Timshel -- Part Two
Timshel
And you have your choices / And these are what make man great / His ladder to the stars
NAVIGATION
Masterpost | Part One | Part Two | Part Three | Part Four | Epilogue
Acknowledgements | Soundtrack | Full document download
PART TWO
Despite having never met, Gwen and Morgana have an awful lot in common. Both spend too great a portion of their salaries on glossy magazines and red wine. Both will still go and see any film that Leonardo DiCaprio's in, just because their thirteen-year old selves would never forgive them if they didn't. And both will be delighted by the way the next few months will play out for Merlin and Arthur.
Gwen, for her part, will watch Merlin go from the shy, stumbling, awkward boy who begged his way onto her sofa and into her heart, to a confident, capable man who works hard, dresses like a star (even making her catch her breath on occasion, until Lance comes wandering in wearing his scrubs and she goes all weak-kneed and wibbly) and, more surprisingly, pays his rent on time. He will no longer flit from job to job but instead appear to be an integral part of the Camelot machine, if the number of late nights and early starts will be anything to go by. She will miss him, of course - miss watching crappy TV with him, miss their regular "what shall we have for dinner / I can't be bothered to cook / oh fuck it, let's get pizza" discussions, miss him talking to her through the bathroom door while she relaxes in bubbles after a long day. But he will still be her Merlin -- just a stronger, better, brighter one, who buys her flowers and takes her to dinner and insists on paying and brings home expensive wine. Which can't be bad.
Morgana, too, will immediately love having Merlin around. For her own sake, for one thing -- to throw balled up paper at, to send irreverent IMs to when Arthur is pacing up and down the middle of their office berating them for one thing or another, to discuss Lady Gaga's latest questionable outfit choice with ("Lady Gaga is a style icon, Morgana - she is beyond fashion!").
But she will mostly love having him around for the change he will bring to Arthur.
Arthur's patience will lengthen considerably -- which, given that Merlin will do something to try it at least five times a day, will be quite fortuitous. He will be more willing to open up, to bring a bit more of his own personality into the office, and Morgana will be surprised to discover how much she likes him. When he gives dictation (usually to Merlin) he will actually pause to breathe, and make the odd joke, and even let Merlin make suggestions for improvements.
And although Morgana can't believe this now, on a Friday night, and sometimes the odd Thursday, and occasionally, if it's been a tough week, a Wednesday, the three of them will head to the local pub and have a drink, and Arthur will roll his eyes at the music Merlin puts on the jukebox, and Merlin will mock him in kind for his penchant for Dad Rock, and Morgana will sit back and smile indulgently as Arthur visibly relaxes and lets his guard down -- something he never did in the time she will come to label Before Merlin.
Of course, it won't be perfect. They will sorely try each other's patience. Arthur will be snappy and Merlin sarcastic. Arthur will tell Merlin he's incompetent and that he should never have promoted him. During his first performance review, Merlin will storm out and spend twenty minutes muttering murderous sentiments at Arthur's door. When Arthur is away at an important meeting with clients, Merlin will sneak into his office and rearrange his perfectly alphabetised books. The first time they go for lunch, Arthur will end up with a coffee stain on his most expensive shirt and Merlin will outright refuse to make a special trip to the dry cleaners, despite it clearly being his fault. Merlin will regularly call Arthur a stuck up imbecile when Arthur is out the room, but loud enough for him and everyone else to hear. Arthur will issue Merlin a written warning for being "late" (i.e., after 8.30am, despite his official start time being 9am) four times in a row and will have to rescind it when HR threaten to get involved.
But there will be no denying that they spark off each other, that they will do good, creative, interesting work, that they will have an easy banter that sometimes will make Morgana dizzy to witness. That they mark up exactly the same amends on a document, share a packet of sandwiches without speaking as they brainstorm ideas side by side, finish each other's sentences without even noticing. That it's like they were just waiting for the other all this time to spur themselves onwards, to move them towards something greater. That there is something wholly and almost unnaturally right in this thing between them.
And one thing both Gwen and Morgana are already noticing about Merlin and Arthur, respectively: how much more they smile these days.
It has been seven months to the day since Merlin elbowed his way into Camelot, and Arthur's office, and his life, and they have been working on this merger for several of those. Merlin has taken Arthur's meticulous calculations and projections and spun them into a proposal that Arthur is almost-kind-of-mostly certain the board can't possibly refuse, and now, having worked up until the very last minute, they are nervously chewing their nails and awaiting the verdict from the office in New York.
