Arthur/Merlin - If You Want Closure In Your Relationship... [Part 5]
Title: If You Want Closure in Your Relationship (start with your legs)
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.
[Part 1] - [Part 2] - [Part 3] - [Part 4]
The next morning it’s Merlin’s turn to leave for work wearing unfamiliar clothing, a t-shirt that is obviously three sizes too big and Arthur’s cologne. He just hopes Gwen hasn’t been rostered on with him today, because he’ll never hear the end of it. He spends his day in a daze, unable to think about anything other than the way Arthur says “Good morning” in that deep, sleepy voice. His heart speeds up, he smiles constantly, and is exceptionally wonderful to each and every customer, all with increasingly annoying problems (“I can’t find the books on World War Two.” “Did you check the catalogue for call numbers?” “Oh, no. I didn’t think of that.” And Merlin sighs and smiles and sings, “Well, then…”).
When Merlin is sharing a shift with Gwen he is thankfully in his own clothing and Arthur has a meeting that is probably going to go through his lunch break, judging by the steadily more insane messages like There are exactly 138 stitches around the cuff of this shirt. He keeps his cool until he remembers that Arthur determines his own lunch breaks, and finds himself being accosted behind the 300s because “Gwen is on desk, it’s fine.” Never mind the fact that Merlin is actually still working and therefore cannot take a quick break to have a go in a seedy corner of the library, because what Arthur Pendragon wants, Arthur Pendragon gets, and right now Merlin just can’t be bothered to argue because the man is gorgeous and very much in his personal space.
“Well. Looks like you win then.”
Merlin and Arthur both snap their heads in the direction of the sorely put-out voice with twin looks of surprise and confusion.
“Uh…” Merlin starts, not sure he’s heard right. He makes a vague sort of attempt to flatten his hair as Arthur straightens his tie and looks square at Cedric. “Sorry? Win what?”
Cedric just looks at Arthur, several things click into place in Merlin’s head and bring him to the verge of probably very rude laughter, and Arthur just lifts an eyebrow in return.
“I apologise - Cedric, is it? I was unaware there was a competition.”
And with that Arthur stands straight and tall, gives Merlin a once-over with a barely-perceptible smirk of satisfaction, and states, “No time for slacking off, Merlin. Back to work,” as he stalks past a silently fuming Cedric.
And the rest of the week passes a little like that. Arthur surprises him with perfect coffees and a lot of sneaky kisses and far, far too much smiling, and Merlin bumps into shelves and drops books and gets a lot of strange looks from Gwen because his mind is stuck in whoever’s bed they shared the night before. His anxiety lifts its ugly head tentatively on Friday morning, fearful of the customary questioning Gwen deals out over coffee, usually followed by accusations of being a prude. But he gets through with a lot of leg-shaking and sideways glances and hurries off to the gallery to do some much-needed thinking.
The breakdown he’s been expecting all week and studiously ignoring - doesn’t come.
He doesn’t fall into a blind, blank pit of angst and pass out, or break out in a cold sweat, or revert back into a blubbering, incoherent mess of worry. Nothing of the sort, actually. He sits in front of his girl with a small, secret smile, and enjoys the peace and quiet. There are more tourists this time of year, when it’s cooling down nicely into an easy, bright spring, so he concentrates on the humming vibration of voices echoing off the polished floor and high ceilings. He breathes deep and thinks of Arthur and doesn’t think about where he was just over six months ago, because none of it matters, he’s realising. It doesn’t matter that Merlin said some - quite frankly - horrible things, because he knows Arthur now. He knows that Arthur takes everything as a learning experience and steps up to whatever is thrown his way. It doesn’t matter if Merlin meant every word when he said it and that Arthur may have spent a fair while chewing his fingernails and wondering why, because they are where they are and if there’s ever a time where he has to learn to put the past behind him and just accept what life is giving him, then this is it.
And that’s basically all there is to it.
It’s a considerable change from where he first started out, but he’s starting to think change is unavoidable at this point, especially since he’s taken up with a rich bastard who’s even richer father wants to know why he shelves books.
He gives a tiny burst of laughter under his breath, unable to hold it in, when he notices Morgana waiting for him at the entrance to the room. He nods at her, takes a deep breath and follows her up the stairs. On their way up, single-file due to the myriad of suits coming down the other way, Arthur is among the group passing them and their hands brush for a beautiful, secret moment that makes Merlin’s heart twist in his chest and he realises that he has fallen for this idiot.
