Fic: A Misplaced Trust Chapter 1/?
Summary: Arthur meets a freezing-cold musician with an enchanting smile, and asks him on a date. Little does he know that they'll soon be colleagues - and, unfortunately for Arthur, the charity he works for has a strict "no fraternising" policy. Meanwhile, why has his sister, Morgana, departed under a cloud? And why won't she return his calls?
Rated teen and up because I have never got round to censoring out swear-words.
Disclaimer: This work is inspired by the BBC/Shine production "Merlin"; I am just playing with the characters, and promise to put them back when I've finished.
Author's notes: Written for the December "Winter Holidays" Theme on Merlin_writers. This chapter also written for the "Carols" square on my Merlin Holiday Bingo card.
A Misplaced Trust
By Camelittle
Chapter 1: Carols
Although Arthur doesn’t particularly like working for his father, he does like the idea that, as well as earning a bit of cash-not as much as he needs to fund his lifestyle, he has his own trust fund for that, but enough for a few extras-he’s doing something to make the world a better place.
So it’s with an air of contentment that he finds himself, one early December evening, pottering around Camelot Christmas Market, eyeing up chic presents for his sister and her girlfriend, and trying to find something witty but inoffensive to give Gwaine for his “secret Santa” present at the office Christmas Party later this month.
There’s a cold, North wind tonight, and he’s wrapped up warmly, but still shivers a little and thrusts his hands into his pockets when an icy gust blasts through his coat. A brass quintet are standing outside Tesco playing “God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen”, and he stops for a moment, smiling.
A very small, insistent person accosts him. She’s wearing festive reindeer antlers with bells on the end, and a slug of snot is extruding onto her top lip. She jabs a collecting tin, hard, at his stomach, so that he has to double over to hide his pained “oof!”
“Cam’lot Silver Band, please give gen’sly”, she says in adenoidal tones, before wiping her nose on a grubby sleeve.
The band breaks off on a strangled note, and an adult clutching some sort of brass instrument jogs up, grabbing her shoulder and pulling her away before she can do any more damage to Arthur’s abdomen. “Freya!” he admonishes. “Now, now, you mustn’t bash people like that; they won’t want to donate any money if you punch them in the stomach!”
She scowls-as menacingly as it is possible for someone who is not yet 5 years old, anyway-and pushes out her bottom lip. She seems on the verge of an explosion; Arthur recognizes the signs from his 4-year-old god-daughter, Nimue. Hastily, he acts to salvage the situation.
“Don’t worry,” he says to the adult, who appears to be shivering violently, and on second glance doesn’t appear to be much more than a teenager himself. Slipping a ten-pound note into the collecting tin, he winks at the little girl. Regarding him unblinkingly, she inserts her thumb into her mouth.
“Thanks!” says the musician, his face splitting into the most enchanting, delighted smile Arthur has ever seen. “I’m Merlin.” He leans forward to shake Arthur’s hand.
Arthur can’t help himself; he’s dazzled by that beaming grin. He smiles warmly back as he grasps Merlin’s outstretched hand.
“Arthur, pleased to meet you, Mer-bloody hell!” It’s like grasping a glacier. “You’re freezing! How long have you been out here?”
“Four hours.” Merlin grimaces. “We’re nearly done, to be honest.”
“Here. Idiot.” On an impulse, Arthur extracts a pair of gloves from his pocket, and hands them to the other man, who’s staring at him, open-mouthed. “Can’t have those clever fingers freezing off, now, can we?” He nods towards the music stands, where the other musicians have started to look restless. “I’ll keep an eye on this little ‘un here, until you’re done, and then I’ll buy you both something to warm your hands up. Deal?”
Merlin looks uncertain for a second.
“I promise I’m not a serial killer, kidnapper or pervert,” Arthur hastens to add. “Merely an interested bystander and music-lover.” But Merlin’s still hesitating.
“I tell you what, why don’t you play me a request in return,” Arthur goes on. He doesn’t know why he’s being so insistent; he doesn’t normally talk to strangers, let alone beg them to accept hot drinks. This protective instinct that has suddenly sprung itself on him must be something to do with Freya’s air of vulnerability, that must be it. It can’t possibly involve him wanting to see Merlin’s amazing smile again-to check that the expression is as joyful and sweet as he remembers-nor to do with the way that it makes his pulse jump. “I am deeply offended by ‘God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen’, and am willing to add another tenner to have something more jolly. How about ‘Jingle Bells’?”
He’s gratified when that sunbeam smile returns in full force, confirming all his previous observations. Nodding, Merlin pulls on the gloves before sauntering back to his place and settling down with the instrument to his lips.
