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Merlin is knackered. He wheels his bike across the car park and stifles a yawn that threatens to crack his jaw. He doesn't begrudge helping his mum out, but sometimes, after a long day in the office, he just wishes he could go home and curl up on the sofa like normal people. Instead, three nights a week, he ends up serving food and washing pots in the restaurant of his mum's hotel.

The money does come in handy, he can't deny that. He saves it up in a large, brightly coloured pot on the cluttered desk in his bedroom. It's his fund for the road trip across America that he and Gwen have been planning since university. The trip he knows deep down that they'll never actually take, but can't bring himself to give up the dream of just yet.

He shifts his bag more securely onto his shoulder and navigates the parked cars. It's still the middle of summer – what summer there has been, he thinks miserably – so the sun is just setting, bathing Merlin's surroundings in a glow that renders them far more attractive than the stark light of day ever manages to achieve.

His pocket starts to vibrate. Merlin digs deep into his jeans and pulls out his phone just as the strains of Mr Brightside begin filling the air. Merlin loves his iPhone more than he'll ever admit – certainly to Gwen – and more, he suspects, than is healthy. For someone who is so vocal in his criticism of an increasingly materialistic society, Merlin is fairly sure this makes him something of a hypocrite. But that's a price he's willing to pay for his shiny, sleek accessory with its plethora of fabulous, yet somewhat unnecessary applications.

He raises the phone to his ear and kills his favourite song with the press of a button. It's Gwen.

Merlin's known Gwen for a long time, since their first day at university – two gawky teenagers from the countryside, lost and in awe of the big city. They'd shared everything from that point on – homesickness, heartbreaks, study-induced breakdowns, and even the odd existential crises – and Merlin loves her like the sister he's never had.

Thirty seconds into the conversation and Merlin's beginning to wish he hadn't answered, because suddenly she's off on this long ramble about the awful blind date she's just escaped from. He works five minutes away from their flat and is sure this conversation could have waited. He points this out diplomatically and the line goes suspiciously quiet. Then Merlin remembers that diplomacy has never been his strong point.

He grovels a little, a skill he's honed over the years of their friendship, and after an inspired offer to pick up some wine on the way, he is forgiven. He shoves his phone back in his pocket and thinks it's worth the £15 bottle of Gwen's favourite wine that he's just been guilt tripped into buying. After all, it could be worse, he could be going home to an empty house.

Lost in thought, he starts to wheel his bike again. But there's a loud crunching of gravel, the slight screeching of breaks, and the somewhat muffed -- but audible nonetheless -- sound of swearing.

Merlin jumps out of the way quickly and adds a few choice words of his own. Okay, so he should be watching where he's going, but who pulls into a car park at that kind of speed? He allows himself one fierce glare at the back end of the dark BMW and then turns away. As much pleasure as it would give him to go over there, beat on the window, and give the undoubtedly arrogant driver a piece of his mind, Merlin suspects his mother would not appreciate him welcoming her customers in quite that fashion.

So he swings a leg over his bike, shifts his bag comfortably into position, and cycles away, muttering under his breath the whole time about showy bastards and their flash cars.

"This is all your fault, you realise," Arthur mutters darkly. The sun is busy setting outside the car and he knows from a quick glance at the clock that they have already missed dinner at the hotel.

"Of course it is," Morgana replies blithely, then promptly begins fiddling with the stereo.

"I was listening to that."

Morgana pays him no heed and continues flicking through the various stations, filling the car with short blasts of unrecognisable songs.

"Morgana." Arthur doesn't even bother to hide his exasperation, and silently wishes he'd left his sister back in London.

"You were not," she replies finally. "Now stop complaining for five minutes; you're giving me a headache." Morgana eventually seems satisfied with her selection and sits back in her seat, gazing silently at the passing scenery.

"We'd have been there ages ago if you hadn't insisted on taking the scenic route."

Morgana sighs. "I was hoping you might relax at some point in the journey. You've been so tense these last few weeks."

"I wonder why that could be." Arthur grits his teeth and clenches his hands tightly around the steering wheel. He's determined not to lose his temper.

"Look," Morgana twists sideways in her seat, "I realise this wasn't the direction you envisaged your career moving in." Arthur snorts here and mutters something that sounds like 'understatement'; Morgana ignores him. "But I think this could be good for you."

"How?" The word is almost drowned out as Arthur's fist slams down on the horn. "How could this possibly good for me?"

