[Fic] A Lever and a Place to Stand (pt.1)- for camelotsolstice
Title: A Lever and a Place to Stand
Author: lassiterfics
Recipient: camelotsolstice
Pairing(s)/Character(s): Arthur/Merlin
Warnings: canon deaths, modern-day AU set in the USA
Spoilers: I suppose 1.06, 1.07, 1.10, 1.12, and 2.03.
Rating: R
Word Count: 11,904
Summary: When a peaceful march for the equal rights of magicians ends badly, Merlin is forced to hide out in the apartment of law student Arthur Pendragon.
Author's Note: My love and thanks (SO MUCH LOVE AND THANKS) to Z for being the bestest cheerleader and patient beta, and to M for lending a critical hand in the eleventh hour.
Disclaimer: This is a work of fanfiction - none of this ever happened. No copyright infringement is intended. No profit is made from this work. Please observe your local laws with regards to the age-limit and content of this work.
Arthur flips on the lights and says, “This is the guest bedroom.”
It’s as close to a five-star hotel room that Merlin figures he’s going to get. The rugs are plush, and the pillows are neatly arranged and color-coordinated. There’s even a framed picture of a castle on the wall. It’s so far from the world he knows, and Merlin doesn’t know whether to be glad of it or not. His own world and all its recent turmoil seem as a dream within a dream.
Arthur says, “I’ll hope you’ll be comfortable.”
“I’ll be fine,” Merlin replies. “Thank you.”
After a hesitation, Arthur adds, “I’m sorry for your loss.”
“Thank you,” Merlin repeats, and Arthur leaves.
Merlin locks the door behind him, drops his bags on the floor, and collapses on the bed. The memories of the day start playing again in his head, and he waits for a sleep that will never come.
+
Sometimes you can barely keep your eyes open in class because you’ve stayed up all night going through JSTOR and LexisNexis with a fine-toothed comb. Sometimes the printer at the law school library jams, and then your father calls canceling dinner because he has to meet with his publicist across town. Sometimes it’s just that kind of day. So really, you’d think Arthur would be grateful when he gets back to his apartment and finds Merlin cleaning the hell out of everything he owns. The mop mops by itself, the vacuum-cleaner vacuums of its own volition, and dishrags enthusiastically wipe down the counter. In the middle of the maelstrom is Merlin, up to his elbows in soapsuds as he washes dishes in the sink, his eyes glowing gold.
"What are you doing?" Arthur demands.
“It’s no trouble,” Merlin begins, and that is just the beginning. Out comes a torrent of words, of oh he doesn't mind reallys in an energetic voice like Merlin is insisting on something they were already in the midst of arguing about. All Arthur wants to do is zone out on the sofa and watch reruns of CSI: Mercia, because after an entire day of reading case studies about the various legalized injustices carried out against the magical population, he can really go for a dose of predictable crime-solving and pretend that’s what the world is really like.
“Merlin,” says Arthur, and Merlin continues babbling on about how he hates to be useless, how he can’t sit around and just do nothing, and doesn’t Arthur ever clean around here.
Arthur says, “Merlin,” and Merlin says he reckons Arthur doesn’t, because just look at this place.
“Merlin,” Arthur says in a voice like an order, and Merlin finally shuts up and looks up. The appliances slow down around them, whirring and polishing apprehensively.
"For god's sake,” Arthur says, “you’re not my servant."
The mop, the vacuum, the dishrags - they all drop to the ground.
Merlin retorts, "What do you expect me to do?”
It’s a valid question to which Arthur has no answer, because none of his classes on the sociology of magic or international wizarding relations prepared him for this - for Merlin to be frantic and heartbroken in his kitchen washing his dishes. Arthur is forced to put a human face to the thesis he has been working on all year: here is yet another sorcerer forced into sacrifice. Merlin is not the first and will not be the last.
So yes, what can Merlin do? Keep out of sight so Arthur can get on with his life? Don’t make a sound so Arthur can continue pretending he's going to change the big picture while ignoring the little pictures in front of him?
“I never wanted to stay here,” Merlin says defiantly, but Arthur can hear the strain in it.
“Look,” says Arthur. “Maybe we both could use a drink.”
+
The entire time the police asked Merlin their endless questions, Merlin kept on thinking of physics class from high school. The speed of sound is 343 meters per second and the speed of light is 299,792,458 meters per second, and when Merlin raised his head to smile at the people waving from their windows, he saw the gunman's rifle kick back before he heard the shot.
"What else do you remember, Mr. Emrys?" they had asked.
"That's about it," Merlin lied, because what he remembered was how quickly the blood spread across the front of Will's t-shirt, and how tightly he held Merlin's hand before his eyes went still. The crowd, instead of dispersing, seemed to grow in number. The march turned into a mob, and suddenly Gwen was tugging him away saying, “Come on, come on, there’s nothing you can do.”
"Thank you for your time," said the police, so Merlin lied again: "You're welcome."
+
The way Merlin drinks scotch makes Arthur wince. It goes straight from the glass to the back of his throat. He doesn't even savor it. It goes to the back of his throat and straight to his head, and Arthur can tell because suddenly Merlin says, “You’re not what I thought you were.”
Arthur raises an eyebrow. “What did you think I was?”
“Something different. Something, like…”
“Something like my father?” he says cautiously.
And the hesitation that follows says it all.
“Look-“ Merlin starts to say.
“Hey,” Arthur cuts in, and then says nothing, so Merlin says nothing too.
It’s no secret. In the northeast, the name Pendragon is synonymous with sorcerer segregation and mandatory registration, and Uther Pendragon is to be thanked for that. Ever since Uther started his first term of many as mayor of Albion, tensions have risen even higher. In downtown Brookford and even uptown Kingston, there has been an increased rate of hate-related crimes from vandalism to assault and battery. Every time, his father would point to the same people and recite variations on a theme: there will be no peace in our city so long as these sorcerers are allowed to run amok.
The way Arthur sees it, he loves his father, and sometimes loving people is hard. That doesn’t mean you should stop loving them, no matter what they say, or do, or whom they hate. It is not always ideal, but Arthur is nothing if not loyal.
Maybe the scotch wasn’t a good idea. Maybe taking Merlin on wasn’t a good idea, but Gwen is persuasive when she wants to be. Arthur never even knew that Gwen is active in the magi movement, but he isn’t surprised - he should have figured. “It’s not about being pro-magic, Arthur,” she said, “but about being pro-human.” And if Gwen is involved in this, then who else is?
“Come on, Arthur,” Gwen had said. “This is the fight you’ve been waiting all your life to fight.”
“But my father-“
“You’re not your father,” she insisted.
Merlin, draped bonelessly on Arthur’s sofa, has the glassy-eyed look of someone who’s a few drinks in. He gives Arthur a look of intoxicated sincerity and continues, “You’re different, aren’t you?” and Arthur changes the subject.
After an hour’s meandering conversation about things neither of them really care about (and a fair amount of scotch), Merlin passes out. Arthur, who is busy talking about which reality show is the least horrible, doesn’t even notice until he hears the snoring.
“I didn’t think I was that boring,” Arthur says, and of course Merlin doesn’t reply.
Would it be worth it to move Merlin to his bed? Is it worth waking him up? Then the living room would be all Arthur’s and he can watch all the TV he wants. Merlin probably wouldn’t be a problem to carry. The guy is tall and long-limbed but he probably weighs nothing. Arthur could take him down easily; he could hold him down. Maybe it’s just how Merlin looks right now, like some gawky kid who can’t handle his liquor - a vulnerable appearance belying a great power. Arthur has seen Merlin in the papers and on TV, usually as a footnote to a story featuring Nimueh and how the magi movement is gaining momentum in the nation, how things are about to boil over downtown, and how the situation is and isn’t like the other pro-magi demonstrations around the world.
After finishing his drink, Arthur goes to the linen cabinet and looks for a blanket.