Arthur settles on his haunches so that his eyes are level with Freya’s. She’s staring at him in that unnerving, wide-eyed way that kids have, like they can see the secrets of your heart, and Arthur wonders what she might read there.
“What’s a perpurt?” she says, frowning.
“A bad person,” says Arthur. “Don’t worry, I’m not one.”
She nods.
“Is Merlin your Dad?”
She shakes her head. “Mine uncle,” she says. “Dad’s the one playing the trombone. His name’s Will. He says Uncle Merlin doesn’t have children coz he’s a poof.”
“Right. I’m sure he does,” says Arthur, taken aback at the child’s forthrightness.
“Are you a poof, too?”
“Do you know what a poof is?”
“It’s like a cushion you put your feet on.”
“Right. Well. Good. In that case, yes, I’m a poof.”
And then the band are playing the chorus, so he sings along, and Freya joins in with him, so he changes the words in time honoured fashion. “Jingle Bells, Batman smells, Robin flew away. The Batmobile has lost its wheels and the Joker got away.” Freya giggles and claps along with the music.
He’s saddened to be pulled away when his phone starts to buzz. He pulls it out and glances at it; it’s an email from Morgana.
“I’ve resigned,” it says baldly. “It’s all yours, little brother. I refuse to be part of this glorified tax dodge for a moment longer. I’m going to work for a proper charity. I’m sending you my intern; please look after him.”
He’s puzzled. What can she possibly mean? The Pendragon Trust is a proper charity. It’s only in its second year, but they’ve got a list of wealthy donors as long as his arm, and, as the PR team he heads up is proud to announce, they’re the U.K.’s fastest expanding charity of 2013. So what can Morgana be referring to?
When the carol comes to a close, he hastily locks his phone and slides it back into his pocket. A Pendragon is always true to his word, so he still fully intends to take Merlin, Freya and her dad for a coffee at a nearby café. He walks Freya across to the musicians, while they pack their instruments away in their cases
“Thanks for that, we enjoyed it, didn’t we Freya?” Arthur says, desperately trying to forget Morgana’s email, so he can latch back on to the unfamiliar feeling of bonhomie that had suffused him the first time Merlin smiled at him. “Lovely music. Well, this is nice; shall we get that hot drink, then? What would you like?”
Freya extracts her thumb from her mouth for as long as it takes her to say “It’s all right, Daddy. Arthur’s not a perpert. He’s a poof. Like Uncle Merlin,” and then reinserts it.
Rolling his eyes, and trying to ignore the way a shameful blush blooms across his face, he goes to shake Freya’s Dad-Will?’s hand, but Will just glares at him and pointedly ignores it.
“So, is this a bribe to get into Merlin’s pants?” Will says, hands on hips, jaw jutting out.
Arthur drops his hand.
“Well, good evening, William, my name’s Arthur, how would you like a hot drink to warm up?" says Arthur, scowling. "Oh thanks for the generous offer, Arthur, you’re a gent," he answers himself, mimicking Will's voice. "You’re welcome, Will, anytime, mate," he adds in mock-reply. It’s his anxiety about Morgana that has made his voice turn sarcastic and sneery. That must be it. Nothing to do with feeling stung at the rejection.
He starts to turn and walk away, his good mood evaporating.
“Will!” Merlin sounds aghast. “Don’t be such an arsehole. He’s been really kind, and anyway, I’m an adult, you twat, I can decide for myself who I want to talk to.” He grabs Arthur by the shoulder, and hands him his gloves back, mouthing “thanks”. Their fingers touch; Merlin’s are still freezing. “I’m sorry, Will’s my big brother, and he’s a bit protective, since Mum-well, he’s protective, that’s all.”
“Keep them, idiot,” says Arthur, giving his gloves back. “Maybe wear them next time you play-and perhaps your protective big brother could do a better job of ensuring that you’ve got enough clothes to keep you warm. How are you getting home?”
“Walking.”
“Let me give you all a lift,” Arthur says. He’s chafing to get back to his apartment to call Morgana in peace and quiet, find out what’s going on, but tells himself that he wants to make sure Merlin and Freya get home and warm.
It’s nothing at all to do with him angling for another one of those breathtaking twinkly-eyed grins. But when he’s on the receiving end of one that makes Merlin's eyes sparkle and glow, gold in the orange streetlights, it warms him to his core anyway.
“Fuck off, you posh wanker,” says Will, killing the moment. He grabs Freya’s hand, and his trombone case. “Just because we’re not loaded like you, doesn’t mean we’re impressed by you flashing your cash around, yeah? We’ll walk home. C’mon, Merlin.”
Merlin picks up his instrument case and, with an apologetic shrug, follows his brother. “See you around, Arthur,” he says.