Morgana ignores the brief outburst, and the returning blast from the driver in front. "You've spent too long trying to please your father," she replies simply. "It's time for you to step out of his shadow, be your own man."

"But that's not what this is about, is it?" Arthur struggles to hold onto his self-control; it isn't Morgana's fault, he reminds himself firmly. But lately any mention of Uther seems to tip him over the edge. "This isn't about Father giving me the opportunity to prove myself, to progress. This is just his way of reminding me who really calls the shots. That no matter what I do, he's ultimately the one still pulling the strings."

"I'm sure he didn't—"

"He sent me away like a child in disgrace. I'm twenty six years old." The car swerves slightly as Arthur's temper begins to get the better of him. "I've done everything he's ever asked of me. He picked my A Levels, my degree course, even the bloody University I went to. This isn't even what I wanted to do, but I did it, for him. Then I make one mistake and he's had me banished to another country."

"Sophia was one hell of a mistake to make," Morgana murmurs, but not so softly that Arthur doesn't hear.

"But it was mine to make."

"It's only a punishment if you let it be," Morgana replies slowly. "It's not like Uther demoted you to tea boy or anything; he's putting you in charge of the whole branch. Whatever his reasons for that are, it doesn't matter. For the first time in forever you won't have to be constantly looking over your shoulder for approval."

Arthur doesn't reply. He's forced to admit to himself that Morgana's words have some merit – not that wild horses will drag that confession out of him.

"Why are you here, anyway?" Arthur asks finally; the silence is becoming oppressive and he can't bear it any longer.

"Someone had to come and help you out. You might have a good head for business, brother dear, but your interpersonal skills are atrocious. Left to your tender mercies, Wales would be declaring independence before the week was out."

Arthur huffs audibly. "You don't know anything about the company."

"No," Morgana allows. "But I know people, and that's why I'm here." She pauses for a moment. "Plus, I hear the men are really hot."

Arthur snorts; from what he knows of Morgana this is far more likely to be the reason.

"What?" Morgana turns in her seat. "It's true. Look at that guy from Torchwood. And don't try to argue; you had him as a screensaver on your laptop for weeks."

"I liked the show." Arthur turns his head and glares at her meaningfully. "Don't start going on—"

Whatever else he plans to say is lost as Morgana's hands slap loudly onto the dashboard and she cries "Look out!"

The few seconds that it takes Arthur to break sharply, to swerve, to avoid the oblivious idiot casually strolling across the car park, seems like a lifetime. And it feels to Arthur that his heart stops beating, just for that moment, right up until he sees the look of outrage on the idiot's face. Then the swearing starts.

He swings quickly into a vacant parking space, tyres crunching angrily on the gravel underneath. Arthur has his door open before the purr of the engine has died away, intent on giving a certain someone a few home truths.

Then Morgana's hand is on his arm, stopping him, nails biting into his flesh ever so slightly. "Don't be an idiot," she says firmly.

Arthur splutters, because clearly he is not the idiot in this equation. "I fail to see—"

"I know you do," Morgana interrupts him smoothly. "And that's usually the problem."

Arthur settles back in his seat and just looks at her.

"Just...let's not piss the locals off on the first night, yeah?" Her grasp on his arm loosens. "Let them work out in their own time what an arse you can be."

Arthur doesn’t dignify this remark with a response – he learned a long time ago it was a bad idea to argue with Morgana. He gives her a tight smile, the one he usually reserves for his father’s girlfriends, and then gets out of the car.

The Drovers Arms looms large in front of them, a golden halo cast around its outline by the setting sun.

Arthur takes one look and then wrinkles his nose in apparent distaste. "It’s a pub." He turns to Morgana, a slight frown marring his brow. "I realise this place is something of a backwater, but surely they have actual hotels?"

"It’s an inn," she corrects. "Now stop being such a pretentious idiot and carry my bags inside."

"An inn," Arthur repeats, even as he retrieves their cases from the boot. "Who uses that term nowadays?" He slams the boot shut and turns around. "Tell me it’s not one of those tacky medieval-themed places?"

Morgana smiles, but Arthur can tell from her expression she knows exactly the sort of places he is referring to. "Idiot." The affection in her tone negates the insult.

Arthur pouts, which only serves to make him seem more boyish than ever, and causes his sister to laugh. So he gives an exaggerated huff and picks up their luggage. "Lead the way."