Morgana spends a lot of time being quiet and careful with what she says, which is just weird because Merlin knows she knows and assumed she knew that too, but at least the waitress is back to her old abrupt self and the certainty that at least that will never change reassures Merlin somewhat. And then Morgana gives him a killer smirk as she kisses his cheek goodbye and says “So, will I get to see you tomorrow night?” in a way that just oozes innuendo and he thinks that maybe nothing’s changed after all.
Isn’t that a sobering thought?
And the next night does roll around, a cloudy Saturday night that starts off with Merlin rushing home from work late in a blind panic to make himself (and his flat) at least semi-presentable before Arthur arrives, and ends in him not really caring about a lot outside of Arthur in general.
After Arthur’s walked in on Merlin in the shower (“Do you mind?” “Not really.” “Pervert.”), there’s a brief panic attack before they leave for the pub, and Arthur has to put his palms to either side of Merlin’s head, look into his eyes and say, “We won’t do anything you don’t want to.”
That just makes Merlin go all soft inside and wrinkle up his nose as he doesn’t quite whine, “I just - I just like you.”
And it’s nice that Arthur gets it, because Merlin isn’t sure even he does, and they decide that their friends can find out whatever they want whenever the time comes. That being said, it’s a little difficult not to touch Arthur when he looks so handsome in tight jeans and that disastrously low v-neck that gets Merlin every time. He’s starting to believe Arthur plans these things.
Merlin thinks they just scream obvious, with the way that Arthur won’t stop looking at him, the way they sit too close but just can’t help it, the way Merlin smiles like a right idiot whenever Arthur asks him if he wants another drink with that lopsided smirk. Taking all the blushes and nervous laughs and lingering looks into account, perhaps he shouldn’t be so surprised when Gwaine points out in a drunken slur at the bar, “So, how long you been shagging blondie, then?”
Merlin feels his ears burn hot enough to fry eggs on in his sudden onslaught of all-consuming embarrassment. He checks around him wildly in case anyone has superhuman hearing, realises they would really have to have it to be heard over the music and the clanking of glasses and shouted conversations, but he feels the need to rectify the accusation anyway.
“I am not shagging him,” he insists hotly, wishing that just this once he can dish out a passable lie.
Gwaine raises both eyebrows in a clear signal of total disbelief.
“It was just once -“ Merlin whines under his breath.
“Jesus, it was after Southbank, wasn’t it?”
Merlin opens and closes his mouth like a fish for a moment, then settles on a determined, “And we didn’t - shag.”
“Of course you didn’t.” Gwaine winks, and Merlin doesn’t miss the not-so-quietly added, “You just did that later on.” Louder, Gwaine chirps, “Testing the waters then, are you?
Merlin quirks an eyebrow, knowing that Gwaine’s just stringing him along (going by the severity of his lecherous grin), and wants to cry. “What does that even mean?”
Gwaine makes a strange snake-like movement with his head and nods in a way Merlin is sure is supposed to be conspiratorial or knowing or some such meaning that would take another four drinks to be able to decipher, and urges, “Y’know, sussing out if he’d be worth the effort - not that it would take much effort if you really wanted to. Hope he doesn’t think he’s being subtle.”
Merlin rolls his eyes. “No we are not ‘testing the waters’, either.”
Gwaine blinks, and might even reel back a little. “You just said ‘we’.”
“…So? I said it before.”
“You have sold your soul, Merlin. I bid you good luck.” He smiles a deceptively soft smile and lays a hand on Merlin’s shoulder, leaning in and chuckling a little at Merlin’s dumbfounded expression. “But I’m happy for you, really. He’s a good guy.”
Merlin jerks his head away and looks thoroughly disappointed. “Oh not you, too.”
And as Gwaine shrugs, chuckles, and polishes off the last mouthful, Arthur comes up behind Merlin and lays a hand on the small of his back, leaning in close and breathing into his ear, “Would you like another one?” Merlin rolls his eyes because really, it’s getting old pretty quick, and barely resists the urge to elbow him in the gut. Instead he shakes his head, and doesn’t quite manage not to lean back against the touch.
He flips the finger at Gwaine and vows to ignore him for the rest of the night.
They stay standing there, Arthur’s hand on Merlin’s back and Gwaine lounging against the bar as Arthur shouts for another round for the boys, and Merlin’s face steadily begins to resemble a tomato while Gwaine’s shit-eating grin just gets bigger and prouder and more fatherly as the minutes wear on. No one says anything because Merlin’s sure that the second he opens his mouth, it doesn’t matter what he intends to say, Gwaine will burst into uproarious laughter and Merlin doesn’t think he can afford to become any more embarrassed, so he keeps his mouth clenched shut and wills the barman to hurry the hell up so Arthur can leave and Merlin can breathe again.
