Fic: London, Said He (8/12)
Title: London, Said He
Rating: R
Genres: Science Fiction (Time Travel), Humour, Romance
Era: Mix of canon-era and near-future (22nd century) reincarnation era
Pairings: Merlin/Arthur, one-sided Gwaine/Merlin, implied Gwaine/Percy
Wordcount: 2700 (this chapter); 45k total
Betas: percygranger, messyangel81
This really hasn't been Merlin's day. Or week. Or month, really. Seeing his best friend die in front of him was bad enough. But magicking himself into the future in order to save Arthur? Probably not as good an idea as it seemed on paper. And this future version of Gwaine will not stop hitting on him. Even in front of the future Arthur - talk about embarrassing. Especially since Merlin needs to get to know this Arthur if he's ever going to figure out how to save his.
Chapter 1: Camelot
Chapter 2: Let's Do the Time Warp Again
Chapter 3: Gwaine
Chapter 4: Getting to Know You
Chapter 5: Arthur
Chapter 6: The Glorious Life of a PA
Chapter 7: Trouble in Paradise
Chapter 8: Cooking Classes
“I see you still haven’t moved since yesterday,” Gwaine commented, as he shouldered the flat door shut behind him. “Or the day before. Or the day before that.”
Merlin groaned and peeked between his fingers. Thumps emanated from the kitchen, where Gwaine was setting down bags from Tesco’s.
Each thump seared a jolt of pain through Merlin’s skull. He was currently curled up on the sofa, arms wrapped around his head in an attempt to block out light and sound. Every time he twisted his head to the side a twinge of pain shot through his neck, and his mouth tasted faintly of socks. “What time is it?”
“Time for work.” Gwaine sounded far too cheerful, considering that last night he’d been just as off his head as Merlin had been. “I signed you up for a cooking class, by the way.”
“It’s not even dawn yet, you ass. And you drank almost as much as I did. How are you still standing?”
“Not my fault you can’t handle your liquor.”
“I can handle my… wait, you signed me up for what again?” Merlin attempted to scrape his tongue with his teeth, but the stale sock taste remained. “A cooking class?”
“Yes, Merlin, a cooking class.” Gwaine started slamming cabinet doors for good measure. Merlin’s head throbbed in sympathy. “If you want to work for me, you need to learn how to cook things.”
Merlin’s only response to that was a groan. The slamming doors in the kitchen stopped, and he was almost relieved, until he felt a sudden sharp pressure in his abdomen. When he opened his eyes to glare, Gwaine removed his index finger from Merlin’s belly and grinned widely, towering over the sofa. “The first class is next Sunday, at two.”
“You’ve no right to sound so bloody cheerful about it.”
Gwaine simply smiled disarmingly. “If you’d prefer, you can wake up when I do and clean the cafe. I could use someone to wash the windows.”
“Okay, fine, I’ll go to the stupid class. Can I go back to sleep now?”
Gwaine patted him on the arm. “Actually, no. I need you to clean up your shite. Percy’s coming over tomorrow.”
Merlin blinked up at him. “I hate you.”
He waited until Gwaine was gone, the door locked behind him, before crawling into Gwaine’s bed and pulling the duvet over his throbbing head.
Merlin wasn’t too sure what to make of his fellow cooking class students. Hiding in the corner, propped up next to the row of ovens, was a sketchy looking teenager with his hair stuck straight up above his head in a single column, and too many facial piercings. Merlin hadn’t even been aware you could pierce your chin. How did that even work? And he wasn’t even the youngest one there. A pair of what looked like twelve year old twins wielding forks were eyeing the knife block and whispering to each other. Merlin made a mental note to avoid them. An old man with a cane was rifling through the apron rack, and his (apparently abusive) wife kept rejecting his choices. “Too many flowers,” she cried when he pulled out one example, “and I hate red!” Apparently he was as deaf as she was colour-blind, as he happily tied the green apron around his waist and tottered back to his stool. Another pair of young women, the only sane looking people in the room, had been chatting quietly together when Merlin first entered, and were now smiling at each other soppily. And holding hands.
He was just about to pick out a stool in between the dysfunctional elderly couple and the diabolic siblings when the door to the classroom opened and a familiar blond head popped through. “Sorry to interrupt, is this the cooking class?“
His eyes met Merlin’s, and the words died in his throat.
Merlin raised an eyebrow as Arthur straightened, a muscle below his left eye spasming. “I am going to kill her,” he said, and then walked straight over to Merlin’s seat. “Hello.”