He hadn’t realised it was missing, before, but when Merlin walks away, it’s like all the joy and colour has suddenly departed from Arthur’s world.
On to Chapter 2
Rated teen and up because I have never got round to censoring out swear-words.
Disclaimer: This work is inspired by the BBC/Shine production "Merlin"; I am just playing with the characters, and promise to put them back when I've finished.
Author's notes: Written for the December "Winter Holidays" Theme on Merlin_writers. This chapter also written for the "Carols" square on my Merlin Holiday Bingo card.
A Misplaced Trust
By Camelittle
Chapter 1: Carols
Although Arthur doesn’t particularly like working for his father, he does like the idea that, as well as earning a bit of cash-not as much as he needs to fund his lifestyle, he has his own trust fund for that, but enough for a few extras-he’s doing something to make the world a better place.
So it’s with an air of contentment that he finds himself, one early December evening, pottering around Camelot Christmas Market, eyeing up chic presents for his sister and her girlfriend, and trying to find something witty but inoffensive to give Gwaine for his “secret Santa” present at the office Christmas Party later this month.
There’s a cold, North wind tonight, and he’s wrapped up warmly, but still shivers a little and thrusts his hands into his pockets when an icy gust blasts through his coat. A brass quintet are standing outside Tesco playing “God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen”, and he stops for a moment, smiling.
A very small, insistent person accosts him. She’s wearing festive reindeer antlers with bells on the end, and a slug of snot is extruding onto her top lip. She jabs a collecting tin, hard, at his stomach, so that he has to double over to hide his pained “oof!”
“Cam’lot Silver Band, please give gen’sly”, she says in adenoidal tones, before wiping her nose on a grubby sleeve.
The band breaks off on a strangled note, and an adult clutching some sort of brass instrument jogs up, grabbing her shoulder and pulling her away before she can do any more damage to Arthur’s abdomen. “Freya!” he admonishes. “Now, now, you mustn’t bash people like that; they won’t want to donate any money if you punch them in the stomach!”
She scowls-as menacingly as it is possible for someone who is not yet 5 years old, anyway-and pushes out her bottom lip. She seems on the verge of an explosion; Arthur recognizes the signs from his 4-year-old god-daughter, Nimue. Hastily, he acts to salvage the situation.
“Don’t worry,” he says to the adult, who appears to be shivering violently, and on second glance doesn’t appear to be much more than a teenager himself. Slipping a ten-pound note into the collecting tin, he winks at the little girl. Regarding him unblinkingly, she inserts her thumb into her mouth.
“Thanks!” says the musician, his face splitting into the most enchanting, delighted smile Arthur has ever seen. “I’m Merlin.” He leans forward to shake Arthur’s hand.
Arthur can’t help himself; he’s dazzled by that beaming grin. He smiles warmly back as he grasps Merlin’s outstretched hand.
“Arthur, pleased to meet you, Mer-bloody hell!” It’s like grasping a glacier. “You’re freezing! How long have you been out here?”
“Four hours.” Merlin grimaces. “We’re nearly done, to be honest.”
“Here. Idiot.” On an impulse, Arthur extracts a pair of gloves from his pocket, and hands them to the other man, who’s staring at him, open-mouthed. “Can’t have those clever fingers freezing off, now, can we?” He nods towards the music stands, where the other musicians have started to look restless. “I’ll keep an eye on this little ‘un here, until you’re done, and then I’ll buy you both something to warm your hands up. Deal?”
Merlin looks uncertain for a second.
“I promise I’m not a serial killer, kidnapper or pervert,” Arthur hastens to add. “Merely an interested bystander and music-lover.” But Merlin’s still hesitating.
“I tell you what, why don’t you play me a request in return,” Arthur goes on. He doesn’t know why he’s being so insistent; he doesn’t normally talk to strangers, let alone beg them to accept hot drinks. This protective instinct that has suddenly sprung itself on him must be something to do with Freya’s air of vulnerability, that must be it. It can’t possibly involve him wanting to see Merlin’s amazing smile again-to check that the expression is as joyful and sweet as he remembers-nor to do with the way that it makes his pulse jump. “I am deeply offended by ‘God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen’, and am willing to add another tenner to have something more jolly. How about ‘Jingle Bells’?”
He’s gratified when that sunbeam smile returns in full force, confirming all his previous observations. Nodding, Merlin pulls on the gloves before sauntering back to his place and settling down with the instrument to his lips.
Arthur settles on his haunches so that his eyes are level with Freya’s. She’s staring at him in that unnerving, wide-eyed way that kids have, like they can see the secrets of your heart, and Arthur wonders what she might read there.