"You must be Miss Le Fay?"

Morgana has barely pressed the reception bell before they are greeted by a harassed-looking woman. She smiles at them warmly and Arthur is struck by just how motherly she seems. But then, he reminds himself, he really has nothing upon which to base the comparison, so he shuts down that line of thought straight away.

Morgana nods. "Mrs Emrys?" she asks, and then adds, "and it’s Morgana, please."

"Very well, dear. Then I shall insist on Hunith in return." She pauses here and turns her attention to Arthur. "And this must be—"

"My brother, Arthur." Morgana interrupts as best she can without seeming rude, and Arthur smiles. It wouldn’t be the first time someone has mistaken them for more than siblings, and the last thing either of them wants is a repeat of the double bed incident.

"A pleasure to meet you." Hunith’s smile widens and Arthur finds himself responding in kind. She turns to the board behind her and selects two keys. "You’re on the first floor. Rooms four and six." She hands the keys over and Morgana takes them before Arthur has a chance to even think about it. "We were expecting you some time ago," Hunith continues, oblivious to the glares her guests are shooting at each other. "I hope you didn’t have too much trouble in finding us."

Morgana chuckles softly and Arthur glares at her again. Then, remembering his audience, he says, "It was fine. We just decided to take the scenic route."

Hunith nods as if this makes complete sense. "You’ve missed dinner I’m afraid. But I could rustle you up a sandwich or something, if you like."

Arthur shakes his head. "It’s fine, honestly. I’m that tired I think I’m just going to climb straight into bed."

Morgana snickers. "Party animal," she teases.

Arthur scowls slightly. "Wasn’t that what got me into this mess in the first place?"

Merlin struggles up the narrow staircase, his bike in one hand, and a Victoria Wine carrier in the other. Gwen hates that his bike lives in the hallway of their flat, and the landlord isn't overly keen either – not with the marks Merlin makes on the walls of the stairs. But it's a first floor flat, above a bakery in the middle of town, and there's really no alternative.

He props his bike against the wall and walks into the living room. A quick sniff of the air tells him Gwen isn't back with the takeaway yet, so he kicks off his shoes and heads into the kitchen. One bottle of wine is safely stowed in the fridge – though Merlin is sceptical about how long it will remain there – the other he places on the worktop while he hunts around for the corkscrew.

Considering the wine consumption in their flat rivals that of a small country, the corkscrew really should be easier to find, Merlin thinks as he rifles through cupboard after cupboard. He locates it eventually, at the back of the pan drawer, underneath the colander, and can't help but laugh to himself. Because, really, where else would it be kept?

He's been tempted for a while now to buy one of those all singing all dancing bottle openers, the type that does all the work for you. The one they have now is incredibly basic and not user friendly. But it's topped with a grinning Welsh dragon, and Gwen bought it for him as a present their first Christmas at university, and Merlin, well, he's a sentimental fool.

Reaching up, he snags two glasses from the cupboard. He's just filling the second one when the front door bangs open and Gwen curses loudly as she, once again, bangs into his bike. Merlin represses the smile that he knows won't help and carries on with the task at hand.

"I thought you were having an early night ready for the big day tomorrow? Impress the new boss with your drive and enthusiasm." Gwen dumps the steaming bags of Chinese on the counter and eyes the two glasses of wine.

"Bollocks to that," Merlin mutters sulkily. "I'm not sucking up to some prat who's only got the job because of who his daddy is."

"Merlin." When Gwen uses that tone Merlin regrets the day he ever introduced her to his mother. They are the only two people he knows who can inject so much hidden meaning into his name.

"Well," he complains defensively, because Gwen's giving him that look. "It's bloody nepotism and you know it. Everyone knows that job belongs to Leon; Geoffrey practically groomed him for it before he retired."

Gwen picks up her drink and takes a sip. She watches Merlin thoughtfully over the rim of her glass. "You know," she says eventually," Leon's not half as upset about this as you are." She puts her glass carefully on the worktop and smiles at Merlin. "Cheer up. At least the new boss is hot."

Merlin chokes suddenly on his drink; he's fairly sure some of it actually came out his nose in the process. "How?" he rasps out finally, safe in the knowledge that Gwen is well used to his one word questions by now.

Gwen's eyes are dancing with amusement at her friend's reaction. She hands him the roll of kitchen towel before replying. "You remember Freya from uni?"