It doesn’t help that when Arthur does have the drinks, his lips brush Merlin’s ear as he pleads, “Come and sit back down?” and his chest presses against Merlin’s back when he leans forward to pass one of the full glasses to Gwaine. Merlin’s heart is going for gold and the blood is pounding so loud in his ears that he fears for a moment he’s going to do something monumentally stupid like kiss him - and then dear god he’s doing it and he can’t even blame the drink because last time he checked, lemonade didn’t make people lose their inhibitions.
He feels a little bit of beer hit his arm as the surprise no doubt slaps Arthur in the face and he tries to rearrange the three glasses he’s gripping between his hands, so Merlin pulls away with a sharp breath and a furious blush and a stupid, stupid smile.
Cue Gwaine’s wild laughter, Lance and Leon’s wolf whistles and probably Morgana’s as well (the know-it-all tart), and Gwen’s shiny, proud mother eyes, and Merlin feels like he should bow. Gwen of course doesn’t know it isn’t the first time this has happened, but thinks maybe he’ll share that with her when there’s less chance of causing a scene and endangering his vital organs.
Arthur’s just staring at him wide-eyed, but sporting a grin much the same as Merlin’s, and suddenly he darts forward and presses an answering brief, hard kiss to Merlin’s lips. He smiles, “Thank you,” in a short breath and leans back with a carefree shrug at the boys.
Merlin rolls his eyes, but figures it probably would’ve come out within the next hour anyway, if the way Arthur has been looking at him is anything to go by.
And while it was nice to have Arthur all to himself, to not worry about anyone else getting involved or trying to shape their interactions or basically making Merlin concentrate on anyone that wasn’t Arthur Pendragon and the sheer amount of attention he commands, it’s also nice to be able to sit here, in The Pub of Revelations, with his friends and put a hand on Arthur’s knee. To be kissed behind the ear when Arthur presses against his back and loops loose arms around his waist. To be included when everyone compares their own coupledom with Gwaine’s increasing promiscuity (“Will it be the barmaid this week? Or the barman?” Leon asks with a wide grin. “Not sure yet. We’ll see which one winks at me first.”). And it’s all just so nice that Merlin doesn’t even bother listening when that little part of him panics at how long it will all last, concentrating instead on the way Arthur lowers him to the bed once they’re home and thinks that maybe he could just kiss him for the rest of his life.
*~*
Lance’s ‘I told you so’ is probably entirely deserving when Arthur joins them for dinner at Gwen’s, and Arthur just lifts a questioning eyebrow at Merlin’s not-so-subtle kick to Lance’s shins under the table. Lance just smiles sweetly (and gosh, how can anyone be mad at that man?), Gwen hides hers behind her fork, and Arthur is kept in the dark.
“You know,” Gwen muses as they clear the table, “Morgana suspected something for a long time.”
“Morgana suspects everyone of everything,” Arthur replies.
“And ninety five percent of the time she’s right,” Lance points out. “I think she’s got a sixth sense.”
“So is that how she always wins the bets?” Merlin groans, kicking open the swing doors into the kitchen and ignoring Gwen’s usual indignant yelp.
“No, no,” Arthur calls through the door, “She pays PIs to do the dirty work.”
“Oh Arthur, don’t be so mean to your sister,” Gwen scolds as she comes back through to clear the glasses.
“No it’s true,” Lance backs him up, and Arthur’s answering laugh is a lot closer than Merlin expected it to be.
When he turns around Arthur has a gravy boat and the plate of potatoes in his hands, is standing very close to him in Gwen and Lance’s kitchen, and Merlin just about bursts with horrible, sappy, romantic joy. Because this is his thing, his thing with Gwen and Lance who keep him sane and watch bad movies with him, and Arthur is here and Gwaine is on his way. All he needs to have some grounding in his life is this man in front of him with potatoes and gravy and a dorky smile as he and Lance shout a story through the barrier about Morgana’s highly sought-after (“And bloody expensive, the scammer”) gossip ring at university. And he just can’t get over it. No matter how many times it hits him that this is Arthur he wants to wake up to every morning, it doesn’t get any less amazing.
“You’re just lucky she’s not here tonight, boys,” Gwen frowns, dancing around Merlin on his way out to grab his glass of wine, hoping it will prevent him from jumping Arthur’s bones and getting gravy all over the probably very expensive silk work shirt.