The move would be big -- huge, even -- giving Camelot a presence in the States that they could only dream of up until now. Whole departments have been given over to crunching the numbers but this, the final sprint, has been Arthur's baby, and he has worked himself to the bone for it. And so has Merlin; both have lost weight, Arthur looking lean where before he was brawny, Merlin's already delicate frame given over to gauntness. They have been surviving on caffeine and adrenaline, both driven by the desperate urge to prove themselves.
And now, all those weeks of work have come down to this; 2am on a Tuesday night, in a freezing office filled with old pizza and coffee and just a hint of hysteria.
Morgana gave up the ghost at about 10pm, but they were both too distracted to really notice her leave; just waved her off and returned to hunching over the laptop, making last minute adjustments to wording and graphs before sending them over to the board -- who have already been deliberating for what feels like days. Now, though, with nothing to do but wait (and, in Arthur's case, make a list of all the reasons the proposal won't be accepted), both are feeling her absence.
The two of them have completely different responses to tiredness, Arthur thinks. He had always thought Merlin would get even more hyperactive when teetering on the edge of exhaustion but instead he becomes brittle, somehow. Arthur, who has little patience at the best of times, assumed this would bring the worst out in him -- he can't abide weakness -- but instead he finds himself trying to soften his edges for Merlin's sake, and feels somehow better in himself for it.
And now, watching Merlin with his head tipped back in fatigue, swinging back and forth on the chair, he wants to say something or do something to make it better, cut the tension. Wants to take his thumbs and smooth the dark smudges away from underneath Merlin's eyes.
He settles for pressing his palms to his own eyelids, instead.
"God," Merlin says, dragging his feet across the expensive carpet, "if you had told me a year ago that I would be so nervous about the result of a business proposal that I would actually be feeling sick, I would have laughed in your face."
Arthur never ceases to be amazed by Merlin's capacity to unwittingly say exactly the thing he doesn't want to hear. "Sorry, Merlin," he says, scathing. "I know it's not saving the children or the rainforest or the whole bloody planet or whatever it is you care about."
Merlin laughs lazily. "No, it isn't. Which is why I really shouldn't care this much. It's hardly the big stuff, is it?"
Arthur idly wonders when exactly Merlin stopped being scared of him and scowls. "This might just be a distraction for you, Emrys, but for some of us, this is the big stuff. For some of us, we've got no choice but to care."
Merlin lifts his head and looks directly at Arthur. "No choice? Arthur, you always have a choice."
"Huh." Arthur chuckles bitterly. "You've met my father, Merlin. He's not the kind of man who offers one a choice." Oh God. Apparently he has caught Merlin's inability to shut up. He's practically committing treason here. For one awful minute he wonders if his father has bugged his office.
"That doesn't make him right, though. It doesn't make his way the best way."
Merlin's voice is soft. It feels dangerous.
"No, it just makes it the only way. Be quiet, I'm trying to concentrate," Arthur orders, and leafs through a file distractedly.
"Rubbish," Merlin scoffs quietly. Arthur is too bone-tired to argue.
"What would you rather be doing, anyway?" he says, flicking a curious look in Merlin's direction. He rapidly cycles through mental images of Merlin in a variety of careers, uncomfortably aware that he is lingering a little too long on the thought of Merlin rescuing war-torn children from bombed out orphanages.
"I dunno," Merlin says, looking thoughtful. "I've always loved to write. And I worked for a charity for a while when I was at uni; I guess I'd like to go back to doing something in that area. One day."
Arthur wonders if by "one day", Merlin means "after I retire" or "whenever I can get out of this hell-hole". His own career stretches out in front of him as far as the eye can see, and where before he found that comforting and reassuring, he suddenly feels stifled. "I always wanted to go into carpentry," he says, without thinking.
"Carpentry?!" Merlin is laughing now.
"Don't laugh!" Arthur reproaches, but he's smiling too. "I used to do it a lot as a hobby - furniture making and the like. I designed and built that desk," he says, tilting his head in the direction of his heavy oak desk.
Merlin whistles. "Hey. Wow, that's pretty cool." He grins at Arthur. "Maybe you're not just a ponce with shiny shoes."
Arthur can't help but grin in return. "Actually," he says, clipping Merlin's ankle with his foot, "I switched to suede. Thought that would be a bit less... Miss World."
