opposite but they just click in a way he hasn’t since Gwen. Hours go by without their noticing and they always get the same surly waitress with tight blonde hair and no sense of humour to speak of, and it becomes a sort of game to see who can make her laugh first. Merlin manages once by dishing her the worst pick-up line in history - he thinks the colour of his latte is involved somehow, he can’t quite remember - but it never happens again, and really it was only a smile he got out of her so they’re not even sure it really counts.
Gwen comes on the second date (“It’s not a bloody date, all right?” “Yes, but if you were straight it would be, so that’s what I’m going to call it.” “That doesn’t even - oh forget it.”), and the two girls have far too much fun picking on him for comfort. Merlin swears to never let them within a hundred feet of each other ever again, lest his ears catch fire and consume him entirely.
So Morgana knows that Merlin’s father walked out before he was born and left his mother broken hearted but still hopelessly in love, and Merlin learns that Morgana’s family is absurdly rich and her mother died before she was ten. It’s on this third date that Merlin garners the courage to question her about her family - he knows about her step-father, that’s for sure (Merlin is pretty certain that if he ever sees the man in person he will punch him in the face), but he doesn’t know, and for some inexplicable reason he feels like he should.
So it’s after Merlin’s told the story about he and Will going to a party as medieval knights and spending an unwise amount of time in the rain after Merlin’s untimely coming out, when she’s mid-way through explaining that her step-brother is an obnoxious meat head who pretends to know what he’s talking about but is actually a giant, misunderstood puppy dog - that said step-brother apparently walks into the café.
Morgana pauses, short black coffee halfway to her lips, and lifts one delicate eyebrow. “Well, speak of the devil.”
Merlin cranes his neck around to follow her gaze -
“Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me.”
- and feels his stomach sink so far beneath his feet that he’s sure he’s halfway in hell.
But then Morgana’s beckoning, “Arthur, over here!” and smiling in that beautiful, hidden way of hers and Arthur is kissing her cheek and pulling up a chair and he’s so overwhelming that all Merlin can do is blink when they’re introduced, hoping like nothing else that he doesn’t recognise him.
Merlin’s never had very good luck in these situations, and it gets a little awkward.
“Arthur, this is Merlin, the one the staff are always talking about.” She gestures to Merlin elegantly, then nods to Arthur. “Merlin, this is my step-brother, Arthur.”
They nod, polite, say ‘pleased to meet you’ and Merlin has never wanted to run so much in his life - except maybe after that time his mum caught him in bed with Will, but it doesn’t do to dwell on memories.
“Arthur’s back from scouting in France to organise new international exhibitions and all the rot that goes with it.”
Arthur smiles winningly, he’s all teeth and golden hair and obnoxious, and turns to Morgana. “Speaking of, there’s a meeting in half an hour - or had you forgotten?”
Morgana wrinkles her nose in a burst of childishness that sometimes overcomes her, and waves her hand dismissively. “I organised it, of course I haven’t forgotten. But Merlin’s much more fascinating than those old fools - aren’t you, Merlin?”
He wavers under her almost predatory grin and mutters awkwardly, “Er - well - you know, I just…”
“Merlin, is it?”
He looks sharply at Arthur. “Yes?”
“Didn’t I see you in here the other day? In front of that -”
Merlin shakes his head hurriedly. “No, nope, definitely not. I only come in to see Morgana, now.”
Arthur looks thoughtful, lounging back in his chair with one arm slung over the back of Morgana’s with an almost offensively casual air. “Are you sure? I thought -“
“No, haven’t been here in a while.” Merlin’s jaw is set tight, and he sort-of-lies through his teeth. “Stopped my regular visits once someone intruded on them.”
Morgana laughs, soft, and puts a gentle hand on her step-brother’s arm, nodding towards Merlin, and he just wants the ground to eat him up. “Merlin here has been visiting our Primavera for two years running. But someone else has since decided they like her as well and he’s having a hard time coming to terms with the concept of sharing.”
“Well, she’s a very beautiful piece,” Arthur concedes.
There’s almost something too innocent about Morgana’s sugary smile, and Merlin glares half-heartedly. “I don’t mind sharing,” he says, exasperated. “Just… not at the same time.” He looks back to Arthur, not breaking his gaze. “It’s where I go to clear my head and relax, and while I understand that obviously I can’t have the room to myself or anything ridiculous like that, I don’t see why it’s worked perfectly for two years but all of a sudden some arrogant arse can walk in and wreak havoc on my down time.”
“Come on, you can’t call him an arse if you’ve never met him -“
“Oh, I’ve shared a few words with him.”
“Well.” Arthur’s face shuts down and his shoulders tense. “It is a public gallery, you realise. People do walk in from time to time. Who are you to decide who can and can’t look at certain paintings?”
“I’m not saying he can’t -“
“Then what are you saying? That he just can’t talk to you, despite an obvious display of common interest - have you ever thought he was just trying to be nice? God only knows why.”
Merlin scowls. “Two years have gone by and no one else has sat there as long as I have and tried to be buddies over it.”
Arthur takes his arm off the back of Morgana’s chair and sits a little straighter. “Did you think of maybe mentioning to him why he made you uncomfortable?”
“I’m sure he knows by now, in any case.”
“Or maybe he was there for the same reason -“
Merlin snorts. “If he was he wouldn’t have made an attempt at conversation.”
“Well he certainly wouldn’t have if he’d known you were as rude as this.”
Merlin pastes on his most convincing smile and directs it at Morgana as he stands suddenly, spouting the first lie that comes to his head. “Thank you for the coffee, Morgana, but I have to go. I forgot I have to cover for Gilli this afternoon at Shoe Lane, so sorry - same time next week?”
She looks a little surprised and nods, “Of course, not a problem. I’ll meet you here,” and watches him curiously as he takes his leave without making eye contact with Arthur.
Stupid, poncy name anyway. Arthur.
He stalks out of the gallery, too wound up to even visit the Primavera, and power walks the entire way back to his flat to get on that translation he’d promised for Gaius.
---
[Part 1B]