When he goes back out to the living room, Merlin has rolled over on his side in as fetal a position as he can on the couch, which is not very. Arthur drapes the blanket over him and, after a moment’s hesitation, tucks Merlin in. He reaches down and brushes the bangs from Merlin’s forehead. His hair is wispy, soft, and his forehead is warm, and suddenly Merlin’s hand reaches up and catches Arthur’s. He freezes, but Merlin doesn’t seem to be acting consciously. He’s still snoring.
“…rbkc,” Merlin mutters.
“What?”
“’M glad you’re back.”
“Who?”
“I missed you.”
Maybe it’s the scotch, or maybe it’s just the way Merlin spoke just now, how sad his relief sounded. Maybe it’s just been a weird day, who the hell knows, but instead of taking back his hand and leaving, Arthur sits on the coffee table and continues to let his hand be held.
“I missed you too,” Arthur ventures, hoping it’s the right thing to say.
“Mmm,” says Merlin, and grips Arthur’s hand even tighter.
Arthur grips it back.
+
In the cities, people are beginning to be openly magical. The times are changing, they like to say. We cannot help what we are, so we must not fear ourselves. No one will champion us, so we must champion ourselves.
Merlin was lured to the city of Albion by these slogans, by a nascent collective identity he hoped to be a part of. He kissed his mother goodbye on a train platform, and now he’s living in a crap apartment in Brookford, which is a neighborhood largely peopled by sorcerers, by the young, the poor, the newly immigrated, and the miscellaneous disenfranchised. This was where he met Will.
"You're a sorcerer too?" Merlin asked.
"No, but I'm good with card tricks," said Will.
This was where he met everyone. Will brought him to community meetings and house parties where people talked about systemic disadvantage and rights to heritage. Their eyes glowed gold as they casually used magic to refill pitchers and light cigarettes, and Merlin absorbed their rhetoric like a sponge. The smallest magic to the biggest; we are capable of it all and we cannot be divided from it. We have nothing to lose and our own humanity to gain. Slowly but surely, these diatribes took on the quality of truth within him, and he became heartened by the necessity of his chosen struggle.
This was how he met Nimueh.
The first time Merlin met Nimueh, he was enamored. He and Will were outside of a bar after last call, arguing about where to go next, when she tapped him on the shoulder.
“Can I bum a smoke?” she asked, and Will took out his pack before Merlin did because if Will wasn’t the kind of guy who bummed pretty girls cigarettes, then who was he?
“Of course,” said Will, and Nimueh thanked him, but she winked at Merlin.
"You know why the meek will inherit the earth?" she was saying a few minutes later, smoking Will’s cigarette as a ring of people orbited her and hung on her every word. "Because the meek will change it. The ones in power have no interest in changing the status quo. The powerless will be the ones to do away with it."
"But," Merlin cut in, "we aren't powerless."
"No," said Nimueh, "but many of us are afraid, which amounts to the same thing."
There is a natural magnetism to her, and a confidence bordering on arrogance that nevertheless held the loyalty of the community. They say she was one of the few who was in direct contact with the Dragon when he was lying low in some undisclosed location overseas. Nimueh says all the things Merlin felt and never articulated. She says them loud and clear and never apologizes for it, and she has the bluest eyes Merlin has ever seen.
He and Will went to demonstrations organized around the city, joining the throngs of people demanding equality with megaphones and homemade signs. They were struggling not just for their lives, but for their existence, for the right to be recognized as more than an aberration. And the thing is, everyone always says of course they’re ready to make sacrifices, of course they’re ready to fight. That’s what struggle is all about, isn’t it? But then one day someone gets his hand on a gun, and the police arrive too late, and there’s bodies and no killer. One day Merlin is told to hide out, for god’s sake lie low.
He hadn’t wanted to hide, but Gaius took him aside and said, “Merlin, sometimes you have to accept defeat so you can fight another day.” And when Gaius says things like that, Merlin has to wonder what the old man done in his day, or what he hasn’t.
“Stay safe,” Gaius ordered, and Merlin said he would. It’s not like he goes out looking for trouble anyway.
+
Merlin doesn’t take it well when he is told he can’t go to the funeral.
“What the fuck do you mean I can’t go?” Merlin demands into the phone, and Arthur realizes it’s the first time he’s heard Merlin swear.
Even with Merlin’s bedroom door closed, Arthur can hear snatches of the conversation, or at least the part where Merlin yells angry questions and dismisses what answers he gets. Merlin doesn’t come out of his room for the rest of the day. Arthur puts Merlin’s dinner in the fridge and eats his while watching television.
The evening news is on, and all the talking heads are still going on about the Mad Ave Mob. “A peaceful march for equal rights turned into a riot,” the newscaster is saying, “when an unidentified gunman open-fired at the corner of Madison Avenue and Chambers Street.”
The screen switches to headshots of the dead: Tauren MacAninch, William Miles, Edwin Muirden, Aulfric O’Shea, and Sofia O’Shea. Arthur wonders how close Merlin was with these people. He heard that Will was one of Merlin’s good friends, but did Merlin ever buy Sofia a drink? Did he and Tauren ever share a cab home?
“The funeral will be held on Friday at St. Mark’s,” says the newscaster, “to be followed by a march to the site of this tragedy, where a vigil will take place.”
Arthur changes the channel.
The next time Merlin comes out of his room, it’s close to midnight, but so absorbed is Arthur in editing page 27 of his thesis that he doesn’t notice until Merlin is standing in the study doorway, knocking on the wall.
Arthur looks up.
“Hey,” says Merlin, looking a bit the worse for wear, “do you have a radio I can borrow?”
“…Like a radio radio?”
“No, I just need one.”
Arthur frowns. Merlin smiles, a fragile thing that almost chases away the shadows on his face.
“Kidding,” he says softly. “Yeah, like a regular radio.”
Arthur hesitates. In the past two days, he has already lent Merlin his phone charger and a pair of headphones, and both came back suspiciously prone to inoperability. “I think I get satellite radio on my cellphone,” he finally concedes.
“Your cellphone, huh?” says Merlin. “I think I can swing that.”
+
The rumor is that the different cells and splinters of the magi movement can communicate with each other telepathically. Even if they’re on opposite sides of the world, they can magically plug in and log on to some magical global circuit to which every deviant sorcerer is connected. This is how plots are hatched, how governments might be toppled and children indoctrinated into immoral ideology.
Like all rumors, this one is partly true.
The sorcerers use radios.
“What are you doing?” Arthur asks suspiciously.
“I’m modulating the properties of electromagnetic waves,” Merlin replies, his eyes golden, “with magic.”
The sorcerers transmit over a frequency accessible only to magic-users. Not all sorcerers can do this. But once you know the physics, once you know what it is you’re manipulating, all you have to do is reach in and make amplitude, phase, and frequency dance in a way that they would never do if left in the clutches of mere science.
“After all,” Gaius said once, “what is science but a more primitive form of magic?”
Arthur asks, “Look, are you sure you know what you’re doing? That phone is expensive, and magical tampering isn’t covered under warranty.”
“I’ve done this hundreds of times,” Merlin lies. He has done this only a few times before, and not well. Merlin has a general aversion towards technology; it’s never as smooth as magic.
The satellite radio connects and the cellphone screen informs him that a Sam Cooke song is currently playing. A tinny voice cuts through the air, singing, “-aby ain’t around. Cryin’ for my baby, cryin’ all alone, waiting for y-”
The sound fizzles and warps as Merlin mumbles incantations under his breath.
“Don’t you have a thesis to write?” Merlin asks as the cellphone begins to hum a slowly rising note.
“I, uh, just want to make sure you’re okay.”
“Yeah, sure, you just want to make sure I don’t destroy your phone.”
“Well, you did destroy my phone charger and earphones, so I’m well within my rights to be watchful.”
“Look,” Merlin says. “I just want to talk to Nimueh.”
The room explodes with color and light.
Merlin is dimly aware of Arthur crying out in shock, but most of his attention is focused on fighting his way through the lines of transmission that crisscross around him. Conversations in a dozen languages fly past - dukuns in Java networking with witches in California, shamans in Korea passing information to houngans in Haiti - but Merlin keeps his mind alert, electrified. (“Merlin, what is going on?!” someone demands in another existence.) Merlin keeps his mind on Nimueh.
