more Merlin-Batman crossover AU
Title: North American Songbirds as Ranked by Fierceness
Rating: PG for a couple bad words (I never know how to rate accurately for swearing?). Sorry, the sexytimes didn't make it into this one.
Pairing: Merlin/Arthur preslash
Wordcount: 3570
Summary: Merlin's sidekick training commences. Arthur has a second secret identity: he is a sadist.
Warnings/Notes: Character spoilers for both Merlin and the Batman series. This is not based off the Nolanverse Batman movies, but more off the comics. However, gratuitous liberties have been taken with both canons. Also, this is really too earnest to be crack. This fic follows directly on the heels of The Dark Knight.
Thanks: To witheredsong for beta-reading and hand-holding. I know I haven't delivered the sexytimes but this is still dedicated to team_generosity, as promised. GO FOR THE GOLD. I need to enter the last challenge. Thanks also to McSweeney's Lists for inspiring the title of this one.
Disclaimer: I do not own any part of the many and varied commercial properties which I have abused in this fic/series, including but not limited to BBC's Merlin and Batman. I am making no money from this.
The only thing that surprised Merlin more than hearing himself ask to be Arthur's sidekick was Arthur's acceptance, grudging though it may have been. Perhaps Arthur had really thought he would go to the press otherwise.
Or maybe it was creative punishment, Merlin realized, straining to do his 49th push-up.
“Get those skinny arms moving, Merlin; you've got 51 to go,” Arthur said from overhead. “I don't know how you can do physical labour for a living and still be so weak.”
Merlin thought very uncharitable things as he shakily lowered himself to the floor again. “Fifty,” he gasped.
“Louder.”
The entire first week of Sidekick Bootcamp had followed this theme, and they hadn't even progressed far into the combat lessons, yet.
The day after they had made an agreement to embark on this farce, Arthur had nonchalantly informed Merlin that he would have to move into Pendragon Manor and that a suite in the east wing had been made up for him. It was, after all, more convenient not only for training purposes but for future operations that his commute be as short as possible. Merlin thought initially that this was a transparent bid to get him to leave his apartment in the Narrows and possibly even get rid of his rusty car, but Arthur's motives were even more insidious: in addition to his new role as Batman's sidekick-in-training, he was still the fucking gardener.
Merlin's days now went like this: first, he got to sleep in an hour later in the mornings, due to his daily commute being cut down to the walk from the kitchen to the shed (coffee in hand, more often than not). Then, he would put in a full day of weeding, fertilizing and mowing, which would have been better if the riding mower hadn't mysteriously (his ass) broken down and necessitated the use of a gas-powered push mower on the south lawn for the past two days. Dinner in the kitchen immediately followed the end of work and he would just have time for a shower before he was due in the gym for a full evening of corporal punishment. He fell into bed well past midnight, as Batman prepared to go out and do his thing, and slept soundly till morning, when the routine would start over. The previous weekend had allowed him the luxury of sleeping in until noon, at which point Gaius hauled him out of bed to burn miles on the treadmill until Arthur sauntered in, tousle-haired and sipping at coffee, to yell at Merlin like a drill sergeant some more.
Merlin cursed himself at least twice a day for ever forgetting that Arthur was far, far smarter than he looked.
But, he thought, finishing a 60th push-up and praying he wouldn't collapse, he had his own particular strength-a strength which had helped him leave his mother's house in a farm town for the big city, and which had helped him survive eighteen months living in the Narrows without a firearm or a gang to protect him.
He was stubborn.
He smiled, baring his teeth, and counted a little louder as he finished his push-ups.
***
And so the weeks passed, with Merlin working sixteen hours a day between the yard work and the training. He did push-ups until a hundred felt like a light workout, hauled 50-lb bags of fertilizer around the grounds, was thrown over Arthur's shoulder into mats that didn't feel much softer than the floor, ignored Gaius' head-shaking and eye-rolling, and did double-takes at the mirror and the never-before-seen images of muscle tone that reflected back at him.
He was beginning to accept that he was wiry at best and would never have Arthur's enormous biceps, no matter how hard he worked out or how much protein he ate at every meal, and while he still couldn't perfect a hip throw or make the punching bag swing wildly under his blows like Arthur could, he was getting extraordinarily good at dodging and falling rapidly in love with the bo staff.
It took two months for him to knock Arthur's feet out from under him with the staff in a fight, and the utterly dumbfounded look on his handsome face as Merlin helped him up from the mats made him as happy as he'd ever been. It had only taken another thirty seconds for Arthur to return the favour (with quite a bit more aggression than was necessary, Merlin thought), but his spirit refused to be broken. He was determined to do it again.