Merlin ignored him.
“Giving me the silent treatment? Really?”
Merlin lifted his hand to his mouth and feigned a yawn.
“Don’t act like a four year old, Merlin.”
Merlin turned his head to look at where Arthur was standing. He was still in his business suit - Merlin wouldn’t be surprised if he had come straight from the office, even though it was Sunday - and his shirt was slightly rumpled, as if he’d been tugging at his tie. He was clutching his briefcase so tightly that his knuckles were starting to turn white from the pressure.
“I’m not acting like a four year old.”
Arthur grit his teeth, the muscles of his jaw twitching. “I’m overjoyed to hear that.”
“Do you mind?” Merlin jerked his head, indicating the row of seats behind him. “I was actually looking forward to this class before you came in.”
It was at this moment that the cooking instructor, a rotund, balding Irishman with a goatee wearing a combination of blue jeans, checked over-shirt, and a puffy white chef’s hat, clapped his hands at the front of the room. “Good afternoon, everyone! We’ll be working in pairs for this first lesson, but I see that there is an odd number of students-“
Merlin exhaled a sigh of relief. Next to him, Arthur apparently did the same.
“My girlfriend’s running late,” the pierced teen interrupted. “I just got a text.”
“In that case,” the instructor said, smiling broadly, “we’ll let you wait for her. Does everyone else have a partner?”
Merlin glanced around the room, hoping desperately that he was not going to be stuck with Arthur, of all people. But, no; the overly friendly women were now sharing a single stool, the abusive couple were huddling close together, and the tiny knife children looked perfectly content seated next to the rack of kitchen tools.
Arthur and Merlin turned at the same time, looking at each other with dawning horror.
“Looks like we’re all set, then!” the instructor called out. “Who’s ready to make some meatballs?”
As Merlin walked back towards his and Gwaine’s flat, he wasn’t sure whether to be relieved or disappointed that he and Arthur hadn’t really spoken for the entire duration of the cooking class. Beyond the odd grunt or gruff instruction, Arthur had remained silent, and had barely even looked at Merlin.
His stomach was twisting uncomfortably as he strode along the pavement, hands in his pockets, his eyes on the ground in front of his feet. This was the only reason, he would tell himself later, why he stopped when he felt the hand close around his arm, why he didn’t keep on walking, why he turned around and stood silently as Arthur said, “Merlin,” in a pained voice.
He was distracted, that was all. That must have been the reason Merlin couldn’t stop staring. His thoughts were stuck in some sort of feedback loop, stuck on the aching familiarity of his ruffled blond hair, the crooked teeth, the desperation in those blue eyes.
“Look, I’ll drop the class,” Arthur was saying, and Merlin blinked as the meaning sunk in. “Morgana must have signed me up as some kind of joke. I don’t want to make you uncomfortable.”
“You don’t,” Merlin blurted.
Arthur’s brow furrowed. Merlin’s chest ached. “Of course I don’t. So I’ll talk to the instructor, then-“
“You don’t make me uncomfortable,” Merlin clarified.
Arthur stopped, blinked. His eyes flickered over Merlin’s face, assessing. “Really?”
“Well,” Merlin said, after an awkward silence. Arthur did, in fact, make Merlin uncomfortable. There was something entirely unsettling about talking to a man who was both your best friend and a complete stranger at the same time. Arthur’s face was less lined with worry, with responsibility, but he still looked at him sometimes in that way that stripped Merlin’s secrets bare, said, I know you. The way that said, I know you, and I still like you.
“You could have told me,” Arthur said, his voice hushed, barely audible over the hum of traffic and the buzz of electricity and machinery that always haunted Merlin in this place, this time.
“Told you what?” Merlin said, his voice too loud in comparison, grating.
Arthur’s gaze faltered, something shuttering over his expression, and Merlin felt his stomach clench like it always did when he lied to Arthur. You don’t think magic is inherently evil, surely?
“Look,” Merlin said, “if I had told you the truth, you wouldn’t have believed me.”
Arthur’s mouth tightened. “No? Did it occur to you that I would rather judge that for myself? I’m not a child.”
Merlin tilted his head. What did he have to lose, really? If this Arthur wouldn’t accept him, well, he still had another one, back in Camelot, who needed him. “Fine. You really want to know?”
Arthur frowned. “Of course I do.”
“I’m magic.”