Merlin looks from the shoes to Arthur's face and beams at him. "Yeah," he says, soft. "I definitely like that better."
Arthur is suddenly aware of the exposed patches of skin on Merlin's body -- the insides of his delicate wrists, behind his ears, the pale expanse covering the pulse batting away in his throat. He can't help but allow his gaze to meet Merlin's eyes too long, bright chips of blue rimmed by dark, dark lashes.
Just as he idly wonders what would happen if he just moved a little closer to Merlin, if he made that space between their bodies even smaller, if he allowed himself to give in to the want that curls dangerously in his chest and tingles in his mouth and the tips of his fingers, the phone rings and jolts him back into the cold reality of his world: his work, his responsibilities, his father.
And even when the news is good, the board's decision coming back as a solid yes, even as Merlin is popping the cork on the mini bottle of champagne they've kept in the office for this very occasion and thumping him on the back, he can't help but feel like he's lost something.
"Lance. Lance. Laaaaaaance."
When she gets no response but a muffled snore, Gwen resorts to the elbows. Her elbows, she has been told, are the pointiest in the world, and she can use them to deadly effect when necessary. Like now. Because it is 3am and Lance is not awake to listen to her Merlin-has-a-secret theory.
"Woah woah what oh my God is there a burglar oh God where is my cricket bat?" Lance thrashes about in the bed like a fish out of water until he realises that Gwen is sat straight up in bed looking perfectly calm. "Oh. No burglar?"
"Of course not, idiot," Gwen says, as if elbowing him awake for no good reason is a perfectly normal thing to do. "No, it's about Merlin. I've been thinking."
Lance sighs and sinks back into his pillows. It's never a good sign when Gwen opens a sentence with I've been thinking. Especially at -- Jesus -- three in the morning when he has a twelve hour shift the next day. "What about him?" he asks wearily.
"Well. He's been sort of... weird lately," Gwen continues.
"Weird."
"Yeah. All... dreamy, and distracted. Yesterday I came downstairs and he was sitting by the front room window staring at the garden wall. And then I went and put on a load of washing and played four rounds of Spider Solitaire and when I came back he was still there. Staring. Just staring!"
Lance hopes his silence conveys the answer Gwen is hoping to hear.
"I know, right?" she says, in a fierce whisper. "You know what his attention span's like. He can't even have a bath without doing something else at the same time. I haven't seen him this... odd... since -- well, since Will."
Lance raises an eyebrow. "What are you saying?"
"I dunno. Do you think maybe he's met someone?" Gwen says, thoughtfully.
"Where would he meet someone? He hasn't got any time. He's basically been at work for the last nine and a half months."
"Unless it's--" Gwen starts, looking doubtful.
"The shiny-shoed prat?" Lance asks dubiously. "He told me yesterday that he hopes Arthur drowns in his own jacuzzi."
"Yeah, you're right. It wouldn't be. I know. It's just... I don't know. I've known Merlin a long time. I know how moony he gets when he's in love."
"Like me," Lance says, nuzzling against her throat. "Mooooon."
Gwen giggles, shoving him off. "Shut up, Lance! This is serious." She sighs, distractedly stroking through his hair. "I really would love Merlin to meet someone. Cos, you know, as much as I adore him, and you know that I do... well, he can't stay here forever, can he?"
Lance smiles softly in the dark, and cups a protective hand over Gwen's soft belly. "No. But he's got another seven and a half months, eh? So maybe he has met someone -- just let him tell us when he's ready."
Gwen snuggles down into Lance's arms with a contented sigh.
As Lance rests his chin on the top of her head and closes his eyes, he finds himself wishing sincerely that one day Merlin will feel something like this.
He would never admit it, but Arthur Pendragon is heart-racingly, skin-tinglingly nervous. Nervous! He, who has so much of the world at his feet, who can usually guarantee (even if he would never admit it aloud) that he will be one of the best-looking and smartest people in a room, and definitely the one with the most money. He stands in front of some of the most powerful men in the country and gives them hell. He has fortunes at his fingertips. He has wined and dined minor royalty, for Christ's sake, and now he is standing in his office freaking out over whether or not to wear a tie for Merlin's bloody birthday.
Okay, so he has grown kind of fond of Merlin. It's mostly the warm glow of pride and self-satisfaction that comes with spotting talent before anyone else does, he's sure. And he knows that his rivals have tried to poach Merlin from under his nose already -- although of course, he tells himself, his rivals couldn't put up with Merlin's insufferable lack of respect and general failure of basic boss/employee etiquette.