That never happened, because being defeated once meant Arthur merely stepped up his game (and of course he had different levels of attention while fighting, because he was a bastard, after all) and Merlin found himself going from an attack to gasping painfully up at the ceiling even more often. On the other hand, Arthur was also finally working up a sweat almost as much as Merlin was during their practice sessions, and more than once Merlin caught the glimpse of a smile (an insane one, but a smile) on the other man's face as they fought.
Late one evening, about two months into their training, Merlin had a judo throw demonstrated on his person and upon colliding with the mats (something he could do safely now, at least), he heaved a deep breath, rolled over onto his back, and abruptly decided he was going to take a short break before crawling to his feet again.
Arthur sighed at his inert form-gracelessly sprawled like a starfish across the floor-and stalked off in search of water or something. Merlin shut his eyes blissfully to fill the time until Arthur came back to give him the customary kick in the ribs, but surprisingly no blow came; instead he sat down gracefully near Merlin's head. Merlin debated the merits of opening his eyes to see what was going on but it seemed like far too much work.
“I've been meaning to tell you,” Arthur said eventually, “I'm hiring a new gardener.”
Merlin opened his eyes. “Is this how you typically fire people, or am I special?”
“Don't be ridiculous. You're not special. And I realize one of the terms for your silence was that you keep your job, but the current situation just isn't working.”
Merlin sat up and felt his palms begin to sweat from the encroaching panic. “You're throwing me out? I just let my lease expire!”
Arthur rolled his eyes as he leaned forward over his knee, beginning leg stretches. “They have leases in the Narrows? I thought everyone who lived there was squatting. No, Merlin, you're just making a career change. A minor one.” He sat upright again and moved to stretch his other leg. “If you're ever going to be anything but useless as a sidekick, you'll need to step up the training regimen. So, starting next week, you'll be working full-time on all the things you need to know. Gaius will get you started on basic forensic procedures, criminology, natural sciences and some introductory escapology in the mornings, and in the afternoons and evenings, you'll focus on strength training and your Krav Maga and Escrima lessons with me.”
Merlin stared, his brain working feverishly to process this new information. “Does this mean I get to drive the Batmobile?”
“Not on your life.” Arthur rolled his eyes and then surged gracefully to his feet.
“Up,” he said. “Break-time is over.”
Merlin leaned forward on his hands as he levered himself upright, mostly to hide his enormous, probably dorky smile.
***
The new gardener was more typical of the breed: a large, tanned 30-something named Jim who fixed the faulty riding mower himself and started work an hour earlier every day than Merlin had. Merlin would smile at Jim over his coffee cup as they passed each other, Jim on the way to the shed and Merlin on the way to the library in the back of the house, preparing to spend a morning wading through the piles of textbooks Gaius kept stacked on a large desk. It was peaceful enough in there as long as Gaius wasn't looming overhead, ready to drop encyclopedias on the table when Merlin drifted helplessly to sleep over the diagrams in the anatomy books.
It was gruelling on a level that college had only aspired to, waking up at dawn to study through lunchtime and then spend an afternoon and evening in the gym, enduring physical torture so intense that he longed for the easy days of gardening and push-ups. Merlin had prided himself somewhat on being too smart for groundskeeping, though, so after a few weeks of effort (which he himself hadn't even aspired to in college, to be frank) he was identifying tibiae from photographs and could explain what habeas corpus was and could almost pick up a fingerprint from an object without smudging it horribly. He had barely started on escapology but despaired of that, because Gaius could tie knots so tightly that he didn't think anyone would ever undo them without a large saw. But undoubtedly Arthur could prove him wrong in this, just as he did in everything else.
His efforts in the gym seemed to go better when he wasn't putting in a full day's physical labour beforehand (although now Arthur was making him do more weightlifting to compensate), and in another month Merlin was actually getting quite good with the bo staff.
“I think I've found my weapon of choice,” he said one night, giving it a showy twirl to punctuate his sentence.
Arthur snorted. “The girliest of weapons. You're that purple Ninja Turtle, but with no brains to back it up.”
Merlin glared, hugging his staff as if Arthur had insulted it as well as him. “There's nothing wrong with a bo staff! All I need to kick ass is a stick; that's a great tactical advantage.”
“A better tactical advantage is to not need the stick,” Arthur retorted calmly. “Let's go back to unarmed neck strikes.”
The upside of Merlin's new life of dedicated training was that Arthur started spending more time with him socially, maybe to get a better handle on the person who would theoretically someday be responsible for his life. Merlin was okay with any possible motivation, because he enjoyed the results.