Arthur blinked, and his face fell. “I’m serious, Merlin.”
“I am too.” Merlin sighed, bit his lip, and prayed to whatever gods still existed in this stupid place that he’d be able to get his magic to work this time. He stretched his hand out in front of Arthur, and whispered, “Leoht.”
An orb of blue light unfurled in his palm. Arthur was staring at Merlin’s hand, his mouth parted and his eyes glassy.
“Oh,” Arthur said.
Merlin closed his fist as the light blinked out.
After an eternity, Arthur spoke. “Magic, then.”
“Magic,” Merlin agreed, his stomach swooping somewhere in the vicinity of his knees.
“Well.” His voice sounded strangled.
Merlin crossed his arms over his chest, tugging at his sleeve. His heart was pounding like mad, and his mouth was dry, as he watched Arthur carefully.
“I suppose I can understand not wanting to tell me,” Arthur finally said.
“Um.”
There was half a beat of silence, and then Arthur said, “So I’ll see you next week, then?” When Merlin’s eyes met Arthur’s, he could see fear there, yes, but also, something like hope. Whatever Arthur saw reflected back at him must have satisfied him, because his tentative smile morphed into a smirk and his eyes crinkled up at the corners.
“Yeah,” Merlin said, a little breathless, and with no idea why.
“Good,” Arthur said, and he turned on his heel and started walking back the way he’d come.
Merlin spent the next week alternating between second guessing himself, freaking out and beaming like a madman at the thought of Arthur actually speaking to him again. He’d been vibrating inside his skin when he came back to the flat after the first lesson, and Gwaine had pushed him down on the sofa and flopped down next to him. “Good, I won’t have to kick his arse.”
Merlin blinked. “Sorry, what?”
“You look happy.”
“You knew,” Merlin accused, but it was halfhearted at best.
Gwaine, of course, ignored him. “So what did he say? Did you tell him about the wizard from Camelot bit?”
Merlin shook his head as he played with a stray thread on the sofa arm. “No, not exactly.” He could feel the heat rise to his cheeks as he remembered Arthur’s smile and the promise of next time.
“What happened? Did he snog you?” Gwaine’s grin turned lecherous. “I need details. Filthy, lurid details.”
“I… what? Snog?”
Gwaine batted his eyelashes, puckered his lips and leaned into Merlin’s space. Merlin shoved him away. “Augh!” Merlin said. “Get away from me!”
“But Merlin! I’m merely demonstrating snogging! This is entirely for your benefit.” Each sentence was punctuated by a loud smacking of the lips.
Merlin reached behind him, grabbed the sofa cushion, and pulled it over his head to hit Gwaine in the face. Gwaine wrestled the cushion from him and started smacking him in the side with one hand and tickling Merlin’s ribs with the other. Merlin yelped and started kicking Gwaine’s shins.
It devolved from there.
No matter how many times Merlin insisted there had been no snogging, Gwaine didn’t believe him.
Stepping into the classroom on Sunday, one week after he’d last seen Arthur, Merlin found his heart beating at double time when he scanned the room and saw a blond head bending over a cookbook. It looked like Arthur hadn’t come straight from the office this time; he was wearing a forest green jumper, with the sleeves rolled up his biceps to reveal a cream shirt nestled just above his elbows. Merlin’s gaze drifted down to take in Arthur’s tight blue jeans. Very tight. He felt heat spring to his cheeks when Arthur shifted his weight from one leg to the other and the muscles flexed underneath the denim.
Oh, gods, Merlin was staring at Arthur’s arse.
He forced his head back up just in time, as Arthur looked up from the book and turned to glance over his shoulder. He broke into a grin and turned to lean against the counter. “Hey.”
“Hello.” Merlin did not look down, but it was a near thing.
The rest of the class filtered in over the next few minutes. Merlin was relieved to see the bloodthirsty twins were sitting in the far corner of the room, though he was less than overjoyed to see they were strategically placed by the knife block and the culinary torch.
Whoever thought that giving twelve year olds access to a portable flame would be a good idea?
“So how’ve you been?”
Merlin looked away from the creepy twins and back to Arthur. He was smiling, his limbs loose. The top three buttons of his shirt were undone, and Merlin had to look away from the triangle of skin.
Why was this even a thing? He’d seen Arthur naked. He didn’t even wear a shirt half of the time he was in his chambers. A tiny glimpse of collarbone shouldn’t even register on the scale. Yet he could feel his heart pounding in his chest and the blood rushing in his ears.