And Merlin nods faintly here, because he does remember, only too well. He has memories of too much alcohol, a sexuality crisis, and a most ill-advised snogging session that he hopes Gwen never finds out about.

"Well, I was chatting to her on Facebook the other night. Apparently her boyfriend's sister used to work at your companies London office."

Merlin gives a non-committal grunt – he's never put much faith in the alumni grapevine. He reaches for the bag of takeaway and begins removing the various foil containers.

"You know," Gwen starts casually, but her tone makes Merlin look, "I bet Arthur has a Facebook account."

"Arthur?" Merlin repeats, his nose wrinkled in confusion.

Gwen shakes her head almost pityingly. "Yes, Merlin, Arthur Pendragon. As in your new boss."

A grin spreads across Merlin's face and he doesn't even pretend to think that it's a bad idea. "You get the food and I'll fire up the computer."

He's gone from the room before Gwen can even reply.

Five minutes later and they're both in Merlin's bedroom, crowded around his tiny desk with plates of steaming Chinese on their laps. Merlin taps his fork impatiently while he waits for Gwen to log in her account details.

"I can't believe I never thought of this before," Merlin admits, his eyes glued to the bright screen.

"You know," Gwen says, between forkfuls of chow mein, "for someone usually so crippled by morality and ethics, you're surprisingly at ease with this cyber-stalking of your boss."

"It's not stalking," Merlin protests, as he taps Arthur's name into the search bar.

"Remind me again why you don't have an account?"

"Are you kidding?" Merlin's a little incredulous. "Why would I want to broadcast my entire life over the internet? You never know what weirdoes are looking."

Gwen grins widely, and then stares pointedly at Merlin until he flushes red and shifts uncomfortably in his seat.

There's no more discussion of invasion of privacy however, because Merlin lets out a triumphant noise and both pairs of eyes are glued to the screen as Merlin enlarges a picture of what are, arguably, the two most gorgeous men ever to walk the earth.

"Holy crap," Gwen gasps. "Which one is he?"

Merlin licks his lips, which have suddenly gone as dry as his throat and resists the temptation to ask 'Who cares?'. Either way he is about to work every day with a man so beautiful, and so out of his league, that Merlin could almost cry. Instead, he hovers the mouse over the picture.

As the tag 'Arthur Pendragon' introduces Merlin to his destiny, Gwen lets out a soft chuckle. "Fuck," she says, a little breathlessly, and it doesn't escape Merlin's attention that her gaze is fixed to the dark-haired half of the photo. "You're screwed."

And Merlin wants to deny it, to be offended at her lack of faith in him, but faced with Arthur Pendragon, with his shiny blond hair, baby blue eyes, and the sexiest crooked smile, Merlin knows she's probably right.

If ever Merlin had a type, and usually he will deny this is the case, Arthur is it. Merlin can only hope that what he has in looks, Arthur lacks in personality. Otherwise he is about to fall head long into the most ill-advised crush since his sixth-form English teacher.

It turns out that Merlin needn't have worried at all; Arthur Pendragon is an arse of the highest order

Despite the previous night's activities, the copious glasses of wine, the unhealthy snacks, and being forced to sit through Pride and Prejudice yet again, Merlin actually makes it to the office with time to spare. He's aware he's got Gwen to thank for this. She's one of those irritating people who are always cheery the morning after, regardless of what she imbibed the night before.

It's not the first time she's had to drag Merlin out of bed, shove him into the shower, before practically dressing him. Gwen's the best friend he's ever had – the only one, really, unless you count Will, which Merlin definitely doesn't. She doesn't fluster when Merlin stumbles sleepily into the kitchen in just his boxers, hair still dripping from the shower – she just shoves a piece of hot toast in his slightly gaping mouth, and then marches him into the bedroom.

Merlin pays no attention to the clothes Gwen thrusts at him – he knows better than to argue – he simply puts them on and allows himself to be bundled into Gwen's tiny Mini ready for the short drive to work. So he's more than a little surprised when he walks into his office only to be greeted with a low wolf-whistle.

"Don't you look spiffy today?"

Merlin tries for a glare, but Myfanwy is busy walking a circle around him so it makes eye contact a challenging prospect. "What?" he demands petulantly, feeling his cheeks heat up under her scrutiny.

"Just admiring your outfit," she replies, and gives Merlin a wink that makes him want to throttle her for what, he is sure, will be the first of many times that day.