They would eat dinner together or have a drink on a patio after training finished for the day, and talk about all sorts of things. Merlin talked about his childhood and his history degree and the mountain of debt that had led to his living in the Narrows. Arthur talked about his cars (even the Batmobile), and the rumours about him and Lady GaGa (not actually true), and very sparingly related details about his upbringing; he'd mostly been raised by Gaius, from what Merlin could gather. He'd learned all of his martial arts during two years spent travelling the world, which the newspapers and gossip rags had claimed he'd spent studying business at Oxford. His dad, the Police Commissioner, had moved out of the manor years ago due to a stipulation of his grandfather's will (all the money came from his mother's side of the family, which was a tidbit that Merlin had not known and always wondered vaguely about). Arthur didn't talk about his mother but enjoyed listening to stories about Merlin's.
When he was particularly relaxed, Arthur could also be prodded into talking about crime-fighting. He had some great stories about the criminals he'd apprehended, both metahumans and the normal crazies and deviants. There were some, like the Red Queen, Two-Face and Riddler, who he'd faced down several times already (they were the dangerous ones, he said, because they learned his M.O. and were constantly trying to surprise him, which must, Merlin thought, be difficult indeed).
Finally, he took Merlin down into the Batcave (it was actually called the Batcave) and gave him the tour, pointing out fixtures like the Batcomputer, the Batmobile, the workbench where he and Gaius designed and maintained his equipment, and in the startlingly far reaches of the cave, a hangar with a stealth aircraft cunningly named the Batplane. By the time he was being shown the stockpile of batarangs, which he vividly recalled slicing his finger on already, Merlin thought that perhaps Arthur's imagination when it came to naming things was limited in a damaging way. Exercising his better judgement for once, though, he didn't voice the comment.
He forgave Arthur for his terrible imagination five minutes later, when he was allowed to touch the car.
“Don't get noseprints on it,” Arthur laughed.
“Shut up,” Merlin said, valiantly ignoring him as he extended a reverent hand toward the doorframe. “Oh god,” he said, “can I look inside?”
Arthur sighed and opened the door for him. The seats were leather. Merlin could have cried.
“I am the luckiest man alive,” he said as he leaned back into the upholstery.
“Should I give you two some privacy?”
Arthur sounded distinctly annoyed, Merlin noted through the fog of delight. He thought for a moment. “Well, if you're offering....”
“Get out of my car,” Arthur said flatly. “You're not allowed near it anymore.”
“Love,” Merlin said as he reluctantly climbed out, “will find a way.”
Arthur's threats were empty, because he proceeded to show Merlin the Batcave's secret entrance from the house (inside the first floor study, pull the switch in the bookcase behind Childe Harold's Pilgrimage) and Merlin was henceforth allowed to come and go as he pleased. He enjoyed keeping Gaius company during his free hours while the old butler sharpened batarangs or mended holes in one of Arthur's costumes.
It was while watching Gaius mend a hole in the reinforced leggings, one early afternoon, that something occurred to Merlin. Frowning, he got up from the workbench without a word and went back inside the house, trailing through the maze of rooms until he came upon Arthur in an upstairs study, going through a stack of papers. Pausing only briefly at the surprise that Arthur actually did things and read things that had to do with Koenig Industries on occasion, he marched up to the desk and waited impatiently for acknowledgement.
“What, Merlin?” Arthur asked, putting down an invoice to sip at his coffee.
“I'm going to be your sidekick.”
“Catching on, are you?”
Merlin ignored him. “And you have an identity and a costume and themed equipment.”
Arthur frowned, as if noticing that these things were perhaps faintly ludicrous and feeling a need to defend them. “It's common among the crowd I run with.”
“Yes, well....” Merlin braced his hands on the desk and leaned forward, intruding a bit on Arthur's personal space and not really caring. “Sidekicks are still superheroes, right? So, I need an identity. And a costume.”
Arthur leaned back in his chair. “I was waiting for this to come up. Look, I've given it some thought.”
“You have?”
“Don't look so surprised! Of course I have. My sidekick's identity reflects on me, after all.” He opened a drawer and rifled through it, pulling out a notepad. “Here,” he said, tossing it across the desk.
Merlin snatched up the pad and scanned it, his brow furrowing progressively as the contents sunk in. He looked up at Arthur incredulously, letting the paper drop back onto the desk.
“What the fuck kind of superhero name is Robin?” he demanded.
Arthur pouted, something Merlin had seen him do only twice before. “I was going for a flying theme.”
Merlin suppressed a sigh. “There are a lot of birds; some of them are awesome. You get to be a bat, which is at least scary in a way.” Arthur opened his mouth, probably to make a retort, but Merlin carried on. “But how,” he said, and he thought this point was important so he let his volume climb, “is a robin going to strike fear into the hearts of my enemies?” He looked down at the page full of scribbles again, glaring at the costume outline through his rage. “And why is there so much green?”