“I’ve been well. Gwaine was a smug git when I got back from the first lesson.”
“Of course he was,” Arthur said, a smile flitting over his face as one hand toyed with his collar. “Morgana came into my office on Monday to gloat. I managed to avoid her until noon, though, so I’m counting it as a win.”
“You’d think they were trying to set us up on a date, and not just trying to get us to talk to each other again.”
Something shifted in Arthur’s expression. “Yeah.”
The cooking instructor stood up and stepped towards the class. “Today is Indian themed! Chicken Tikka Masala is my favourite curry, and it’s not too difficult to make.”
“You know,” Arthur whispered, as the teacher started outlining the process of assembling the marinade, “I bet he just made this menu with unhealthy foods in it so that he can get away with eating dessert without his spouse yelling at him for it.”
“Don’t worry,” Merlin whispered back, “I won’t yell at you for eating dessert.”
Merlin kept his eyes fixed on the cooking instructor, so he missed whatever look Arthur gave him in response. But he didn’t miss the brief press of Arthur’s hip against his own.
“I like Indian, don’t get me wrong,” Arthur said, frowning down at the ginger press in his hands. When Merlin looked at the ginger, he was reminded of the mandrake root from under Uther’s bed, and had to suppress a shudder. “But why is everyone so obsessed with Tikka Masala? Why can’t we learn to make a good Vindaloo?”
Merlin measured off another hundred grams of yoghurt into the steel mixing bowl and sighed. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“What, really?” Arthur raised an eyebrow as he dumped the shredded remains of the ginger into their bowl. “You don’t know what curry is? Don’t tell me you’ve not eaten it before.”
Merlin frowned. He remembered Gwaine getting them takeaway curry for supper a few times, but he’d never heard him say the word Vindaloo. “I’ve had curry.”
“What kind?”
Merlin wrinkled his nose. “Um. The brown kind?”
Arthur shook his head. “Gwaine should take you out for a proper Indian curry some time.”
He was no longer looking at him, but Merlin could see a smile hovering about Arthur’s lips as he started peeling the garlic cloves.
Or you could, Merlin thought, but didn’t say. “Yeah,” he said instead. “He should.”
Chapter 9: The Confession
Rating: R
Genres: Science Fiction (Time Travel), Humour, Romance
Era: Mix of canon-era and near-future (22nd century) reincarnation era
Pairings: Merlin/Arthur, one-sided Gwaine/Merlin, implied Gwaine/Percy
Wordcount: 2700 (this chapter); 45k total
Betas: percygranger, messyangel81
This really hasn't been Merlin's day. Or week. Or month, really. Seeing his best friend die in front of him was bad enough. But magicking himself into the future in order to save Arthur? Probably not as good an idea as it seemed on paper. And this future version of Gwaine will not stop hitting on him. Even in front of the future Arthur - talk about embarrassing. Especially since Merlin needs to get to know this Arthur if he's ever going to figure out how to save his.
Chapter 1: Camelot
Chapter 2: Let's Do the Time Warp Again
Chapter 3: Gwaine
Chapter 4: Getting to Know You
Chapter 5: Arthur
Chapter 6: The Glorious Life of a PA
Chapter 7: Trouble in Paradise
Chapter 8: Cooking Classes
“I see you still haven’t moved since yesterday,” Gwaine commented, as he shouldered the flat door shut behind him. “Or the day before. Or the day before that.”
Merlin groaned and peeked between his fingers. Thumps emanated from the kitchen, where Gwaine was setting down bags from Tesco’s.
Each thump seared a jolt of pain through Merlin’s skull. He was currently curled up on the sofa, arms wrapped around his head in an attempt to block out light and sound. Every time he twisted his head to the side a twinge of pain shot through his neck, and his mouth tasted faintly of socks. “What time is it?”
“Time for work.” Gwaine sounded far too cheerful, considering that last night he’d been just as off his head as Merlin had been. “I signed you up for a cooking class, by the way.”
“It’s not even dawn yet, you ass. And you drank almost as much as I did. How are you still standing?”
“Not my fault you can’t handle your liquor.”
“I can handle my… wait, you signed me up for what again?” Merlin attempted to scrape his tongue with his teeth, but the stale sock taste remained. “A cooking class?”
“Yes, Merlin, a cooking class.” Gwaine started slamming cabinet doors for good measure. Merlin’s head throbbed in sympathy. “If you want to work for me, you need to learn how to cook things.”