Mind you, in his weaker moments, possibly after a couple of whiskeys in front of The X-Factor -- which he only watches so he can tell Merlin and Morgana what idiots they are for wasting their time on it -- he might admit to himself that the insufferable lack of respect is one of the things he likes about Merlin; the way that when it's the three of them -- him, Merlin and Morgana -- he almost feels normal.
Not Arthur Pendragon, Vice President and heir to the Camelot fortune. Not Arthur Pendragon, Uther's son. Not Arthur Pendragon, Cambridge graduate. Just Arthur, who gets mocked for making lists all the time and having the patience of a small child and caring way too much about designer labels. It's quite nice, really. Just to be Arthur.
Tonight, though, he is already feeling the pressure to make a good impression. Because it's Merlin's birthday, the three of them will be meeting up with Merlin's oft-discussed and clearly adored housemate and her boyfriend. Merlin evangelises over the pair of them so much Arthur privately suspects there may be some odd polygamous arrangement going on there, but perhaps he's just old-fashioned and it's totally normal to say "love you" at the end of a call to one's female friends.
Arthur wouldn't know. He doesn't have any female friends, really; just Morgana. And girls he pays for sex. Although Merlin arriving got in the way of that little arrangement; too difficult to bring them in without raising suspicions when Merlin has such a big mouth. (Or at least that's the justification Arthur firmly decides upon when he wakes up in a cold sweat at the thought that Morgana might have noticed.)
So he's not sure how to handle this housemate of Merlin's; he can't help but feel a little on display.
(And there's the other thing, too. The thing he dares not vocalise, despite Morgana's raised eyebrows; the thing where he can't help but desperately seek the approval of everyone Merlin loves; the thing where he sent Merlin's mother flowers when she was rushed to hospital and a strained, white-faced Merlin disappeared for five days without so much as a call and Arthur paced up and down beside his desk until he'd practically worn a hole in the carpet; the thing where he wrote to Merlin's Uncle Gaius and offered Camelot's sponsorship to his sexual health clinic, a decision that he had to spend the next three weeks justifying it to the press (and, more alarmingly, his father); the thing where he finds himself acting like a puppy doing tricks just to be rewarded by one of Merlin's huge, honest smiles.
Shut up, Arthur.)
"Morgana!" he calls desperately, trying to avoid treacherous thoughts of Merlin's smile. "Help me," he pleads as she appears in the doorway. "Tie on or tie off?"
Morgana wrinkles her nose appraisingly. "Off," she says, and glides across the room to straighten his collar, "and let me just --" She artfully ruffles his hair. "There. Fit for a prince. Ess. Princess."
Arthur most definitely does not blush. "Yes," he says, rather too quickly, "although I don't think it would be the done thing to pull on Merlin's birthday."
Morgana looks suddenly sad. "No. I guess not." She leans forward and kisses his cheek. "Just -- be happy, won't you, Arthur? There's more to life than what your father thinks."
"I don't know what you're talking about," Arthur responds, automatic. Morgana smiles at him gently, and turns to go.
As he watches her leave, Arthur balls a silent fist inside his pocket.
Merlin is delighted with how his birthday is going. Delighted delighted delighted. He has been drinking for three hours, which helps, but even more rewarding than his nice little beer buzz is the fact that Morgana and Gwen are cooing over ...actually, over what he suspects might be his baby photos, which he's sure he SHOULD be worried about but right now, seeing the two dark heads bent together in a giggly huddle just makes him feel amazing. And Lance, bless him, is manfully making conversation with Arthur about football and cricket and the stock market, and Arthur has even rolled up his shirt-sleeves and his hair is looking much less Ken-doll than normal and the crisp white of his collar really makes his blue eyes stand out and--
Merlin blinks, twice, and reminds himself (for the tenth time that evening) to stop staring. It's not that he's attracted to Arthur, so much as he objectively understands that Arthur is very attractive. And funny. And secretly insecure and awkward. And insufferably arrogant and proud. And he sort of wants to take him home and give him what he needs, which, Merlin suspects, is a good, hard--
Shut up, Merlin.
He doesn't normally let his thoughts go that far when he's sober.