Arthur snatched away his drawings, looking at them doubtfully. “I was thinking of Robin Hood, a bit. It crept into the design.”
“You're really tarnishing Batman's image of infallibility, you know.”
“Don't get nasty. Look,” Arthur said, flipping past a few pages of the notepad, “that wasn't my only idea.”
The second image was all grey and black. The costume was basic, with plain gauntlets, boots, utility belt and cape, and looked quite similar to Batman's, except for the cowl, which had no ears and had a definite beak-shape over the nose. It was, Merlin mused, probably as masculine as tights could be expected to look. What he liked best, though, was the name scribbled across the top of the page in block letters.
“The Falcon.” He smiled. “That's more like it.”
A look of relief flitted across Arthur's face so fast he wondered if he'd imagined seeing it. Merlin's smile became a smirk. “Hand me a pencil,” he said. He could already picture some needed embellishments.
Arthur handed over the pencil. “Get out of my office,” he said.
***
“How does it fit?” Gaius asked as he finished adjusting the drape of Merlin's cape.
“It's a lot warmer than I expected,” Merlin said, looking down at himself in slight awe.
“That's the Kevlar,” Arthur said. “It's incorporated into the tights as well as the body armour and cowl. Your cape is fire-retardant, too.” He smiled grimly. “Hopefully this means you won't get killed your first night out.”
Merlin frowned and started experimentally bending, twisting and fidgeting, getting used to the feel and the range of movement allowed by the suit. “Is there a mirror handy?” he asked.
Gaius chuckled and pointed him toward a corner of the cave, where there stood a full-length mirror, meant either to do solo inspections of equipment or to nurse Arthur's badly-concealed vanity. Merlin stood in front of it and stared. He cut quite an impressive figure in tights, he had to say; whatever Arthur claimed, his scrawniness had more or less vanished in favour of lithe muscle that stood out on his arms and legs.
His modifications (and some from Gaius, who had constructed the suit) looked good as well. The main colour of his costume was a steely grey and the cowl, boots, gauntlets, cape and slightly embarrassing briefs-like area were black. His cowl had the sharp point reminiscent of a falcon's beak that Arthur had come up with, and Merlin had added further birdlike touches with the scalloped bottom of the cape, which resembled feathers, a general pointiness to the tops of the boots and the gauntlets, and a row of sharp-looking fins along the sides of the gauntlets that resembled Batman's and which Merlin privately liked to think of as his talons. A stylized outline of a bird in flight stood out on his chest plate, in the same place as the bat on Batman's.
He turned, ogling the showy swirl of his cape as he did so, and walked proudly back over to the other two men, who both looked as if they were holding back laughter.
“Don't even,” he said cheerfully as he rejoined them.
“You're forgetting one final touch,” Arthur said suddenly, grabbing something from the workbench. “Hold still.”
It was Merlin's utility belt; he froze uncertainly as Arthur stepped in close and fastened it snugly over his hips. Their eyes met as he tugged it around to centre, and Merlin hoped fervently that his sudden blush wasn't visible under the mask.
“There you go,” Arthur said, stepping back to admire his handiwork. “Now you're equipped. I've already got some things in the pouches for you-batarangs, smoke bombs, cable ties, the basics. And your new, collapsible bo staff is in the back pouch.”
Merlin reached for it and felt its outline through the pouch. “Thanks.”
Arthur shrugged. “Don't need you getting killed if I can help it. At least now it won't be my fault if you do die horribly.” He clapped his hands together. “Anyway. Are you ready?”
Merlin cocked his head to the side, belatedly realizing it was a very birdlike action. “Ready?” he echoed. He had no idea what he should be ready for.
Arthur stared incredulously and then just shook his head, already moving toward where he kept his batsuits. “What do you think, Falcon? We're going out on patrol.”
“Oh.” He fought down a surge of panic; if he wasn't ready for it then surely there was no way Batman would take him out on the streets. He curled his fingers inside his gloves and let excitement replace the fear. It was happening.
“Hey,” he called to where Arthur was already adjusting the fit of his chest plate. “Since this is my first time out and all, you know how we could make it special, like to celebrate?”
“You're not driving the Batmobile, Merlin.”
**********
Batman and the Falcon will return!
I haven't decided what to write about next in this universe, so if there's something you have a burning need to read (costumed, Batmobile sex is an obvious and duly acknowledged choice), please suggest away! Note that I will not consider these prompts to be filled as given, and may follow a suggestion, go off on a tangent, or pass it up completely. It's a mystery! Also, I will now be crossposting fic at Dreamwidth at the username waketosleep.