Merlin’s only response to that was a groan. The slamming doors in the kitchen stopped, and he was almost relieved, until he felt a sudden sharp pressure in his abdomen. When he opened his eyes to glare, Gwaine removed his index finger from Merlin’s belly and grinned widely, towering over the sofa. “The first class is next Sunday, at two.”
“You’ve no right to sound so bloody cheerful about it.”
Gwaine simply smiled disarmingly. “If you’d prefer, you can wake up when I do and clean the cafe. I could use someone to wash the windows.”
“Okay, fine, I’ll go to the stupid class. Can I go back to sleep now?”
Gwaine patted him on the arm. “Actually, no. I need you to clean up your shite. Percy’s coming over tomorrow.”
Merlin blinked up at him. “I hate you.”
He waited until Gwaine was gone, the door locked behind him, before crawling into Gwaine’s bed and pulling the duvet over his throbbing head.
Merlin wasn’t too sure what to make of his fellow cooking class students. Hiding in the corner, propped up next to the row of ovens, was a sketchy looking teenager with his hair stuck straight up above his head in a single column, and too many facial piercings. Merlin hadn’t even been aware you could pierce your chin. How did that even work? And he wasn’t even the youngest one there. A pair of what looked like twelve year old twins wielding forks were eyeing the knife block and whispering to each other. Merlin made a mental note to avoid them. An old man with a cane was rifling through the apron rack, and his (apparently abusive) wife kept rejecting his choices. “Too many flowers,” she cried when he pulled out one example, “and I hate red!” Apparently he was as deaf as she was colour-blind, as he happily tied the green apron around his waist and tottered back to his stool. Another pair of young women, the only sane looking people in the room, had been chatting quietly together when Merlin first entered, and were now smiling at each other soppily. And holding hands.
He was just about to pick out a stool in between the dysfunctional elderly couple and the diabolic siblings when the door to the classroom opened and a familiar blond head popped through. “Sorry to interrupt, is this the cooking class?“
His eyes met Merlin’s, and the words died in his throat.
Merlin raised an eyebrow as Arthur straightened, a muscle below his left eye spasming. “I am going to kill her,” he said, and then walked straight over to Merlin’s seat. “Hello.”
Merlin ignored him.
“Giving me the silent treatment? Really?”
Merlin lifted his hand to his mouth and feigned a yawn.
“Don’t act like a four year old, Merlin.”
Merlin turned his head to look at where Arthur was standing. He was still in his business suit - Merlin wouldn’t be surprised if he had come straight from the office, even though it was Sunday - and his shirt was slightly rumpled, as if he’d been tugging at his tie. He was clutching his briefcase so tightly that his knuckles were starting to turn white from the pressure.
“I’m not acting like a four year old.”
Arthur grit his teeth, the muscles of his jaw twitching. “I’m overjoyed to hear that.”
“Do you mind?” Merlin jerked his head, indicating the row of seats behind him. “I was actually looking forward to this class before you came in.”
It was at this moment that the cooking instructor, a rotund, balding Irishman with a goatee wearing a combination of blue jeans, checked over-shirt, and a puffy white chef’s hat, clapped his hands at the front of the room. “Good afternoon, everyone! We’ll be working in pairs for this first lesson, but I see that there is an odd number of students-“
Merlin exhaled a sigh of relief. Next to him, Arthur apparently did the same.
“My girlfriend’s running late,” the pierced teen interrupted. “I just got a text.”
“In that case,” the instructor said, smiling broadly, “we’ll let you wait for her. Does everyone else have a partner?”
Merlin glanced around the room, hoping desperately that he was not going to be stuck with Arthur, of all people. But, no; the overly friendly women were now sharing a single stool, the abusive couple were huddling close together, and the tiny knife children looked perfectly content seated next to the rack of kitchen tools.
Arthur and Merlin turned at the same time, looking at each other with dawning horror.
“Looks like we’re all set, then!” the instructor called out. “Who’s ready to make some meatballs?”
As Merlin walked back towards his and Gwaine’s flat, he wasn’t sure whether to be relieved or disappointed that he and Arthur hadn’t really spoken for the entire duration of the cooking class. Beyond the odd grunt or gruff instruction, Arthur had remained silent, and had barely even looked at Merlin.