That's when Merlin notices what Gwen's done, and he kicks himself for not paying closer attention that morning. It's not unusual for him to wear a suit, most of the men in the office do – but usually it's one of his work suits, from Tesco, or Burton, somewhere cheap and cheerful like that. This morning, however, Gwen's put him in the Paul Smith suit he wore as an usher at Myfanwy's wedding – the one that's been in his wardrobe ever since, because it's far too fancy for everyday wear.

He curses under his breath and plots the inevitable downfall of his best friend. "Gwen dressed me," he mutters, and tries to ignore the smirk on his assistant's face.

"That much is evident." Myfanwy, or Miffy as she inexplicably insists on being called, reaches out and straightens his tie. "I did wonder if you were out to impress the new boss." And she winks again.

Merlin can't help but blush now, because his head is full of images of a certain blond smiling winningly into the camera. "Hardly," he replies, and hopes it sounds as dismissive as he was aiming for.

Miffy takes a gulp of her coffee, and then grins at Merlin over the top of her 'princess' mug. "You should," she says knowingly. "I caught a glimpse of him earlier and he's quite the looker." She pauses for another sip. "Just your type."

Merlin wants to huff and point out that confessing a passing interest in David Beckham's thighs does not mean he's only interested in blond, athletic types. But he doesn't do this for two reasons. The first being that it's not true, and the second being that he's too busy trying to feign surprise. Not that Myfanwy would be shocked by his brief foray into Facebook stalking – she's no stranger to the concept herself – but it would be all over the building by lunchtime, and that's really not the impression he's looking to make.

Hoping to avoid further conversations of this nature, Merlin makes his way over to his desk. He slings his battered messenger bag on the floor, but takes a little more care settling his jacket over the back of his chair. However, he's not getting off that lightly.

Miffy perches on the edge of his desk. "Did you see Big Brother last night?"

Merlin toys with the idea of pointing out she has a perfectly good chair not three feet away, but recognises it for the waste of time it would be. He shakes his head instead. "Nope. I was working."

"You didn't miss much. That stupid blonde tart'll be out this week; you mark my words."

Merlin's about to ask her to clarify, since, to him at least, Big Brother seems to be populated with stupid blond tarts. But before he has chance, Hilary enters the room.

Hilary has worked at Pendragon Industries since they opened the Carmarthen branch over 20 years ago. She's efficient, and professional, and ever so slightly intimidating – probably the ideal PA, Merlin suspects.

The look she gives them is disapproving at best, and before Merlin can make any attempt at social niceties, she gets straight down to business.

"Mr Pendragon would like a meeting of all department heads this morning. You're to be in his office in fifteen minutes."

And that's all. Merlin knows better than to attempt to pump her for information. Hilary is painfully professional, to the extent that she doesn't even mix with other members of staff. Miffy regularly complains that she's stuck up, but Merlin tends to think it's mostly a generational thing; there's a good fifteen to twenty years age gap between Hilary and the rest of the staff. He can't help wondering how she'll take to her new, younger boss.

The rest of the department begin shuffling in at this point, but Merlin's so distracted at the prospect of this meeting that he doesn't even point out to them that their start time was five minutes ago. He grabs his coffee, takes a deep gulp, and pointedly ignores the grin that Miffy sends his way. The last thing he wants to know is what's running through her mind at this point – he knows her well enough to realise that he's definitely better off not knowing.

Merlin takes a slow walk down the corridor – after all, it's not like he's in any hurry to see anyone in particular – but fate seems to be conspiring against him, and all too soon he's standing outside those familiar double doors. Fortunately the sound of voices from within tells him he's not the first to arrive, and just as he reaches for the handle, Leon is there at his side. They share a small, encouraging smile before entering.

Surprisingly the office looks much the same as it did before. Merlin's not sure exactly what he was expecting, but after his trip into the murky depths of Facebook the night before, he'd anticipated something a little more stylish than the eclectic mix of furniture the office's last occupant had left behind. He chides himself mentally for making judgements based solely on Arthur's appearance and ancestry – he could be a perfectly down-to-earth bloke, despite the trust fund, the flash car, and the public school education. Of course, he could also be a complete knob.

With that thought in mind, Merlin snags the vacant chair next to Leon and hopes to be pleasantly surprised.