Suddenly Gwen is at his elbow, dragging him to the bar. "Drinks! We are getting drinks," she announces, and Arthur (as he has done for every single round so far) gets up, gold card in hand. "No no no," she starts, only changing word when Merlin elbows her in the ribs. "No! This is my round, you've got practically all the others, you absolute darling." Merlin is tickled to notice that Arthur has gone a little bit pink. "C'mon, Merlin!"
They are only halfway to the bar when she starts. "Oh, MERLIN."
He looks at her sideways. "Er... what?" He flags down the barman and orders their drinks.
"He is so handsome. And generous. And funny! You never said he was funny! You said he was pompous, and stuck up, and boring."
Merlin colours a little. "Well. Um. I might have been a little bit harsh. You know how it is with bosses. What about Morgana; do you like her?"
"Oh, she's a hoot. We're going shopping at the weekend and then for a massage," Gwen says, waving her hand impatiently as Merlin baffles yet again at the female ability to make best friends in an instant. "But I am more interested in Arthur. More specifically, you and Arthur."
Merlin chokes on his pint. "What?!" he splutters, incredulous. "Me and-- that's ridiculous, Gwen, even for you."
Gwen waggles her eyebrows. "Uh-huh. So I've just imagined you staring at him all night."
Merlin opens his mouth but nothing comes out.
"And I've just imagined him staring at you all night."
"Yes-- I-- he's-- I don't even like him. He can be such a prat, and he's got this annoying habit of pacing, it drives me up the wa-- wait, he's been staring at me?"
"Oh, only for every minute that you haven't been staring at him. Oh, this explains so much! Why you've been all moony for the last few months," she says, grinning like the Cheshire cat.
"Shut up. Shut up."
"I didn't say anything." Gwen retorts in a Valley-girl accent.
"Gwen. Shut up. Now is not the time for Mean Girls. Well, actually it's always the time for Mean Girls, but-- no. Shut up. He has not. He's my boss. He's not even gay. I don't think."
Gwen snorts softly. "Uh-huh. And I'm Regina George."
"You wish," Merlin says blankly. He's not sure if it's the beer, but his stomach seems to be bouncing around between his throat and his feet (and, if he's honest, his crotch). "Oh shit. Gwen, I did not need that idea planted in my head. Seriously. Just-- shut it."
"As you wish," Gwen says, her eyebrows rapidly disappearing into her hairline. She pirouettes back to their table, somehow carrying Morgana's wine and her orange juice (and why exactly is she on the orange juice?) and Lance's cider, leaving Merlin with his own and Arthur's pint. Merlin sneaks a glance back at the table to find that Arthur is staring in his direction sort of... longingly. The beer, Merlin thinks firmly, he is looking at the beer.
He is less sure when Arthur's eyes meet his own, and he flashes Merlin a rare but dazzling smile.
Fuck.
"Merlin! Merlinmerlinmerlinmerlinmerlin."
Arthur thinks he might be slurring but he isn't really sure how to stop. The last time he drank this much in public was his first week of University and he ended up being sick in his bin and awoke to find his room covered in stolen road signs. He notices, five seconds too late, that he has clapped a hand on Merlin's shoulder. He's thankful that nobody else is nearby; Lance, Morgana and Gwen are flirting with the bouncers outside the club in an attempt to get them in ahead of the line (Lance appears to be having the most success, much to Merlin and Arthur's amusement).
"Happy birthday, Merlin. Merlinmerlinmerlin. Funny name. Funny face," Arthur continues. Merlin laughs, and Arthur realises that his insides go kind of liquidy when Merlin laughs. But he's sure that's the result of that third double whiskey, and the sheen of the streetlight they're standing under, and the blanket of stars just visible above the city fog. "Because you laugh like a girl," he says. Aloud. "Oops." Oh shit. That too was more, er, out loud than he had planned. But Merlin... good, lovely, funny Merlin, Merlin whose smile is too big for his face, is still laughing.
"You're drunk," Merlin says, patting his hand.
"So are you. Drunk, I mean. We both are. And stating the obvious."
"Are we?"
"Are we what?"
"Stating the obvious."
Merlin is looking at him very intensely and suddenly neither of them are laughing. Arthur feels vaguely nauseous in a way he hasn't felt since he was fourteen and on his first date to the cinema with Vivian and he suspected she was about to hold his hand. Actually, he feels like his heart might actually have stopped, which is definitely a first, and quite frankly, a medical impossibility. He thinks.