His stomach was twisting uncomfortably as he strode along the pavement, hands in his pockets, his eyes on the ground in front of his feet. This was the only reason, he would tell himself later, why he stopped when he felt the hand close around his arm, why he didn’t keep on walking, why he turned around and stood silently as Arthur said, “Merlin,” in a pained voice.
He was distracted, that was all. That must have been the reason Merlin couldn’t stop staring. His thoughts were stuck in some sort of feedback loop, stuck on the aching familiarity of his ruffled blond hair, the crooked teeth, the desperation in those blue eyes.
“Look, I’ll drop the class,” Arthur was saying, and Merlin blinked as the meaning sunk in. “Morgana must have signed me up as some kind of joke. I don’t want to make you uncomfortable.”
“You don’t,” Merlin blurted.
Arthur’s brow furrowed. Merlin’s chest ached. “Of course I don’t. So I’ll talk to the instructor, then-“
“You don’t make me uncomfortable,” Merlin clarified.
Arthur stopped, blinked. His eyes flickered over Merlin’s face, assessing. “Really?”
“Well,” Merlin said, after an awkward silence. Arthur did, in fact, make Merlin uncomfortable. There was something entirely unsettling about talking to a man who was both your best friend and a complete stranger at the same time. Arthur’s face was less lined with worry, with responsibility, but he still looked at him sometimes in that way that stripped Merlin’s secrets bare, said, I know you. The way that said, I know you, and I still like you.
“You could have told me,” Arthur said, his voice hushed, barely audible over the hum of traffic and the buzz of electricity and machinery that always haunted Merlin in this place, this time.
“Told you what?” Merlin said, his voice too loud in comparison, grating.
Arthur’s gaze faltered, something shuttering over his expression, and Merlin felt his stomach clench like it always did when he lied to Arthur. You don’t think magic is inherently evil, surely?
“Look,” Merlin said, “if I had told you the truth, you wouldn’t have believed me.”
Arthur’s mouth tightened. “No? Did it occur to you that I would rather judge that for myself? I’m not a child.”
Merlin tilted his head. What did he have to lose, really? If this Arthur wouldn’t accept him, well, he still had another one, back in Camelot, who needed him. “Fine. You really want to know?”
Arthur frowned. “Of course I do.”
“I’m magic.”
Arthur blinked, and his face fell. “I’m serious, Merlin.”
“I am too.” Merlin sighed, bit his lip, and prayed to whatever gods still existed in this stupid place that he’d be able to get his magic to work this time. He stretched his hand out in front of Arthur, and whispered, “Leoht.”
An orb of blue light unfurled in his palm. Arthur was staring at Merlin’s hand, his mouth parted and his eyes glassy.
“Oh,” Arthur said.
Merlin closed his fist as the light blinked out.
After an eternity, Arthur spoke. “Magic, then.”
“Magic,” Merlin agreed, his stomach swooping somewhere in the vicinity of his knees.
“Well.” His voice sounded strangled.
Merlin crossed his arms over his chest, tugging at his sleeve. His heart was pounding like mad, and his mouth was dry, as he watched Arthur carefully.
“I suppose I can understand not wanting to tell me,” Arthur finally said.
“Um.”
There was half a beat of silence, and then Arthur said, “So I’ll see you next week, then?” When Merlin’s eyes met Arthur’s, he could see fear there, yes, but also, something like hope. Whatever Arthur saw reflected back at him must have satisfied him, because his tentative smile morphed into a smirk and his eyes crinkled up at the corners.
“Yeah,” Merlin said, a little breathless, and with no idea why.
“Good,” Arthur said, and he turned on his heel and started walking back the way he’d come.
Merlin spent the next week alternating between second guessing himself, freaking out and beaming like a madman at the thought of Arthur actually speaking to him again. He’d been vibrating inside his skin when he came back to the flat after the first lesson, and Gwaine had pushed him down on the sofa and flopped down next to him. “Good, I won’t have to kick his arse.”
Merlin blinked. “Sorry, what?”
“You look happy.”
“You knew,” Merlin accused, but it was halfhearted at best.
Gwaine, of course, ignored him. “So what did he say? Did you tell him about the wizard from Camelot bit?”
Merlin shook his head as he played with a stray thread on the sofa arm. “No, not exactly.” He could feel the heat rise to his cheeks as he remembered Arthur’s smile and the promise of next time.
“What happened? Did he snog you?” Gwaine’s grin turned lecherous. “I need details. Filthy, lurid details.”
“I… what? Snog?”