Finally: “Hello?”
“Nimueh!” Merlin exclaims, relieved. “Nimueh, it’s me. It’s Merlin!”
Around him a hundred conversations refract and diffract, and he has to strain to hear her.
“Merlin? Are you all right? Are you still at Arthur’s?”
“Yes, yes. I’m fine, but-“
“Then you shouldn’t be calling,” she snaps. “Listen, we’re in the middle of a meeting-“
Merlin feels a flash of anger. Another thing he’s been left out of. They’re taking him out of the fight when he needs (or wants) to fight the most. “Gaius tells me I can’t go to the funeral,” he blurts out.
“You can’t,” Nimueh says flatly.
“Why not?! It’s public, isn’t it? I should go. All of Brookford is going!”
“Think about it, Merlin. Everyone who was killed was magi who were my right-hand men. Everyone except Will. Do you need it spelled out? The bullet that killed Will was meant for you.”
“Come on, they won’t attack a funeral,” he scoffs.
“They attacked a peaceful march.”
“I should go! I can take care of myself!”
“Sure, but what about everyone else? We won’t take the risk. You’d be putting everyone else in harm’s way just because you quote unquote must go.”
“Will was my friend!”
“They were all our friends,” Nimueh says quietly.
“Nimueh-“
“Merlin, don’t be selfish.”
“Selfish!” Merlin chokes out.
“This is not what the Dragon would want.”
“Fuck the Dragon! Always going on about the underground resistance or whatever. He has no idea what’s going on in Albion!”
“Merlin, listen-“
Then there is another voice - female, young, familiar: “Is that Merlin?” There is more muffled conversation, and then the new voice is on the line. “Merlin! Hi, it’s Morgana.”
The signal immediately weakens, and her voice becomes faint and crackly. Morgana is a new recruit, and only just beginning to get a handle of her powers. She still hides them from Uther and Arthur, which Nimueh doesn’t approve of, but what can you do? Maybe Nimueh has never had a secret, but Merlin has had several, and he remembers how intimidating it can be to claim a part of your identity that could get yourself killed.
“I’m sorry to interrupt,” Morgana says, “but we have to borrow Nimueh.”
“Yes, where would the world be without Nimueh’s leadership,” Merlin mutters.
The line crackles again, but Merlin can still hear her saying to Nimueh, “Go, go, Aglain is throwing a hissy fit. Let me handle Merlin.”
‘Handle’. Like he’s some sort of animal.
“Merlin, hey,” Morgana says. “Look, Gwen told me you’re upset about the funeral-”
“Well, make me un-upset,” Merlin demands. “None of you can stop me going, you know, not if I really want to. Why don’t we hold the funeral somewhere only sorcerers can go? Really protect ourselves this time. We’ll enchant some place. I’ll help.”
“No, we don’t w-“
“Or I won’t, whichever.”
“We don’t want to close ourselves off from the non-magical,” Morgana says. “That would be defeating the point. Besides, there are non-magical people coming to the funeral. There are going to be television cameras.“
“Oh, okay. So you’re just going to exploit their deaths.”
“No,” Morgana says slowly. “We are showing that we have nothing to hide.”
“Except me,” Merlin mutters.
“Merlin,” she says in a voice like an order, and it reminds Merlin of Arthur, the way her tone forces itself on him. He can see how the two of them might have grown up together.
“What.”
Morgana says, “You can’t take this personally.”
“How am I supposed to take it?” Merlin demands.
“Like the champ that you are. You’re not the only one who has lost loved ones.”
It is, perhaps, the chastisement that she should’ve said in the beginning, because it shuts Merlin right up. He knows they’re both thinking of Gwen. Gwen’s father hadn’t been a magician, but he was accused of being one and there had been ‘evidence’ supporting the claim. If everyone is sufficiently scared or complacent, that’s all you need to kill a man.
“How are you enjoying Arthur’s apartment, by the way?” Morgana chirrups.
“It’s okay. He’s a little uptight.”
“Uptight? Yeah. You try playing him at Boggle, you’ll see how uptight he can get.” And then someone yells something on Morgana’s end, and she says, “Merlin, I have to go.”
The goodbyes are rushed, and Merlin envies the flurry of activity going on at the other end. He wishes he were there. Around him, the lights and colors and conversations in a dozen tongues begin to fade, and fatigue trickles into Merlin’s muscles, as it always does after a large and complicated spell. Arthur is no longer standing in the doorway. Merlin takes a shaky breath and lets himself fall backward onto the mattress.
The phone crackles back to mundanity and sings, “…rise up singing, you’re gonna spread your wings, child, and take, take to the sky…”
+
“Okay,” Arthur says, pushing a mug across the kitchen counter at Merlin. “Here’s your coffee. Now what the hell was that?”
Merlin sips his coffee. “I was just making a phone call.”
“I have made many a phone call in my day,” Arthur says, “and not once did the phone ever do that. I didn’t even know my phone could do that!”
“It usually can’t,” Merlin shrugs. “I just gave the signal a little boost. Using a little magic to boost up the science. Or using a little science to boost up the magic, I forget which one it is.”
Arthur’s mouth twitches. “I don’t see why you couldn’t have just called Nimueh the regular way.”
“I’ve been trying that all day! I called everyone I knew. Either they don’t pick up or they can’t do anything.” He throws his hands up. “I called Nimueh god knows how many times. She was one of the ones who never picked up. So, you know, then I needed to switch to radio.”
Arthur raises an eyebrow, amused. “So you thought it safe to talk to her within earshot of the son of your greatest enemy?”
“Well… I guess you could only hear my end of the conversation anyway.”
“You don’t know where my loyalties lie.”
“I know where your loyalties lie,” Merlin says, “because you’re housing me. Sounds like you don’t know where your loyalties lie.”
“Ha! Is that so?“
“Yeah. Also, I read your thesis, which seems to articulate your sympathies pretty well.”
It takes a few seconds for the words to process.
“What?” says Arthur.
“You left it on the kitchen counter when you went to your conres working group. So, you know. So I looked through it.”
“It’s just a draft,” Arthur says automatically. “It’s not even finished. There are some sections that need to be moved around, and some that I’m going to have to rewrite altogether, and the introduction is-“
“It’s good,” says Merlin. “A little starry-eyed, but good. And true, which is important.”
“Starry-eyed?” Arthur repeats, trying not to sound offended.
Merlin looks into his eyes with a sincere expression that is definitely not manifesting strange butterflies in Arthur’s stomach, and asks, “Are you one of those closeted wizards?”
“What? No.”
“What got you interested in the topic? Y’know. In us? The social, uh, the legislation of…”
“The social implications of the legislation of magic in North America circa the twentieth century,” Arthur reels off.
Merlin grins. “I wonder what your father’d think if he read it, eh? I don’t think these are the social implications he’s looking for. Hundreds of thousands of dollars sending his kid to an Ivy League university only for the kid to come out the other end his enemy.”
“I’m not his enemy,” Arthur replies irritably.
“But you want to fight. I can feel it from your literature review,” Merlin grins, having a perhaps little too much fun with this.
“Look, just because I disagree with my father, doesn’t make him my enemy.”
“No,” Merlin shrugs. ”Disagreement is the spice of life.”
“I don’t think that’s how the saying goes.”
“Close enough.”
Merlin stirs his coffee absently, resting his head in his hand, and Arthur finds himself following the line of his cheekbone down to his mouth, how smooth it looks, and pale. Snap out of it, Pendragon. Arthur ventures, “I’m sorry you can’t go to your friends’ funeral.”
Merlin shrugs.
“Is there anything I can do?” Arthur asks.
Merlin shakes his head.
“You want some beer?” Arthur definitely isn’t going to offer the scotch again.
“I’m already drinking coffee.”
“Or feel free to watch one of the DVDs in the living room if you want.”
Merlin shakes his head.
“Or, um.” Arthur digs deep into his brain. If he were in Merlin’s place, how would he want to be comforted? “I… also have a Scrabble game. If you happen to be interested.”