Rating: PG for a couple bad words (I never know how to rate accurately for swearing?). Sorry, the sexytimes didn't make it into this one.
Pairing: Merlin/Arthur preslash
Wordcount: 3570
Summary: Merlin's sidekick training commences. Arthur has a second secret identity: he is a sadist.
Warnings/Notes: Character spoilers for both Merlin and the Batman series. This is not based off the Nolanverse Batman movies, but more off the comics. However, gratuitous liberties have been taken with both canons. Also, this is really too earnest to be crack. This fic follows directly on the heels of The Dark Knight.
Thanks: To witheredsong for beta-reading and hand-holding. I know I haven't delivered the sexytimes but this is still dedicated to team_generosity, as promised. GO FOR THE GOLD. I need to enter the last challenge. Thanks also to McSweeney's Lists for inspiring the title of this one.
Disclaimer: I do not own any part of the many and varied commercial properties which I have abused in this fic/series, including but not limited to BBC's Merlin and Batman. I am making no money from this.
The only thing that surprised Merlin more than hearing himself ask to be Arthur's sidekick was Arthur's acceptance, grudging though it may have been. Perhaps Arthur had really thought he would go to the press otherwise.
Or maybe it was creative punishment, Merlin realized, straining to do his 49th push-up.
“Get those skinny arms moving, Merlin; you've got 51 to go,” Arthur said from overhead. “I don't know how you can do physical labour for a living and still be so weak.”
Merlin thought very uncharitable things as he shakily lowered himself to the floor again. “Fifty,” he gasped.
“Louder.”
The entire first week of Sidekick Bootcamp had followed this theme, and they hadn't even progressed far into the combat lessons, yet.
The day after they had made an agreement to embark on this farce, Arthur had nonchalantly informed Merlin that he would have to move into Pendragon Manor and that a suite in the east wing had been made up for him. It was, after all, more convenient not only for training purposes but for future operations that his commute be as short as possible. Merlin thought initially that this was a transparent bid to get him to leave his apartment in the Narrows and possibly even get rid of his rusty car, but Arthur's motives were even more insidious: in addition to his new role as Batman's sidekick-in-training, he was still the fucking gardener.
Merlin's days now went like this: first, he got to sleep in an hour later in the mornings, due to his daily commute being cut down to the walk from the kitchen to the shed (coffee in hand, more often than not). Then, he would put in a full day of weeding, fertilizing and mowing, which would have been better if the riding mower hadn't mysteriously (his ass) broken down and necessitated the use of a gas-powered push mower on the south lawn for the past two days. Dinner in the kitchen immediately followed the end of work and he would just have time for a shower before he was due in the gym for a full evening of corporal punishment. He fell into bed well past midnight, as Batman prepared to go out and do his thing, and slept soundly till morning, when the routine would start over. The previous weekend had allowed him the luxury of sleeping in until noon, at which point Gaius hauled him out of bed to burn miles on the treadmill until Arthur sauntered in, tousle-haired and sipping at coffee, to yell at Merlin like a drill sergeant some more.
Merlin cursed himself at least twice a day for ever forgetting that Arthur was far, far smarter than he looked.
But, he thought, finishing a 60th push-up and praying he wouldn't collapse, he had his own particular strength-a strength which had helped him leave his mother's house in a farm town for the big city, and which had helped him survive eighteen months living in the Narrows without a firearm or a gang to protect him.
He was stubborn.
He smiled, baring his teeth, and counted a little louder as he finished his push-ups.
***
And so the weeks passed, with Merlin working sixteen hours a day between the yard work and the training. He did push-ups until a hundred felt like a light workout, hauled 50-lb bags of fertilizer around the grounds, was thrown over Arthur's shoulder into mats that didn't feel much softer than the floor, ignored Gaius' head-shaking and eye-rolling, and did double-takes at the mirror and the never-before-seen images of muscle tone that reflected back at him.
He was beginning to accept that he was wiry at best and would never have Arthur's enormous biceps, no matter how hard he worked out or how much protein he ate at every meal, and while he still couldn't perfect a hip throw or make the punching bag swing wildly under his blows like Arthur could, he was getting extraordinarily good at dodging and falling rapidly in love with the bo staff.
It took two months for him to knock Arthur's feet out from under him with the staff in a fight, and the utterly dumbfounded look on his handsome face as Merlin helped him up from the mats made him as happy as he'd ever been. It had only taken another thirty seconds for Arthur to return the favour (with quite a bit more aggression than was necessary, Merlin thought), but his spirit refused to be broken. He was determined to do it again.