“What’s a perpurt?” she says, frowning.
“A bad person,” says Arthur. “Don’t worry, I’m not one.”
She nods.
“Is Merlin your Dad?”
She shakes her head. “Mine uncle,” she says. “Dad’s the one playing the trombone. His name’s Will. He says Uncle Merlin doesn’t have children coz he’s a poof.”
“Right. I’m sure he does,” says Arthur, taken aback at the child’s forthrightness.
“Are you a poof, too?”
“Do you know what a poof is?”
“It’s like a cushion you put your feet on.”
“Right. Well. Good. In that case, yes, I’m a poof.”
And then the band are playing the chorus, so he sings along, and Freya joins in with him, so he changes the words in time honoured fashion. “Jingle Bells, Batman smells, Robin flew away. The Batmobile has lost its wheels and the Joker got away.” Freya giggles and claps along with the music.
He’s saddened to be pulled away when his phone starts to buzz. He pulls it out and glances at it; it’s an email from Morgana.
“I’ve resigned,” it says baldly. “It’s all yours, little brother. I refuse to be part of this glorified tax dodge for a moment longer. I’m going to work for a proper charity. I’m sending you my intern; please look after him.”
He’s puzzled. What can she possibly mean? The Pendragon Trust is a proper charity. It’s only in its second year, but they’ve got a list of wealthy donors as long as his arm, and, as the PR team he heads up is proud to announce, they’re the U.K.’s fastest expanding charity of 2013. So what can Morgana be referring to?
When the carol comes to a close, he hastily locks his phone and slides it back into his pocket. A Pendragon is always true to his word, so he still fully intends to take Merlin, Freya and her dad for a coffee at a nearby café. He walks Freya across to the musicians, while they pack their instruments away in their cases
“Thanks for that, we enjoyed it, didn’t we Freya?” Arthur says, desperately trying to forget Morgana’s email, so he can latch back on to the unfamiliar feeling of bonhomie that had suffused him the first time Merlin smiled at him. “Lovely music. Well, this is nice; shall we get that hot drink, then? What would you like?”
Freya extracts her thumb from her mouth for as long as it takes her to say “It’s all right, Daddy. Arthur’s not a perpert. He’s a poof. Like Uncle Merlin,” and then reinserts it.
Rolling his eyes, and trying to ignore the way a shameful blush blooms across his face, he goes to shake Freya’s Dad-Will?’s hand, but Will just glares at him and pointedly ignores it.
“So, is this a bribe to get into Merlin’s pants?” Will says, hands on hips, jaw jutting out.
Arthur drops his hand.
“Well, good evening, William, my name’s Arthur, how would you like a hot drink to warm up?" says Arthur, scowling. "Oh thanks for the generous offer, Arthur, you’re a gent," he answers himself, mimicking Will's voice. "You’re welcome, Will, anytime, mate," he adds in mock-reply. It’s his anxiety about Morgana that has made his voice turn sarcastic and sneery. That must be it. Nothing to do with feeling stung at the rejection.
He starts to turn and walk away, his good mood evaporating.
“Will!” Merlin sounds aghast. “Don’t be such an arsehole. He’s been really kind, and anyway, I’m an adult, you twat, I can decide for myself who I want to talk to.” He grabs Arthur by the shoulder, and hands him his gloves back, mouthing “thanks”. Their fingers touch; Merlin’s are still freezing. “I’m sorry, Will’s my big brother, and he’s a bit protective, since Mum-well, he’s protective, that’s all.”
“Keep them, idiot,” says Arthur, giving his gloves back. “Maybe wear them next time you play-and perhaps your protective big brother could do a better job of ensuring that you’ve got enough clothes to keep you warm. How are you getting home?”
“Walking.”
“Let me give you all a lift,” Arthur says. He’s chafing to get back to his apartment to call Morgana in peace and quiet, find out what’s going on, but tells himself that he wants to make sure Merlin and Freya get home and warm.
It’s nothing at all to do with him angling for another one of those breathtaking twinkly-eyed grins. But when he’s on the receiving end of one that makes Merlin's eyes sparkle and glow, gold in the orange streetlights, it warms him to his core anyway.
“Fuck off, you posh wanker,” says Will, killing the moment. He grabs Freya’s hand, and his trombone case. “Just because we’re not loaded like you, doesn’t mean we’re impressed by you flashing your cash around, yeah? We’ll walk home. C’mon, Merlin.”
Merlin picks up his instrument case and, with an apologetic shrug, follows his brother. “See you around, Arthur,” he says.
He hadn’t realised it was missing, before, but when Merlin walks away, it’s like all the joy and colour has suddenly departed from Arthur’s world.
On to Chapter 2