Merlin almost shakes his head again automatically, but he pauses. He looks up at Arthur, and has a considering expression on his face.
+
Arthur plays Scrabble the way some people play chess. He plans not just the next move, but the next three moves after that and Merlin’s anticipated reactions, taking into account the accessibility of Triple Word Scores and the possibility of layering words atop each other for simultaneous point maximization. Also, he played ‘oxidize’ over a Double Word Score within six rounds.
Things are not looking good for Merlin.
“’Qi’ is not a word,” Merlin protests.
“Yes, it is. It’s the vital life force in all things.”
“Isn’t that spelled C-H-I?”
“It’s the same thing. The romanization standards have changed. Now they follow the pinyin system, which favors the Q to the C-H used by the largely superseded Wade-Giles system. But it’s not as if either of them give us any clear indication of how these words are actually pronounced anyway.”
Merlin blinks. “…Uh-huh…”
“I can get out my Scrabble dictionary,” Arthur threatens.
Of course Arthur would have a Scrabble dictionary.
“Fine, play ‘qi’ if you want,” Merlin says, and Arthur does and scores twenty-two points.
For the most part it is a slow-going game. Much like a chess player, Arthur takes forever to make a move. Merlin just plays words like ‘or’ and ‘bat’ as soon as he finds them, then Arthur accuses him of not trying his best, and fair enough. He isn’t. Merlin is still exhausted from his phone call. His skin is still tingling and his vision still flickers. The fatigue creeps from his mind into his bones, mixing weirdly with the jolt of caffeine, so he’ll play ‘to’ next round if he wants to, thanks very much.
Merlin curls up in the armchair and watches Arthur plan his conquest of the Scrabble board, bent over his letters and frowning at them as if willing victory to arise from the tiles. It is, Merlin will admit, a little endearing, if a little obsessive. There’s something about the intensity in his eyes and the way he taps his lips while he’s thinking. The way he hovered at Merlin’s closed door this afternoon wondering if he should knock. Yeah, Merlin isn’t blind, he saw the shadow under the door.
“Jape?” Merlin reads. “Is that a word?”
“It means joke.”
Merlin wonders though if there can maybe be a true ally in Arthur Pendragon. Not just as someone who provides a safehouse when you need one, but as a visionary and a leader who could conceptualize, organize ,and be victorious while retaining both compassion and beneficial connections. Arthur’s thesis is sharp and attuned, and although some of his prescriptions are a mess of idealism, his passion resounds with Merlin. It is always easier to be cynical, and far braver to have faith and fight. Maybe the crossing of their paths is more fortuitous than Merlin thought. Perhaps he is a worth a second look.
“Your turn,” Arthur says. He has added ‘tory’ to Merlin’s ‘his’, and the Y is on a Triple Letter Score. Of course it is.
“Historp is not a word,” Merlin says.
“That’s not what I put-“
Merlin points his finger like a gun and casts a spell. The Y turns into a P.
“That’s cheating!” Arthur sputters.
“I’d like to see you try to find ‘historp’ in the Scrabble dictionary. And,” Merlin adds, “I’d like to see you find the rule that says you can’t magically change Ys to Ps.”
To Merlin’s delighted surprise, Arthur says, “Fine!” And storms off.
How do I pull you in, how do I pull you in, Merlin wonders as Arthur comes back his laptop and a diatribe about fair play. Merlin sits back as Arthur shows him different Scrabble rules from around the world, intent on proving the inherent immorality of using magic to win non-magical board games. There is a stubbornness about the young Pendragon that reminds Merlin of Will, and Merlin feels a little guilty for finding the similarity comforting. Arthur’s blue eyes and high ideals remind Merlin of Nimueh, but Arthur has a charisma all his own, and now that Merlin has seen the mind that fuels it, he can’t help but be intrigued.
+
They play again the next night, and the night after that. They’d set up the Scrabble board after dinner, and they play until Arthur beats Merlin by a margin of 120 points.
“So who’s advising your thesis?” asks Merlin, who doesn’t know when to drop things. “Did you read the Wizard Manifesto last year? Did you have a professor who mysteriously isn’t teaching anymore?”
“No, and no,” Arthur replies, and plays ‘pharaoh’.
“You ought to come down sometime, you know,” Merlin says. “Come to one of our meetings, that is. I think you’d find it interesting, and I think they’d find your ideas interesting.”
“Look, shut up a minute and let me play some Scrabble, okay?”
“You’re winning anyway,” Merlin mutters, but he shuts up.
On Thursday night, Arthur plays ‘will’ and Merlin frowns.
Merlin says, “I thought you can’t play proper nouns.”
“’Will’ isn’t a proper noun.”
And Merlin is about to protest, but then his expression changes from skepticism to embarrassed realization and quickly mounting grief. Merlin’s face crumples for a second and he looks away, and Arthur feels a pang of guilt at being surprised that this is still where Merlin’s mind is, where his first instinct lies. How will Merlin be tomorrow on the day of the funeral? Will he be okay, or will Arthur have to step things up to Boggle?
“Sorry,” Merlin says shakily. “I, uh-“
“It’s all right, just pull yourself together,” Arthur says reassuringly. “It happens sometimes with Scrabble, you can’t see the forest for the trees. One time, I stared at F-U-R-O-R for ages wishing I had better letters before I remembered that ‘furor’ is actually a word.”
Merlin rubs his face and says, “Please don’t tell me to pull myself together.”
“Look.” Arthur swaps the W with a G. “Look, I’ve changed it, all right?“
“Don’t. Arthur, you don’t have to do that.“
“And a G is worth less than a W,” Arthur continues, ignoring the tone of Merlin’s voice, “so that’s even better for yo-“
“Don’t do that!” Merlin exclaims, and Arthur sees the flash of gold before he sees the wave of magic pulse from him. The letters on the board jump in place and land askew, and if Arthur were looking at them he would notice something quite strange, but all his attention is on Merlin, whose grief thrums around them. “You can’t just undo things,” Merlin says in a voice like a sob. “That’s not how things work.”
“Merlin-“
“Some things can’t be undone. Sometimes you can’t change things so you have to move on, all right? You have to respect it and move on.”
“All right, all right, I’ll put the W back,” Arthur says, aware that they are no longer talking about Scrabble, but what else can he do? What can either of them do? “By the way,” Arthur says, having failed to replace the W, “what have you done to my game?”
“What?”
The tiles have no letters on them. None of them do; all are blank.
“This is sort of a Scrabble player’s dream,” Arthur hazards, “but also kind of unnecessary.”
“…I didn’t mean to do that.”
“If you really don’t like Scrabble, you could’ve said so.”
“Jesus Christ, will you shut the fuck up about Scrabble?” Merlin bursts out. “I don’t give a shit about Scrabble. I don’t-“ Merlin leans back on the sofa and covers his face with his hands. “Christ.”
A silence slithers in, and it is only after it has settled that Arthur remembers to say: “I’m sorry.”
“Yeah. Me too.”
“Um.” Arthur tries to think. “Will… I hear he was a good friend of yours.”
“He was the first person outside of my mother who knew I was a wizard,” Merlin says quietly. “He was the first person I told.”
“Oh. …Wow.”
“It’s always difficult, that first person. It’s a big step, you know? It’s almost like-“ He waves his hands vaguely. “Almost like you’re telling yourself too. Like it’s real now.”
“But you’re born with magic, right?” Arthur asks. “So it’s always been real.”
“I mean…” Merlin shrugs. “Yes. Of course. But now it’s like there’s an alibi, almost…? An affirmation of sorts. Like, you’re less alone.”
“An alibi…”
“Look, I was young, and I didn’t have a clue, okay? I was a small-town boy in a big city. It was… ” Merlin shrugs again, a little more desperately. “I don’t know. Will was there, and he was someone who can say, ‘I know what’s going on and it’s okay’. Someone who’s loyal to you and you can be loyal to. You know what I mean?”
Arthur nods, smiling faintly. “That’s important.”