That never happened, because being defeated once meant Arthur merely stepped up his game (and of course he had different levels of attention while fighting, because he was a bastard, after all) and Merlin found himself going from an attack to gasping painfully up at the ceiling even more often. On the other hand, Arthur was also finally working up a sweat almost as much as Merlin was during their practice sessions, and more than once Merlin caught the glimpse of a smile (an insane one, but a smile) on the other man's face as they fought.
Late one evening, about two months into their training, Merlin had a judo throw demonstrated on his person and upon colliding with the mats (something he could do safely now, at least), he heaved a deep breath, rolled over onto his back, and abruptly decided he was going to take a short break before crawling to his feet again.
Arthur sighed at his inert form-gracelessly sprawled like a starfish across the floor-and stalked off in search of water or something. Merlin shut his eyes blissfully to fill the time until Arthur came back to give him the customary kick in the ribs, but surprisingly no blow came; instead he sat down gracefully near Merlin's head. Merlin debated the merits of opening his eyes to see what was going on but it seemed like far too much work.
“I've been meaning to tell you,” Arthur said eventually, “I'm hiring a new gardener.”
Merlin opened his eyes. “Is this how you typically fire people, or am I special?”
“Don't be ridiculous. You're not special. And I realize one of the terms for your silence was that you keep your job, but the current situation just isn't working.”
Merlin sat up and felt his palms begin to sweat from the encroaching panic. “You're throwing me out? I just let my lease expire!”
Arthur rolled his eyes as he leaned forward over his knee, beginning leg stretches. “They have leases in the Narrows? I thought everyone who lived there was squatting. No, Merlin, you're just making a career change. A minor one.” He sat upright again and moved to stretch his other leg. “If you're ever going to be anything but useless as a sidekick, you'll need to step up the training regimen. So, starting next week, you'll be working full-time on all the things you need to know. Gaius will get you started on basic forensic procedures, criminology, natural sciences and some introductory escapology in the mornings, and in the afternoons and evenings, you'll focus on strength training and your Krav Maga and Escrima lessons with me.”
Merlin stared, his brain working feverishly to process this new information. “Does this mean I get to drive the Batmobile?”
“Not on your life.” Arthur rolled his eyes and then surged gracefully to his feet.
“Up,” he said. “Break-time is over.”
Merlin leaned forward on his hands as he levered himself upright, mostly to hide his enormous, probably dorky smile.
***
The new gardener was more typical of the breed: a large, tanned 30-something named Jim who fixed the faulty riding mower himself and started work an hour earlier every day than Merlin had. Merlin would smile at Jim over his coffee cup as they passed each other, Jim on the way to the shed and Merlin on the way to the library in the back of the house, preparing to spend a morning wading through the piles of textbooks Gaius kept stacked on a large desk. It was peaceful enough in there as long as Gaius wasn't looming overhead, ready to drop encyclopedias on the table when Merlin drifted helplessly to sleep over the diagrams in the anatomy books.
It was gruelling on a level that college had only aspired to, waking up at dawn to study through lunchtime and then spend an afternoon and evening in the gym, enduring physical torture so intense that he longed for the easy days of gardening and push-ups. Merlin had prided himself somewhat on being too smart for groundskeeping, though, so after a few weeks of effort (which he himself hadn't even aspired to in college, to be frank) he was identifying tibiae from photographs and could explain what habeas corpus was and could almost pick up a fingerprint from an object without smudging it horribly. He had barely started on escapology but despaired of that, because Gaius could tie knots so tightly that he didn't think anyone would ever undo them without a large saw. But undoubtedly Arthur could prove him wrong in this, just as he did in everything else.
His efforts in the gym seemed to go better when he wasn't putting in a full day's physical labour beforehand (although now Arthur was making him do more weightlifting to compensate), and in another month Merlin was actually getting quite good with the bo staff.
“I think I've found my weapon of choice,” he said one night, giving it a showy twirl to punctuate his sentence.
Arthur snorted. “The girliest of weapons. You're that purple Ninja Turtle, but with no brains to back it up.”
Merlin glared, hugging his staff as if Arthur had insulted it as well as him. “There's nothing wrong with a bo staff! All I need to kick ass is a stick; that's a great tactical advantage.”
“A better tactical advantage is to not need the stick,” Arthur retorted calmly. “Let's go back to unarmed neck strikes.”
The upside of Merlin's new life of dedicated training was that Arthur started spending more time with him socially, maybe to get a better handle on the person who would theoretically someday be responsible for his life. Merlin was okay with any possible motivation, because he enjoyed the results.