“Yes, yes, she’s a dragon lady and she’d crunch our bones with her vicious words - we are well practiced in the art of Ignoring Morgana, Guinevere.”
“Arthur you are an awful person.”
“Finally!” Merlin shouts from the table as he hears Gwen turn on the tap in the kitchen. He swallows a mouthful of wine, catches his arm around Arthur’s waist as they cross paths again, and presses a passing kiss to his shoulder. “I’ve been waiting for someone to agree with me that you’re rotten since the day we met.”
“You never asked for my opinion,” Arthur says, hand on his heart as he walks backwards towards the sofas where Lance has already sprawled out in a satisfied heap.
“That’s because you love yourself,” Merlin rolls his eyes, and returns Gwen’s beautifully happy smile when he starts to help her wash up.
“I’m really, really happy for you, Merlin,” she says quietly, passing him the cling film to fix up the leftovers.
He shrugs, mutters a noncommittal, “Yeah,” and starts wrapping the vegetables.
He can hear her smile as she murmurs, “Goodness, you’re completely head over heels, aren’t you?”
Merlin looks up, then, pausing mid-wrap, and bites his lip. It takes him a moment, distracted by the sound of Arthur’s loud, sharp laughter drifting through the kitchen doors, but before he can really register it he’s replying, “… Yeah. Yes. I think I am.”
Gwen’s arms are flung around him in a blur of soap suds and warm water and Merlin just laughs. “Oh I’m so happy! You beautiful thing, you. I’m so proud.” She pulls back and looks straight into his eyes, moving from one to the other and staring. “And you? How are you doing? How is -?”
“Fine,” Merlin answers, honestly. And this time he’s grateful he can’t lie because Gwen believes him instantly.
“You’re okay.”
He smiles. “Yeah. Better - better than ever. Really.”
She steps back, breathes a sigh of relief and utters something that might be about therapy that Merlin is choosing to ignore. Aloud she says, short and simple but so very Gwen in her delivery, “Excellent,” and smiles her brightest as Gwaine bursts through the door and shouts, “I bring horrible films and beer! Love me! Also before you ask, it was the skinny little dark-haired girl. Feel free to tell Morgana it was the blonde so you can keep all your money.”
Merlin throws the cling film packet at him, gets told off for being a bad sport, and later curls up in the crook of Arthur’s arm and drinks his customary one glass too many, as is evident when before he knows it he’s gone from Gwaine making a list of everyone he would shag at his new job, discussing how much money Morgana will make off this new betting pool and how they can cheat her out of it, to being tucked into a soft blanket with a warm body pressed all along his back, Arthur whispering, “Go to sleep, you pathetic lightweight.”
He doesn’t even get a chance to protest that he isn’t a lightweight, he just has a very fast circulatory system so all the alcohol bits get distributed quicker and something else that probably makes sense only because of that extra glass of wine, before he’s turning his nose into Arthur’s chest and pushing a knee between his thighs and falling asleep.
When he wakes up Arthur is spread out like a starfish and taking over all but the tiniest corner of the bed where Merlin is currently balled up. He glares at the way Arthur still insists on being an endearing, selfish twat even in his sleep, and rolls out of bed with only a slight stagger. It’s when he’s in the shower that he remembers the reason for Arthur being so keen to join them the night before, and when he gets out he kisses Arthur on the temple to wake up him and says reluctantly, “Hey, you’ve gotta meet your father this morning. Wake up.”
Arthur’s eyes are open instantly and Merlin is a little put off by how hard and foreign they are, but then they see him and soften, and Arthur stretches in a way that makes Merlin think things that he shouldn’t be thinking before work because he just had a shower and honestly he’s not sure his head is up to it.
Half an hour later and he needs another one, because Arthur is too good at kissing for having just woken up and not even spoken a word aside from “Merlin,” and Merlin isn’t one to say no when Arthur’s hands are tugging on his hair like that and there are lips at his neck. It’s all very unfair.
They’re waiting for the toast to pop and Arthur is putting on the spare shirt that he now brings to Merlin’s for times like these, and a little frown appears on his face as he fiddles with his tie. His shoulders are tense and Merlin drums his fingers on the bench top and sips his coffee, biting his lip when Arthur turns to face him and time seems to stop for one nervous, weighted moment.
Then out of nowhere Arthur is in his personal space, kissing his temple softly and speaking in reluctant, hushed tones while Merlin’s heart stutters and he prays it’s not just wishful thinking.