"Um," he starts. Oh, well done, Arthur. You should be very proud of that conversational gem.
Merlin says nothing, just keeps staring at him with those gigantic blue eyes that are utterly devoid of secrets. Arthur wonders what it's like to be able to face oneself in the mirror without flinching.
"I don't think -- I. God. Merlin." And since when did Merlin's stupid, stupid name sound like that on his tongue; like a plea, like a prayer?
Oh God. He knows when. Has always known.
It was in the moment he walked back into his office after that first meeting and raged and raged.
It was when he promoted Merlin based on nothing more than a whim.
It was in every sunlight-filled afternoon spent batting insults back and forth, every long evening pouring over copy together, every working lunch that seemed to be less about work each time, every inside joke, every moment Merlin has made him feel like Arthur, just Arthur, with possibilities and choices.
"I think I want to-- I think--"
But before Arthur can finish his sentence, before he can do the supremely, sublimely and totally foolish thing he might have been about to do, he can't help but do something else equally as unfitting: he leans forward, puts his hands on Merlin's chest... and promptly vomits all over his shoes.
Morgana's patented Hangover Cure-All Kit hasn't had many outings since she's been working for Arthur -- not like in the old days, when she worked for men who had forgotten what it was like to wake up without a splitting headache and a mouth that felt like it was full of sawdust. But a few weeks after Merlin first started, she had dug it out again, just in case, and once the pub trips started, she had found herself occasionally dispensing the odd paracetamol.
This morning, though, she knew the full force of all the remedies she had to offer would be required, and so she had arrived early (not, of course, suffering from a hangover herself, having learnt a long time ago to stick solely to expensive white wine or vodka) and carefully laid the following on Merlin and Arthur's desks: two paracetamol tablets, a bottle of mineral water, an alka seltzer, a sachet of peppermint tea and two oranges -- and arranged for the mid-morning delivery of steaming hot black coffee and large bacon rolls.
Merlin is the first to slink in at 9.30am, which makes it the first time he has ever arrived before Arthur, Morgana notes. He slumps into his desk with a soft groan and lays his head against his desk in defeat.
"Oh God, Morgana. Oh my God. My first day as a twenty-five year old and I feel like I'm dead already. Or that I want to be dead." He raises his head and looks at her wanly. "How, exactly, are you looking so perfect?"
Morgana ignores him. "Coffee will be here at ten."
Merlin clutches at his pen pot. "Ten. Only thirty hellish minutes to go. Oh, Morgana, you are an angel. If I could bring myself to move I would be kissing your lovely ankles. Did I tell you they were lovely? They are lovely. I noticed them on my very first day when you were still the scary dragon lady in the Louboutins. Oh, is this paracetamol I see before me? Come, let me take thee." He downs two with a flourish.
"Merlin, you are such a drama queen. And a terrible suck-up. And Jesus, what is that smell?" She wrinkles her nose distastefully.
"SOMEONE," Merlin says, his cheek once again pressed to his keyboard, "was sick on my only decent pair of shoes. And someone ELSE, i.e. YOU, insisted on booking me a posh hotel suite for last night. Which meant I didn't have any other shoes with me this morning. So now my feet smell of sick. Which is not helping my hangover."
Morgana tsks and throws him the company gold card. "Go and get yourself some new ones before the coffee gets here. Go on! Consider it a present from Arthur seeing as he ruined your last pair."
She dispatches Merlin out the door, placating his grumbles with the promise of bacon rolls. Just in time, too, as Arthur emerges from the lift just after Merlin disappears down the stairs.
He doesn't say a word to her, but rushes straight past into his office and for the next ten minutes Morgana pretends to work whilst stifling laughter over the tell-tale retching sounds, followed by flushing and running water, all punctuated with the odd "fuck!" and "that IDIOT!" and "I don't care if it was his birthday, he is FIRED." When he emerges, wiping the corner of his mouth with an immaculately pressed handkerchief, he looks a little pale around the edges, but otherwise unrumpled, save for his slightly damp and dishevelled hair.
"Thank you for the painkillers, Morgana," he says stiffly. "And the water, but is there any--"
"Coffee? It's on its way."
"Thank God," Arthur replies, "I knew I did the right thing in hiring you. Unlike Merlin, that worthless reprobate. Where the hell is he? It's quarter to ten!"
"He's already been in," Morgana says, nodding at the contents of Merlin's bag which have spilled all over his desk. "I sent him out again to buy new shoes."