They would eat dinner together or have a drink on a patio after training finished for the day, and talk about all sorts of things. Merlin talked about his childhood and his history degree and the mountain of debt that had led to his living in the Narrows. Arthur talked about his cars (even the Batmobile), and the rumours about him and Lady GaGa (not actually true), and very sparingly related details about his upbringing; he'd mostly been raised by Gaius, from what Merlin could gather. He'd learned all of his martial arts during two years spent travelling the world, which the newspapers and gossip rags had claimed he'd spent studying business at Oxford. His dad, the Police Commissioner, had moved out of the manor years ago due to a stipulation of his grandfather's will (all the money came from his mother's side of the family, which was a tidbit that Merlin had not known and always wondered vaguely about). Arthur didn't talk about his mother but enjoyed listening to stories about Merlin's.
When he was particularly relaxed, Arthur could also be prodded into talking about crime-fighting. He had some great stories about the criminals he'd apprehended, both metahumans and the normal crazies and deviants. There were some, like the Red Queen, Two-Face and Riddler, who he'd faced down several times already (they were the dangerous ones, he said, because they learned his M.O. and were constantly trying to surprise him, which must, Merlin thought, be difficult indeed).
Finally, he took Merlin down into the Batcave (it was actually called the Batcave) and gave him the tour, pointing out fixtures like the Batcomputer, the Batmobile, the workbench where he and Gaius designed and maintained his equipment, and in the startlingly far reaches of the cave, a hangar with a stealth aircraft cunningly named the Batplane. By the time he was being shown the stockpile of batarangs, which he vividly recalled slicing his finger on already, Merlin thought that perhaps Arthur's imagination when it came to naming things was limited in a damaging way. Exercising his better judgement for once, though, he didn't voice the comment.
He forgave Arthur for his terrible imagination five minutes later, when he was allowed to touch the car.
“Don't get noseprints on it,” Arthur laughed.
“Shut up,” Merlin said, valiantly ignoring him as he extended a reverent hand toward the doorframe. “Oh god,” he said, “can I look inside?”
Arthur sighed and opened the door for him. The seats were leather. Merlin could have cried.
“I am the luckiest man alive,” he said as he leaned back into the upholstery.
“Should I give you two some privacy?”
Arthur sounded distinctly annoyed, Merlin noted through the fog of delight. He thought for a moment. “Well, if you're offering....”
“Get out of my car,” Arthur said flatly. “You're not allowed near it anymore.”
“Love,” Merlin said as he reluctantly climbed out, “will find a way.”
Arthur's threats were empty, because he proceeded to show Merlin the Batcave's secret entrance from the house (inside the first floor study, pull the switch in the bookcase behind Childe Harold's Pilgrimage) and Merlin was henceforth allowed to come and go as he pleased. He enjoyed keeping Gaius company during his free hours while the old butler sharpened batarangs or mended holes in one of Arthur's costumes.
It was while watching Gaius mend a hole in the reinforced leggings, one early afternoon, that something occurred to Merlin. Frowning, he got up from the workbench without a word and went back inside the house, trailing through the maze of rooms until he came upon Arthur in an upstairs study, going through a stack of papers. Pausing only briefly at the surprise that Arthur actually did things and read things that had to do with Koenig Industries on occasion, he marched up to the desk and waited impatiently for acknowledgement.
“What, Merlin?” Arthur asked, putting down an invoice to sip at his coffee.
“I'm going to be your sidekick.”
“Catching on, are you?”
Merlin ignored him. “And you have an identity and a costume and themed equipment.”
Arthur frowned, as if noticing that these things were perhaps faintly ludicrous and feeling a need to defend them. “It's common among the crowd I run with.”
“Yes, well....” Merlin braced his hands on the desk and leaned forward, intruding a bit on Arthur's personal space and not really caring. “Sidekicks are still superheroes, right? So, I need an identity. And a costume.”
Arthur leaned back in his chair. “I was waiting for this to come up. Look, I've given it some thought.”
“You have?”
“Don't look so surprised! Of course I have. My sidekick's identity reflects on me, after all.” He opened a drawer and rifled through it, pulling out a notepad. “Here,” he said, tossing it across the desk.
Merlin snatched up the pad and scanned it, his brow furrowing progressively as the contents sunk in. He looked up at Arthur incredulously, letting the paper drop back onto the desk.
“What the fuck kind of superhero name is Robin?” he demanded.
Arthur pouted, something Merlin had seen him do only twice before. “I was going for a flying theme.”
Merlin suppressed a sigh. “There are a lot of birds; some of them are awesome. You get to be a bat, which is at least scary in a way.” Arthur opened his mouth, probably to make a retort, but Merlin carried on. “But how,” he said, and he thought this point was important so he let his volume climb, “is a robin going to strike fear into the hearts of my enemies?” He looked down at the page full of scribbles again, glaring at the costume outline through his rage. “And why is there so much green?”