“I love my job and my father, but he’s - different. He doesn’t understand why I insist on scouting when I could be the finance manager and make a ton more money, because he never really understood us, Morgana and I. He’s a father in the only way he knows how, he’s overbearing and controlling and narrow-minded, yet as much as I try to deny it I know he loves us, and all I really want is his approval even if it means one day having to give up something I love.”
He takes the coffee mug out of Merlin’s hands and places it on the counter, so he can lean in close and rest a chin on his shoulder. Merlin worries that it’s too early in the morning for this, but he just can’t move.
“Morgana has always been stronger than me when it comes to my father - probably because he’s not her father - and she has no issues with doing the real director work, getting involved with the staff and the art and making a proper go of it even if he’s disappointed. My great rebellious streak was majoring in art history - but really, he still won that because my double major was business management. I’m just… I wish I was like Morgana. I wish he wasn’t so determined to - to make a mirror of me.”
Arthur sighs, and Merlin only moves to lift two hands to rest against his waist, holding him. The rest of his body is perfectly still, afraid that if he so much as breathes the spell will be broken and Arthur will retreat back into his upper-class shell and go back to speaking like the queen. He doesn’t know if he can handle such a vicious step backwards now, he quickly decides.
“I sit in front of the Primavera because she helps me think. It’s not always her, but the contemporary wing and most of Dali makes me think purely about what I’m seeing and then I go into interpreter mode and it just doesn’t help. The Primavera is… she’s there. She grounds me, I feel, in some terribly wanky way that I’ll probably regret telling you. Nothing seems quite so bad when I sit with her.”
Arthur looks up then, jaw set and eyes desperately seeking out his own, and Merlin’s breath catches in his throat, his arms enclosing Arthur’s waist entirely. The silence stretches and the last thing Merlin wants to do is break it, but it’s starting to get stale and he knows he has to save this.
“You know,” he mutters thoughtfully, quiet in Arthur’s hair, “I once read a book called If You Want Closure In Your Relationship, Start With Your Legs.”
Arthur stares, bewildered and beautiful, and Merlin can’t help but smile when all he gets in reply is “Well they had that completely wrong, didn’t they?”
Merlin ‘hmm’s, settles against the counter and presses his lips to just above Arthur’s ear, lingering and breathing him in. When Arthur shifts slightly Merlin leans back, brings both hands to either side of Arthur’s neck and stares while Arthur presses two open palms to Merlin’s chest and watches him, waiting.
Merlin stares into those eyes, bites his lip, loses himself in them for just a moment and starts to appreciate the full weight of the situation. Arthur, in his strange way of never saying anything directly if it involves complex emotions, is opening up and giving Merlin an opportunity. An opportunity to walk away or take up the challenge, to needle him for every last detail or just let this be what it is and take it as it comes. He’s giving up a big part of himself and never did Merlin think that this, having Arthur standing pressed against him in his kitchen, opening up a window for him to crawl through and make himself comfortable, would be all he needed. He doesn’t want more of an explanation, unless Arthur is willing to give it. He doesn’t want to keep up the compromise they have at the gallery, doesn’t want to call him a pompous arrogant bastard unless it really means god you look good when you smile like that or I wouldn’t have you any other way or a number of other things that have Merlin’s brain short-circuiting as it tries to decide whether it wants to wrap Arthur up in a blanket and stroke his hair or rip all his clothes off and bend him over a table.
Somehow he manages to say, “What else do you have to give up for your father?” in a voice much smaller and breathier than he cares to acknowledge.
Arthur’s jaw sets hard as he clenches his teeth, his eyes narrow and the hands on Merlin’s chest curl into his jumper, gripping tight. “Not this,” is all he says. “Not this.”
And Merlin decides that whatever the day has to throw at him, however many books are out of place or how much Cedric glares at him with those sullen, defeated eyes; how many computers Gilli breaks or how often Geoffrey wants to give him an hour long lecture on just how incestuous the royal family is, or even if Uther himself strides in and demands a book-shelving explanation - he will bloody well take it all in his stride with a smile on his face if it means he can see this at the end of the day. See Arthur staring at him with pure determination and just a little bit of terror. Taste the uniqueness that is Arthur mingling with toast and coffee as fingers tug at jumpers and weave through hair.
“That author obviously didn’t know what they were talking about,” Merlin mumbles against Arthur’s lips, smiling through the weight of his words.
“Obviously,” Arthur agrees.
The rest of the world can sod off, Merlin decides, just so long as he can have this for a little while longer.
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[EPILOGUE]
(If you'd prefer to leave it here then by all means do so; the epilogue is just a short, fun little snippet to settle future events mentioned in the story :))