“Yeah,” Merlin says softly. “Yeah, it is.”
[ Part Two]
Author: lassiterfics
Recipient: camelotsolstice
Pairing(s)/Character(s): Arthur/Merlin
Warnings: canon deaths, modern-day AU set in the USA
Spoilers: I suppose 1.06, 1.07, 1.10, 1.12, and 2.03.
Rating: R
Word Count: 11,904
Summary: When a peaceful march for the equal rights of magicians ends badly, Merlin is forced to hide out in the apartment of law student Arthur Pendragon.
Author's Note: My love and thanks (SO MUCH LOVE AND THANKS) to Z for being the bestest cheerleader and patient beta, and to M for lending a critical hand in the eleventh hour.
Disclaimer: This is a work of fanfiction - none of this ever happened. No copyright infringement is intended. No profit is made from this work. Please observe your local laws with regards to the age-limit and content of this work.
Arthur flips on the lights and says, “This is the guest bedroom.”
It’s as close to a five-star hotel room that Merlin figures he’s going to get. The rugs are plush, and the pillows are neatly arranged and color-coordinated. There’s even a framed picture of a castle on the wall. It’s so far from the world he knows, and Merlin doesn’t know whether to be glad of it or not. His own world and all its recent turmoil seem as a dream within a dream.
Arthur says, “I’ll hope you’ll be comfortable.”
“I’ll be fine,” Merlin replies. “Thank you.”
After a hesitation, Arthur adds, “I’m sorry for your loss.”
“Thank you,” Merlin repeats, and Arthur leaves.
Merlin locks the door behind him, drops his bags on the floor, and collapses on the bed. The memories of the day start playing again in his head, and he waits for a sleep that will never come.
+
Sometimes you can barely keep your eyes open in class because you’ve stayed up all night going through JSTOR and LexisNexis with a fine-toothed comb. Sometimes the printer at the law school library jams, and then your father calls canceling dinner because he has to meet with his publicist across town. Sometimes it’s just that kind of day. So really, you’d think Arthur would be grateful when he gets back to his apartment and finds Merlin cleaning the hell out of everything he owns. The mop mops by itself, the vacuum-cleaner vacuums of its own volition, and dishrags enthusiastically wipe down the counter. In the middle of the maelstrom is Merlin, up to his elbows in soapsuds as he washes dishes in the sink, his eyes glowing gold.
"What are you doing?" Arthur demands.
“It’s no trouble,” Merlin begins, and that is just the beginning. Out comes a torrent of words, of oh he doesn't mind reallys in an energetic voice like Merlin is insisting on something they were already in the midst of arguing about. All Arthur wants to do is zone out on the sofa and watch reruns of CSI: Mercia, because after an entire day of reading case studies about the various legalized injustices carried out against the magical population, he can really go for a dose of predictable crime-solving and pretend that’s what the world is really like.
“Merlin,” says Arthur, and Merlin continues babbling on about how he hates to be useless, how he can’t sit around and just do nothing, and doesn’t Arthur ever clean around here.
Arthur says, “Merlin,” and Merlin says he reckons Arthur doesn’t, because just look at this place.
“Merlin,” Arthur says in a voice like an order, and Merlin finally shuts up and looks up. The appliances slow down around them, whirring and polishing apprehensively.
"For god's sake,” Arthur says, “you’re not my servant."
The mop, the vacuum, the dishrags - they all drop to the ground.
Merlin retorts, "What do you expect me to do?”
It’s a valid question to which Arthur has no answer, because none of his classes on the sociology of magic or international wizarding relations prepared him for this - for Merlin to be frantic and heartbroken in his kitchen washing his dishes. Arthur is forced to put a human face to the thesis he has been working on all year: here is yet another sorcerer forced into sacrifice. Merlin is not the first and will not be the last.
So yes, what can Merlin do? Keep out of sight so Arthur can get on with his life? Don’t make a sound so Arthur can continue pretending he's going to change the big picture while ignoring the little pictures in front of him?
“I never wanted to stay here,” Merlin says defiantly, but Arthur can hear the strain in it.
“Look,” says Arthur. “Maybe we both could use a drink.”
+
The entire time the police asked Merlin their endless questions, Merlin kept on thinking of physics class from high school. The speed of sound is 343 meters per second and the speed of light is 299,792,458 meters per second, and when Merlin raised his head to smile at the people waving from their windows, he saw the gunman's rifle kick back before he heard the shot.
"What else do you remember, Mr. Emrys?" they had asked.
"That's about it," Merlin lied, because what he remembered was how quickly the blood spread across the front of Will's t-shirt, and how tightly he held Merlin's hand before his eyes went still. The crowd, instead of dispersing, seemed to grow in number. The march turned into a mob, and suddenly Gwen was tugging him away saying, “Come on, come on, there’s nothing you can do.”
"Thank you for your time," said the police, so Merlin lied again: "You're welcome."
+
The way Merlin drinks scotch makes Arthur wince. It goes straight from the glass to the back of his throat. He doesn't even savor it. It goes to the back of his throat and straight to his head, and Arthur can tell because suddenly Merlin says, “You’re not what I thought you were.”
Arthur raises an eyebrow. “What did you think I was?”
“Something different. Something, like…”
“Something like my father?” he says cautiously.
And the hesitation that follows says it all.
“Look-“ Merlin starts to say.
“Hey,” Arthur cuts in, and then says nothing, so Merlin says nothing too.
It’s no secret. In the northeast, the name Pendragon is synonymous with sorcerer segregation and mandatory registration, and Uther Pendragon is to be thanked for that. Ever since Uther started his first term of many as mayor of Albion, tensions have risen even higher. In downtown Brookford and even uptown Kingston, there has been an increased rate of hate-related crimes from vandalism to assault and battery. Every time, his father would point to the same people and recite variations on a theme: there will be no peace in our city so long as these sorcerers are allowed to run amok.
The way Arthur sees it, he loves his father, and sometimes loving people is hard. That doesn’t mean you should stop loving them, no matter what they say, or do, or whom they hate. It is not always ideal, but Arthur is nothing if not loyal.
Maybe the scotch wasn’t a good idea. Maybe taking Merlin on wasn’t a good idea, but Gwen is persuasive when she wants to be. Arthur never even knew that Gwen is active in the magi movement, but he isn’t surprised - he should have figured. “It’s not about being pro-magic, Arthur,” she said, “but about being pro-human.” And if Gwen is involved in this, then who else is?
“Come on, Arthur,” Gwen had said. “This is the fight you’ve been waiting all your life to fight.”
“But my father-“
“You’re not your father,” she insisted.
Merlin, draped bonelessly on Arthur’s sofa, has the glassy-eyed look of someone who’s a few drinks in. He gives Arthur a look of intoxicated sincerity and continues, “You’re different, aren’t you?” and Arthur changes the subject.
After an hour’s meandering conversation about things neither of them really care about (and a fair amount of scotch), Merlin passes out. Arthur, who is busy talking about which reality show is the least horrible, doesn’t even notice until he hears the snoring.
“I didn’t think I was that boring,” Arthur says, and of course Merlin doesn’t reply.
Would it be worth it to move Merlin to his bed? Is it worth waking him up? Then the living room would be all Arthur’s and he can watch all the TV he wants. Merlin probably wouldn’t be a problem to carry. The guy is tall and long-limbed but he probably weighs nothing. Arthur could take him down easily; he could hold him down. Maybe it’s just how Merlin looks right now, like some gawky kid who can’t handle his liquor - a vulnerable appearance belying a great power. Arthur has seen Merlin in the papers and on TV, usually as a footnote to a story featuring Nimueh and how the magi movement is gaining momentum in the nation, how things are about to boil over downtown, and how the situation is and isn’t like the other pro-magi demonstrations around the world.
After finishing his drink, Arthur goes to the linen cabinet and looks for a blanket.