Arthur snatched away his drawings, looking at them doubtfully. “I was thinking of Robin Hood, a bit. It crept into the design.”
“You're really tarnishing Batman's image of infallibility, you know.”
“Don't get nasty. Look,” Arthur said, flipping past a few pages of the notepad, “that wasn't my only idea.”
The second image was all grey and black. The costume was basic, with plain gauntlets, boots, utility belt and cape, and looked quite similar to Batman's, except for the cowl, which had no ears and had a definite beak-shape over the nose. It was, Merlin mused, probably as masculine as tights could be expected to look. What he liked best, though, was the name scribbled across the top of the page in block letters.
“The Falcon.” He smiled. “That's more like it.”
A look of relief flitted across Arthur's face so fast he wondered if he'd imagined seeing it. Merlin's smile became a smirk. “Hand me a pencil,” he said. He could already picture some needed embellishments.
Arthur handed over the pencil. “Get out of my office,” he said.
***
“How does it fit?” Gaius asked as he finished adjusting the drape of Merlin's cape.
“It's a lot warmer than I expected,” Merlin said, looking down at himself in slight awe.
“That's the Kevlar,” Arthur said. “It's incorporated into the tights as well as the body armour and cowl. Your cape is fire-retardant, too.” He smiled grimly. “Hopefully this means you won't get killed your first night out.”
Merlin frowned and started experimentally bending, twisting and fidgeting, getting used to the feel and the range of movement allowed by the suit. “Is there a mirror handy?” he asked.
Gaius chuckled and pointed him toward a corner of the cave, where there stood a full-length mirror, meant either to do solo inspections of equipment or to nurse Arthur's badly-concealed vanity. Merlin stood in front of it and stared. He cut quite an impressive figure in tights, he had to say; whatever Arthur claimed, his scrawniness had more or less vanished in favour of lithe muscle that stood out on his arms and legs.
His modifications (and some from Gaius, who had constructed the suit) looked good as well. The main colour of his costume was a steely grey and the cowl, boots, gauntlets, cape and slightly embarrassing briefs-like area were black. His cowl had the sharp point reminiscent of a falcon's beak that Arthur had come up with, and Merlin had added further birdlike touches with the scalloped bottom of the cape, which resembled feathers, a general pointiness to the tops of the boots and the gauntlets, and a row of sharp-looking fins along the sides of the gauntlets that resembled Batman's and which Merlin privately liked to think of as his talons. A stylized outline of a bird in flight stood out on his chest plate, in the same place as the bat on Batman's.
He turned, ogling the showy swirl of his cape as he did so, and walked proudly back over to the other two men, who both looked as if they were holding back laughter.
“Don't even,” he said cheerfully as he rejoined them.
“You're forgetting one final touch,” Arthur said suddenly, grabbing something from the workbench. “Hold still.”
It was Merlin's utility belt; he froze uncertainly as Arthur stepped in close and fastened it snugly over his hips. Their eyes met as he tugged it around to centre, and Merlin hoped fervently that his sudden blush wasn't visible under the mask.
“There you go,” Arthur said, stepping back to admire his handiwork. “Now you're equipped. I've already got some things in the pouches for you-batarangs, smoke bombs, cable ties, the basics. And your new, collapsible bo staff is in the back pouch.”
Merlin reached for it and felt its outline through the pouch. “Thanks.”
Arthur shrugged. “Don't need you getting killed if I can help it. At least now it won't be my fault if you do die horribly.” He clapped his hands together. “Anyway. Are you ready?”
Merlin cocked his head to the side, belatedly realizing it was a very birdlike action. “Ready?” he echoed. He had no idea what he should be ready for.
Arthur stared incredulously and then just shook his head, already moving toward where he kept his batsuits. “What do you think, Falcon? We're going out on patrol.”
“Oh.” He fought down a surge of panic; if he wasn't ready for it then surely there was no way Batman would take him out on the streets. He curled his fingers inside his gloves and let excitement replace the fear. It was happening.
“Hey,” he called to where Arthur was already adjusting the fit of his chest plate. “Since this is my first time out and all, you know how we could make it special, like to celebrate?”
“You're not driving the Batmobile, Merlin.”
**********
Batman and the Falcon will return!
I haven't decided what to write about next in this universe, so if there's something you have a burning need to read (costumed, Batmobile sex is an obvious and duly acknowledged choice), please suggest away! Note that I will not consider these prompts to be filled as given, and may follow a suggestion, go off on a tangent, or pass it up completely. It's a mystery! Also, I will now be crossposting fic at Dreamwidth at the username waketosleep.