Gwaine batted his eyelashes, puckered his lips and leaned into Merlin’s space. Merlin shoved him away. “Augh!” Merlin said. “Get away from me!”
“But Merlin! I’m merely demonstrating snogging! This is entirely for your benefit.” Each sentence was punctuated by a loud smacking of the lips.
Merlin reached behind him, grabbed the sofa cushion, and pulled it over his head to hit Gwaine in the face. Gwaine wrestled the cushion from him and started smacking him in the side with one hand and tickling Merlin’s ribs with the other. Merlin yelped and started kicking Gwaine’s shins.
It devolved from there.
No matter how many times Merlin insisted there had been no snogging, Gwaine didn’t believe him.
Stepping into the classroom on Sunday, one week after he’d last seen Arthur, Merlin found his heart beating at double time when he scanned the room and saw a blond head bending over a cookbook. It looked like Arthur hadn’t come straight from the office this time; he was wearing a forest green jumper, with the sleeves rolled up his biceps to reveal a cream shirt nestled just above his elbows. Merlin’s gaze drifted down to take in Arthur’s tight blue jeans. Very tight. He felt heat spring to his cheeks when Arthur shifted his weight from one leg to the other and the muscles flexed underneath the denim.
Oh, gods, Merlin was staring at Arthur’s arse.
He forced his head back up just in time, as Arthur looked up from the book and turned to glance over his shoulder. He broke into a grin and turned to lean against the counter. “Hey.”
“Hello.” Merlin did not look down, but it was a near thing.
The rest of the class filtered in over the next few minutes. Merlin was relieved to see the bloodthirsty twins were sitting in the far corner of the room, though he was less than overjoyed to see they were strategically placed by the knife block and the culinary torch.
Whoever thought that giving twelve year olds access to a portable flame would be a good idea?
“So how’ve you been?”
Merlin looked away from the creepy twins and back to Arthur. He was smiling, his limbs loose. The top three buttons of his shirt were undone, and Merlin had to look away from the triangle of skin.
Why was this even a thing? He’d seen Arthur naked. He didn’t even wear a shirt half of the time he was in his chambers. A tiny glimpse of collarbone shouldn’t even register on the scale. Yet he could feel his heart pounding in his chest and the blood rushing in his ears.
“I’ve been well. Gwaine was a smug git when I got back from the first lesson.”
“Of course he was,” Arthur said, a smile flitting over his face as one hand toyed with his collar. “Morgana came into my office on Monday to gloat. I managed to avoid her until noon, though, so I’m counting it as a win.”
“You’d think they were trying to set us up on a date, and not just trying to get us to talk to each other again.”
Something shifted in Arthur’s expression. “Yeah.”
The cooking instructor stood up and stepped towards the class. “Today is Indian themed! Chicken Tikka Masala is my favourite curry, and it’s not too difficult to make.”
“You know,” Arthur whispered, as the teacher started outlining the process of assembling the marinade, “I bet he just made this menu with unhealthy foods in it so that he can get away with eating dessert without his spouse yelling at him for it.”
“Don’t worry,” Merlin whispered back, “I won’t yell at you for eating dessert.”
Merlin kept his eyes fixed on the cooking instructor, so he missed whatever look Arthur gave him in response. But he didn’t miss the brief press of Arthur’s hip against his own.
“I like Indian, don’t get me wrong,” Arthur said, frowning down at the ginger press in his hands. When Merlin looked at the ginger, he was reminded of the mandrake root from under Uther’s bed, and had to suppress a shudder. “But why is everyone so obsessed with Tikka Masala? Why can’t we learn to make a good Vindaloo?”
Merlin measured off another hundred grams of yoghurt into the steel mixing bowl and sighed. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“What, really?” Arthur raised an eyebrow as he dumped the shredded remains of the ginger into their bowl. “You don’t know what curry is? Don’t tell me you’ve not eaten it before.”
Merlin frowned. He remembered Gwaine getting them takeaway curry for supper a few times, but he’d never heard him say the word Vindaloo. “I’ve had curry.”
“What kind?”
Merlin wrinkled his nose. “Um. The brown kind?”
Arthur shook his head. “Gwaine should take you out for a proper Indian curry some time.”
He was no longer looking at him, but Merlin could see a smile hovering about Arthur’s lips as he started peeling the garlic cloves.
Or you could, Merlin thought, but didn’t say. “Yeah,” he said instead. “He should.”
Chapter 9: The Confession