"New shoes?" Arthur says, puzzled. "What on earth does he need new shoes for? He's got shoes. The ones I bought him on his first day. The bla--" He stops, mid-sentence, a growing look of horror washing over his face. "Oh God. I think I-- Did I--?"
"Vomit on them?" Morgana says, mildly. "Apparently so, Arthur."
"Oh God." Arthur's voice is a horrified whisper now. "And that was just when I was about to-- Oh, God."
"About to what?" Morgana asks, puzzled, but her question goes unanswered as Merlin bounds in, looking a lot cheerier than he did twenty minutes earlier, and carrying four shoeboxes.
"I wasn't sure which ones to get," he says, from behind the boxes, "So I got all of them, as he's paying. He did bloody cover them in sick, after all, it's the least he can--" Dumping the boxes on his desk, he suddenly spots Arthur. "Oh shit. Er. Morning Arthur. Er. Sir."
"Merlin," Arthur says, stepping towards him involuntarily. "I'm so sorry. I shouldn't have-- I mean-- of course I would have replaced them-- it was very unrefined and-- well. I'm sorry."
Morgana watches as Merlin's answering grin is reflected in Arthur's own face a moment later and silently marvels at the change in her boss. A year ago Arthur would have fired someone on the spot for even joking about abusing the company account. Especially if he had been sick on that someone's shoes. Hell, she thinks, a year ago he wouldn't have stood close enough to any of his staff to vomit on their shoes.
"It's fine Arthur, honestly. It was funny. Although the cab driver definitely did not think it was funny. He heard it all squelching as I got in the car, and the smell...! And nor did Gwen, come to think of it. Especially when we got in and the cat started licking--"
Arthur turns an unhealthy shade of green and dashes into his office again. From the sounds of it, he only makes it to his waste paper basket this time.
Morgana raises an eyebrow. "Unless your cat was in your hotel room last night, Merlin, I somehow doubt that story."
Merlin only grins.
"Was it necessary to go quite so far?"
"Hey," Merlin protests. "I had to walk around in pukey socks all night. That's worth more than a few pairs of shoes. Now I feel vindicated."
Morgana shakes her head and laughs. "You are a bad, bad man, Merlin Emrys." She looks at her computer screen and finds a series of increasingly hysterical IMs from Arthur that say things like "Do you think Gwen would prefer roses or lilies in an apology bouquet?" and "Wait, is it lilies that cats are allergic to?" and "Are flowers really the right way to say 'I'm sorry your cat ingested my vomit'?" and smiles. Merlin Emrys might be a bad man, but she thinks he is turning out to be rather good for Arthur Pendragon.
Arthur Pendragon, however, is not so sure that Merlin Emrys has been anything other than bad for him. Since Merlin stumbled his way into his life it has been almost unrecognisable compared to the one he had before. For a start, he has never been sick on anyone's shoes until now, and he suspects that's probably not even the most embarrassing thing he's done because of that damn crinkly-eyed idiot. Merlin makes him feel utterly out of control in a dizzying, delirious way, like a child on a rollercoaster with nothing to hold on to but that vague, nagging suspicion that it's not meant to be this frightening.
He is lost, lost for the first time in so long, and can only do the one thing he knows will help him calm down and organise his untidy mind. He opens his notebook to a blank page and makes a list.
1. Vomiting on his feet.
2. Donating a ridiculous amount of money to that damn shelter.
3. Buying different -- he cannot quite bring himself to write 'less shiny' -- shoes.
4. Watching The X-Factor. And Britain's Got Talent. And Glee.
5. Drinking on a work night.
6. Listening to The Smiths.
7. Not eating Marmite because the idiot is somehow convinced he can smell it through the WALLS.
8.
At the eighth item on the list, Arthur starts to realise that it could go on for pages and pages, because the number of tiny ways that Merlin has changed his life appear to be almost infinite. But there's something more, something more there than introducing him to trash television and various disgustingly coloured alcoholic concoctions and sad bastard music. Something that goes deeper and touches a part of Arthur that hasn't let itself be touched in a very long time.
He puts pen to paper one final time and writes:
Almost kissing him.
Still wanting to kiss him.
And although the old prickling feeling of being watched still trickles uncomfortably over his skull, he refuses to cross the last two lines out. For once in his life, he thinks, he is going to give himself the chance -- just the chance -- of making a choice.
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