When he goes back out to the living room, Merlin has rolled over on his side in as fetal a position as he can on the couch, which is not very. Arthur drapes the blanket over him and, after a moment’s hesitation, tucks Merlin in. He reaches down and brushes the bangs from Merlin’s forehead. His hair is wispy, soft, and his forehead is warm, and suddenly Merlin’s hand reaches up and catches Arthur’s. He freezes, but Merlin doesn’t seem to be acting consciously. He’s still snoring.
“…rbkc,” Merlin mutters.
“What?”
“’M glad you’re back.”
“Who?”
“I missed you.”
Maybe it’s the scotch, or maybe it’s just the way Merlin spoke just now, how sad his relief sounded. Maybe it’s just been a weird day, who the hell knows, but instead of taking back his hand and leaving, Arthur sits on the coffee table and continues to let his hand be held.
“I missed you too,” Arthur ventures, hoping it’s the right thing to say.
“Mmm,” says Merlin, and grips Arthur’s hand even tighter.
Arthur grips it back.
+
In the cities, people are beginning to be openly magical. The times are changing, they like to say. We cannot help what we are, so we must not fear ourselves. No one will champion us, so we must champion ourselves.
Merlin was lured to the city of Albion by these slogans, by a nascent collective identity he hoped to be a part of. He kissed his mother goodbye on a train platform, and now he’s living in a crap apartment in Brookford, which is a neighborhood largely peopled by sorcerers, by the young, the poor, the newly immigrated, and the miscellaneous disenfranchised. This was where he met Will.
"You're a sorcerer too?" Merlin asked.
"No, but I'm good with card tricks," said Will.
This was where he met everyone. Will brought him to community meetings and house parties where people talked about systemic disadvantage and rights to heritage. Their eyes glowed gold as they casually used magic to refill pitchers and light cigarettes, and Merlin absorbed their rhetoric like a sponge. The smallest magic to the biggest; we are capable of it all and we cannot be divided from it. We have nothing to lose and our own humanity to gain. Slowly but surely, these diatribes took on the quality of truth within him, and he became heartened by the necessity of his chosen struggle.
This was how he met Nimueh.
The first time Merlin met Nimueh, he was enamored. He and Will were outside of a bar after last call, arguing about where to go next, when she tapped him on the shoulder.
“Can I bum a smoke?” she asked, and Will took out his pack before Merlin did because if Will wasn’t the kind of guy who bummed pretty girls cigarettes, then who was he?
“Of course,” said Will, and Nimueh thanked him, but she winked at Merlin.
"You know why the meek will inherit the earth?" she was saying a few minutes later, smoking Will’s cigarette as a ring of people orbited her and hung on her every word. "Because the meek will change it. The ones in power have no interest in changing the status quo. The powerless will be the ones to do away with it."
"But," Merlin cut in, "we aren't powerless."
"No," said Nimueh, "but many of us are afraid, which amounts to the same thing."
There is a natural magnetism to her, and a confidence bordering on arrogance that nevertheless held the loyalty of the community. They say she was one of the few who was in direct contact with the Dragon when he was lying low in some undisclosed location overseas. Nimueh says all the things Merlin felt and never articulated. She says them loud and clear and never apologizes for it, and she has the bluest eyes Merlin has ever seen.
He and Will went to demonstrations organized around the city, joining the throngs of people demanding equality with megaphones and homemade signs. They were struggling not just for their lives, but for their existence, for the right to be recognized as more than an aberration. And the thing is, everyone always says of course they’re ready to make sacrifices, of course they’re ready to fight. That’s what struggle is all about, isn’t it? But then one day someone gets his hand on a gun, and the police arrive too late, and there’s bodies and no killer. One day Merlin is told to hide out, for god’s sake lie low.
He hadn’t wanted to hide, but Gaius took him aside and said, “Merlin, sometimes you have to accept defeat so you can fight another day.” And when Gaius says things like that, Merlin has to wonder what the old man done in his day, or what he hasn’t.
“Stay safe,” Gaius ordered, and Merlin said he would. It’s not like he goes out looking for trouble anyway.
+
Merlin doesn’t take it well when he is told he can’t go to the funeral.
“What the fuck do you mean I can’t go?” Merlin demands into the phone, and Arthur realizes it’s the first time he’s heard Merlin swear.
Even with Merlin’s bedroom door closed, Arthur can hear snatches of the conversation, or at least the part where Merlin yells angry questions and dismisses what answers he gets. Merlin doesn’t come out of his room for the rest of the day. Arthur puts Merlin’s dinner in the fridge and eats his while watching television.
The evening news is on, and all the talking heads are still going on about the Mad Ave Mob. “A peaceful march for equal rights turned into a riot,” the newscaster is saying, “when an unidentified gunman open-fired at the corner of Madison Avenue and Chambers Street.”
The screen switches to headshots of the dead: Tauren MacAninch, William Miles, Edwin Muirden, Aulfric O’Shea, and Sofia O’Shea. Arthur wonders how close Merlin was with these people. He heard that Will was one of Merlin’s good friends, but did Merlin ever buy Sofia a drink? Did he and Tauren ever share a cab home?
“The funeral will be held on Friday at St. Mark’s,” says the newscaster, “to be followed by a march to the site of this tragedy, where a vigil will take place.”
Arthur changes the channel.
The next time Merlin comes out of his room, it’s close to midnight, but so absorbed is Arthur in editing page 27 of his thesis that he doesn’t notice until Merlin is standing in the study doorway, knocking on the wall.
Arthur looks up.
“Hey,” says Merlin, looking a bit the worse for wear, “do you have a radio I can borrow?”
“…Like a radio radio?”
“No, I just need one.”
Arthur frowns. Merlin smiles, a fragile thing that almost chases away the shadows on his face.
“Kidding,” he says softly. “Yeah, like a regular radio.”
Arthur hesitates. In the past two days, he has already lent Merlin his phone charger and a pair of headphones, and both came back suspiciously prone to inoperability. “I think I get satellite radio on my cellphone,” he finally concedes.
“Your cellphone, huh?” says Merlin. “I think I can swing that.”
+
The rumor is that the different cells and splinters of the magi movement can communicate with each other telepathically. Even if they’re on opposite sides of the world, they can magically plug in and log on to some magical global circuit to which every deviant sorcerer is connected. This is how plots are hatched, how governments might be toppled and children indoctrinated into immoral ideology.
Like all rumors, this one is partly true.
The sorcerers use radios.
“What are you doing?” Arthur asks suspiciously.
“I’m modulating the properties of electromagnetic waves,” Merlin replies, his eyes golden, “with magic.”
The sorcerers transmit over a frequency accessible only to magic-users. Not all sorcerers can do this. But once you know the physics, once you know what it is you’re manipulating, all you have to do is reach in and make amplitude, phase, and frequency dance in a way that they would never do if left in the clutches of mere science.
“After all,” Gaius said once, “what is science but a more primitive form of magic?”
Arthur asks, “Look, are you sure you know what you’re doing? That phone is expensive, and magical tampering isn’t covered under warranty.”
“I’ve done this hundreds of times,” Merlin lies. He has done this only a few times before, and not well. Merlin has a general aversion towards technology; it’s never as smooth as magic.
The satellite radio connects and the cellphone screen informs him that a Sam Cooke song is currently playing. A tinny voice cuts through the air, singing, “-aby ain’t around. Cryin’ for my baby, cryin’ all alone, waiting for y-”
The sound fizzles and warps as Merlin mumbles incantations under his breath.
“Don’t you have a thesis to write?” Merlin asks as the cellphone begins to hum a slowly rising note.
“I, uh, just want to make sure you’re okay.”
“Yeah, sure, you just want to make sure I don’t destroy your phone.”
“Well, you did destroy my phone charger and earphones, so I’m well within my rights to be watchful.”
“Look,” Merlin says. “I just want to talk to Nimueh.”
The room explodes with color and light.
Merlin is dimly aware of Arthur crying out in shock, but most of his attention is focused on fighting his way through the lines of transmission that crisscross around him. Conversations in a dozen languages fly past - dukuns in Java networking with witches in California, shamans in Korea passing information to houngans in Haiti - but Merlin keeps his mind alert, electrified. (“Merlin, what is going on?!” someone demands in another existence.) Merlin keeps his mind on Nimueh.
Finally: “Hello?”
“Nimueh!” Merlin exclaims, relieved. “Nimueh, it’s me. It’s Merlin!”
Around him a hundred conversations refract and diffract, and he has to strain to hear her.
“Merlin? Are you all right? Are you still at Arthur’s?”
“Yes, yes. I’m fine, but-“
“Then you shouldn’t be calling,” she snaps. “Listen, we’re in the middle of a meeting-“
Merlin feels a flash of anger. Another thing he’s been left out of. They’re taking him out of the fight when he needs (or wants) to fight the most. “Gaius tells me I can’t go to the funeral,” he blurts out.
“You can’t,” Nimueh says flatly.
“Why not?! It’s public, isn’t it? I should go. All of Brookford is going!”
“Think about it, Merlin. Everyone who was killed was magi who were my right-hand men. Everyone except Will. Do you need it spelled out? The bullet that killed Will was meant for you.”
“Come on, they won’t attack a funeral,” he scoffs.
“They attacked a peaceful march.”
“I should go! I can take care of myself!”
“Sure, but what about everyone else? We won’t take the risk. You’d be putting everyone else in harm’s way just because you quote unquote must go.”
“Will was my friend!”
“They were all our friends,” Nimueh says quietly.
“Nimueh-“
“Merlin, don’t be selfish.”
“Selfish!” Merlin chokes out.
“This is not what the Dragon would want.”
“Fuck the Dragon! Always going on about the underground resistance or whatever. He has no idea what’s going on in Albion!”
“Merlin, listen-“
Then there is another voice - female, young, familiar: “Is that Merlin?” There is more muffled conversation, and then the new voice is on the line. “Merlin! Hi, it’s Morgana.”
The signal immediately weakens, and her voice becomes faint and crackly. Morgana is a new recruit, and only just beginning to get a handle of her powers. She still hides them from Uther and Arthur, which Nimueh doesn’t approve of, but what can you do? Maybe Nimueh has never had a secret, but Merlin has had several, and he remembers how intimidating it can be to claim a part of your identity that could get yourself killed.
“I’m sorry to interrupt,” Morgana says, “but we have to borrow Nimueh.”
“Yes, where would the world be without Nimueh’s leadership,” Merlin mutters.
The line crackles again, but Merlin can still hear her saying to Nimueh, “Go, go, Aglain is throwing a hissy fit. Let me handle Merlin.”
‘Handle’. Like he’s some sort of animal.
“Merlin, hey,” Morgana says. “Look, Gwen told me you’re upset about the funeral-”
“Well, make me un-upset,” Merlin demands. “None of you can stop me going, you know, not if I really want to. Why don’t we hold the funeral somewhere only sorcerers can go? Really protect ourselves this time. We’ll enchant some place. I’ll help.”
“No, we don’t w-“
“Or I won’t, whichever.”
“We don’t want to close ourselves off from the non-magical,” Morgana says. “That would be defeating the point. Besides, there are non-magical people coming to the funeral. There are going to be television cameras.“
“Oh, okay. So you’re just going to exploit their deaths.”
“No,” Morgana says slowly. “We are showing that we have nothing to hide.”
“Except me,” Merlin mutters.
“Merlin,” she says in a voice like an order, and it reminds Merlin of Arthur, the way her tone forces itself on him. He can see how the two of them might have grown up together.
“What.”
Morgana says, “You can’t take this personally.”
“How am I supposed to take it?” Merlin demands.
“Like the champ that you are. You’re not the only one who has lost loved ones.”
It is, perhaps, the chastisement that she should’ve said in the beginning, because it shuts Merlin right up. He knows they’re both thinking of Gwen. Gwen’s father hadn’t been a magician, but he was accused of being one and there had been ‘evidence’ supporting the claim. If everyone is sufficiently scared or complacent, that’s all you need to kill a man.
“How are you enjoying Arthur’s apartment, by the way?” Morgana chirrups.
“It’s okay. He’s a little uptight.”
“Uptight? Yeah. You try playing him at Boggle, you’ll see how uptight he can get.” And then someone yells something on Morgana’s end, and she says, “Merlin, I have to go.”
The goodbyes are rushed, and Merlin envies the flurry of activity going on at the other end. He wishes he were there. Around him, the lights and colors and conversations in a dozen tongues begin to fade, and fatigue trickles into Merlin’s muscles, as it always does after a large and complicated spell. Arthur is no longer standing in the doorway. Merlin takes a shaky breath and lets himself fall backward onto the mattress.
The phone crackles back to mundanity and sings, “…rise up singing, you’re gonna spread your wings, child, and take, take to the sky…”
+
“Okay,” Arthur says, pushing a mug across the kitchen counter at Merlin. “Here’s your coffee. Now what the hell was that?”
Merlin sips his coffee. “I was just making a phone call.”
“I have made many a phone call in my day,” Arthur says, “and not once did the phone ever do that. I didn’t even know my phone could do that!”
“It usually can’t,” Merlin shrugs. “I just gave the signal a little boost. Using a little magic to boost up the science. Or using a little science to boost up the magic, I forget which one it is.”
Arthur’s mouth twitches. “I don’t see why you couldn’t have just called Nimueh the regular way.”
“I’ve been trying that all day! I called everyone I knew. Either they don’t pick up or they can’t do anything.” He throws his hands up. “I called Nimueh god knows how many times. She was one of the ones who never picked up. So, you know, then I needed to switch to radio.”
Arthur raises an eyebrow, amused. “So you thought it safe to talk to her within earshot of the son of your greatest enemy?”
“Well… I guess you could only hear my end of the conversation anyway.”
“You don’t know where my loyalties lie.”
“I know where your loyalties lie,” Merlin says, “because you’re housing me. Sounds like you don’t know where your loyalties lie.”
“Ha! Is that so?“
“Yeah. Also, I read your thesis, which seems to articulate your sympathies pretty well.”
It takes a few seconds for the words to process.
“What?” says Arthur.
“You left it on the kitchen counter when you went to your conres working group. So, you know. So I looked through it.”
“It’s just a draft,” Arthur says automatically. “It’s not even finished. There are some sections that need to be moved around, and some that I’m going to have to rewrite altogether, and the introduction is-“
“It’s good,” says Merlin. “A little starry-eyed, but good. And true, which is important.”
“Starry-eyed?” Arthur repeats, trying not to sound offended.
Merlin looks into his eyes with a sincere expression that is definitely not manifesting strange butterflies in Arthur’s stomach, and asks, “Are you one of those closeted wizards?”
“What? No.”
“What got you interested in the topic? Y’know. In us? The social, uh, the legislation of…”
“The social implications of the legislation of magic in North America circa the twentieth century,” Arthur reels off.
Merlin grins. “I wonder what your father’d think if he read it, eh? I don’t think these are the social implications he’s looking for. Hundreds of thousands of dollars sending his kid to an Ivy League university only for the kid to come out the other end his enemy.”
“I’m not his enemy,” Arthur replies irritably.
“But you want to fight. I can feel it from your literature review,” Merlin grins, having a perhaps little too much fun with this.
“Look, just because I disagree with my father, doesn’t make him my enemy.”
“No,” Merlin shrugs. ”Disagreement is the spice of life.”
“I don’t think that’s how the saying goes.”
“Close enough.”
Merlin stirs his coffee absently, resting his head in his hand, and Arthur finds himself following the line of his cheekbone down to his mouth, how smooth it looks, and pale. Snap out of it, Pendragon. Arthur ventures, “I’m sorry you can’t go to your friends’ funeral.”
Merlin shrugs.
“Is there anything I can do?” Arthur asks.
Merlin shakes his head.
“You want some beer?” Arthur definitely isn’t going to offer the scotch again.
“I’m already drinking coffee.”
“Or feel free to watch one of the DVDs in the living room if you want.”
Merlin shakes his head.
“Or, um.” Arthur digs deep into his brain. If he were in Merlin’s place, how would he want to be comforted? “I… also have a Scrabble game. If you happen to be interested.”
Merlin almost shakes his head again automatically, but he pauses. He looks up at Arthur, and has a considering expression on his face.
+
Arthur plays Scrabble the way some people play chess. He plans not just the next move, but the next three moves after that and Merlin’s anticipated reactions, taking into account the accessibility of Triple Word Scores and the possibility of layering words atop each other for simultaneous point maximization. Also, he played ‘oxidize’ over a Double Word Score within six rounds.
Things are not looking good for Merlin.
“’Qi’ is not a word,” Merlin protests.
“Yes, it is. It’s the vital life force in all things.”
“Isn’t that spelled C-H-I?”
“It’s the same thing. The romanization standards have changed. Now they follow the pinyin system, which favors the Q to the C-H used by the largely superseded Wade-Giles system. But it’s not as if either of them give us any clear indication of how these words are actually pronounced anyway.”
Merlin blinks. “…Uh-huh…”
“I can get out my Scrabble dictionary,” Arthur threatens.
Of course Arthur would have a Scrabble dictionary.
“Fine, play ‘qi’ if you want,” Merlin says, and Arthur does and scores twenty-two points.
For the most part it is a slow-going game. Much like a chess player, Arthur takes forever to make a move. Merlin just plays words like ‘or’ and ‘bat’ as soon as he finds them, then Arthur accuses him of not trying his best, and fair enough. He isn’t. Merlin is still exhausted from his phone call. His skin is still tingling and his vision still flickers. The fatigue creeps from his mind into his bones, mixing weirdly with the jolt of caffeine, so he’ll play ‘to’ next round if he wants to, thanks very much.
Merlin curls up in the armchair and watches Arthur plan his conquest of the Scrabble board, bent over his letters and frowning at them as if willing victory to arise from the tiles. It is, Merlin will admit, a little endearing, if a little obsessive. There’s something about the intensity in his eyes and the way he taps his lips while he’s thinking. The way he hovered at Merlin’s closed door this afternoon wondering if he should knock. Yeah, Merlin isn’t blind, he saw the shadow under the door.
“Jape?” Merlin reads. “Is that a word?”
“It means joke.”
Merlin wonders though if there can maybe be a true ally in Arthur Pendragon. Not just as someone who provides a safehouse when you need one, but as a visionary and a leader who could conceptualize, organize ,and be victorious while retaining both compassion and beneficial connections. Arthur’s thesis is sharp and attuned, and although some of his prescriptions are a mess of idealism, his passion resounds with Merlin. It is always easier to be cynical, and far braver to have faith and fight. Maybe the crossing of their paths is more fortuitous than Merlin thought. Perhaps he is a worth a second look.
“Your turn,” Arthur says. He has added ‘tory’ to Merlin’s ‘his’, and the Y is on a Triple Letter Score. Of course it is.
“Historp is not a word,” Merlin says.
“That’s not what I put-“
Merlin points his finger like a gun and casts a spell. The Y turns into a P.
“That’s cheating!” Arthur sputters.
“I’d like to see you try to find ‘historp’ in the Scrabble dictionary. And,” Merlin adds, “I’d like to see you find the rule that says you can’t magically change Ys to Ps.”
To Merlin’s delighted surprise, Arthur says, “Fine!” And storms off.
How do I pull you in, how do I pull you in, Merlin wonders as Arthur comes back his laptop and a diatribe about fair play. Merlin sits back as Arthur shows him different Scrabble rules from around the world, intent on proving the inherent immorality of using magic to win non-magical board games. There is a stubbornness about the young Pendragon that reminds Merlin of Will, and Merlin feels a little guilty for finding the similarity comforting. Arthur’s blue eyes and high ideals remind Merlin of Nimueh, but Arthur has a charisma all his own, and now that Merlin has seen the mind that fuels it, he can’t help but be intrigued.
+
They play again the next night, and the night after that. They’d set up the Scrabble board after dinner, and they play until Arthur beats Merlin by a margin of 120 points.
“So who’s advising your thesis?” asks Merlin, who doesn’t know when to drop things. “Did you read the Wizard Manifesto last year? Did you have a professor who mysteriously isn’t teaching anymore?”
“No, and no,” Arthur replies, and plays ‘pharaoh’.
“You ought to come down sometime, you know,” Merlin says. “Come to one of our meetings, that is. I think you’d find it interesting, and I think they’d find your ideas interesting.”
“Look, shut up a minute and let me play some Scrabble, okay?”
“You’re winning anyway,” Merlin mutters, but he shuts up.
On Thursday night, Arthur plays ‘will’ and Merlin frowns.
Merlin says, “I thought you can’t play proper nouns.”
“’Will’ isn’t a proper noun.”
And Merlin is about to protest, but then his expression changes from skepticism to embarrassed realization and quickly mounting grief. Merlin’s face crumples for a second and he looks away, and Arthur feels a pang of guilt at being surprised that this is still where Merlin’s mind is, where his first instinct lies. How will Merlin be tomorrow on the day of the funeral? Will he be okay, or will Arthur have to step things up to Boggle?
“Sorry,” Merlin says shakily. “I, uh-“
“It’s all right, just pull yourself together,” Arthur says reassuringly. “It happens sometimes with Scrabble, you can’t see the forest for the trees. One time, I stared at F-U-R-O-R for ages wishing I had better letters before I remembered that ‘furor’ is actually a word.”
Merlin rubs his face and says, “Please don’t tell me to pull myself together.”
“Look.” Arthur swaps the W with a G. “Look, I’ve changed it, all right?“
“Don’t. Arthur, you don’t have to do that.“
“And a G is worth less than a W,” Arthur continues, ignoring the tone of Merlin’s voice, “so that’s even better for yo-“
“Don’t do that!” Merlin exclaims, and Arthur sees the flash of gold before he sees the wave of magic pulse from him. The letters on the board jump in place and land askew, and if Arthur were looking at them he would notice something quite strange, but all his attention is on Merlin, whose grief thrums around them. “You can’t just undo things,” Merlin says in a voice like a sob. “That’s not how things work.”
“Merlin-“
“Some things can’t be undone. Sometimes you can’t change things so you have to move on, all right? You have to respect it and move on.”
“All right, all right, I’ll put the W back,” Arthur says, aware that they are no longer talking about Scrabble, but what else can he do? What can either of them do? “By the way,” Arthur says, having failed to replace the W, “what have you done to my game?”
“What?”
The tiles have no letters on them. None of them do; all are blank.
“This is sort of a Scrabble player’s dream,” Arthur hazards, “but also kind of unnecessary.”
“…I didn’t mean to do that.”
“If you really don’t like Scrabble, you could’ve said so.”
“Jesus Christ, will you shut the fuck up about Scrabble?” Merlin bursts out. “I don’t give a shit about Scrabble. I don’t-“ Merlin leans back on the sofa and covers his face with his hands. “Christ.”
A silence slithers in, and it is only after it has settled that Arthur remembers to say: “I’m sorry.”
“Yeah. Me too.”
“Um.” Arthur tries to think. “Will… I hear he was a good friend of yours.”
“He was the first person outside of my mother who knew I was a wizard,” Merlin says quietly. “He was the first person I told.”
“Oh. …Wow.”
“It’s always difficult, that first person. It’s a big step, you know? It’s almost like-“ He waves his hands vaguely. “Almost like you’re telling yourself too. Like it’s real now.”
“But you’re born with magic, right?” Arthur asks. “So it’s always been real.”
“I mean…” Merlin shrugs. “Yes. Of course. But now it’s like there’s an alibi, almost…? An affirmation of sorts. Like, you’re less alone.”
“An alibi…”
“Look, I was young, and I didn’t have a clue, okay? I was a small-town boy in a big city. It was… ” Merlin shrugs again, a little more desperately. “I don’t know. Will was there, and he was someone who can say, ‘I know what’s going on and it’s okay’. Someone who’s loyal to you and you can be loyal to. You know what I mean?”
Arthur nods, smiling faintly. “That’s important.”
“Yeah,” Merlin says softly. “Yeah, it is.”
[ Part Two]