He'd like to say that he paid attention, but unfortunately for Merlin's already tenuous attention span, Arthur Pendragon turns out to be even more stunning in the flesh. So he clasps his hands in his laps, does his best not to fiddle with his shiny cufflinks –Gwen again– and affects an interest in the proceedings that he hopes is convincing.

Merlin's pretty sure he's failed when he catches the eye of the beautiful woman standing off to the side. He'd originally thought she was the wife, and does not even pause to consider the tiny twinge of relief he feels at finding out she is, in fact, Arthur's sister. Once he's finished musing on the good genes that must populate the Pendragon family tree, Merlin realises he's being watched. Morgana – an unusual name to be sure, not that Merlin is in any position to comment on that, thanks, Mum – is smiling in amusement, and when she rolls her eyes in a God, is he ever going to shut up fashion, Merlin starts to think that Gwen may have serious competition for the coveted spot as his most favourite female.

But then the prat, and Merlin knows it's not really professional to term his boss as such, starts talking about how lax things have become and how there'll need to be changes, because if they don't start making more of a profit soon, there'll be redundancies.

Then Merlin feels sick. Because, even to his inexperienced ear, it sounds like Arthur Pendragon has been sent there to close them down, and he can't help but look around and think how hard it will be for all these people to find new jobs. Pendragon Industries isn't the only employer in Carmarthen, but it's by far the largest – and the effects of its closing on the local economy would be devastating.

Hoping it's just him, that his imagination is running away with him, as his mother so often complains, Merlin takes quick look to his right. When he sees similar concerns mirrored on Leon's face, and the uncomfortable shifting of various other people around the room, he feels the twisting in his gut intensify.

Finally the prat seems to realise that his words are unsettling people and begins to wind down. He looks slowly around the room, taking a moment to make brief eye contact with them all, and Merlin definitely does not find his thoughts wandering to just how blue one pair of eyes can be. Then there's the smile, the kind that politicians give just after they've kissed a baby, and Merlin wonders if it's the sort of thing Arthur had to practice, or if that level of insincerity just comes naturally.

But the meeting's over, people are getting to their feet, and Leon gives him a subtle nudge that reminds Merlin exactly where he is. As they're shuffling out, somewhat more despondently then they'd come in, Arthur informs them he'll be around to visit each of their departments at some point throughout the day. And though it sounds like more of a threat than he's sure was intended, and his colleagues are eyeing each other nervously, all Merlin can think of is getting back to his office and informing Miffy that today is definitely not a good day to give her 'fag hag' mug an airing.

"You really have no people skills whatsoever, do you?"

Arthur glares across the room at Morgana. "Is there a point you're trying to make, or is this just another one of those times where you randomly insult me for fun?"

Morgana pushes away from the wall and crosses the office. "Did you have to be quite so blunt with them? You practically told them they'd all be out of a job by the end of the year."

Arthur sighs. He knows she may have a slight point – he wasn't totally unaware of the reaction to his speech – but he still subscribes to the theory that beating around the bush helps no one. "I'm their boss; I'm not here to make friends."

"No," Morgana scoffs, "you're here to make a point to daddy. But these are people's lives."

"Don't pretend you actually care."

Morgana actually looks shocked at that. "I do," she insists. "Don't judge everyone by your own standards."

Arthur rubs at his face; he's so tired already, and it's only just past ten on his first day. "Okay, so I am trying to make a point, yes. But you've seen the figures for this place; it's a mess. The last thing I need right now is for my name to be attached to a sinking ship."

Morgana nods in acquiescence, and Arthur knows she understands his relationship with their father enough to understand what he means. "Fine. I get that. But could you just try being a little more human about it?"

Arthur lets out a short bark of laughter. "I thought that was why you were here? The human face of Pendragon Industries – smoothing over my lack of interpersonal skills?"

Morgana doesn't reply. She walks over to the coffee machine – the one thing Arthur insisted he wouldn't leave London without – and flicks it on. "Espresso?" she asks, with a slight quirk of her lips.

"Latte," Arthur replies, mildly irritated, because she damn well knows that already.

Morgana grins at him, just like she does every time they have coffee and Arthur has his girly drink, as she terms it. Like drinking neat caffeine in tiny cups somehow equates to being a man. Still, she's actually making the drink so Arthur's willing to overlook it this time.

Arthur leans back in his chair and closes his eyes. For just a moment, with the hissing of the coffee machine in the background, the leather under his fingertips, he imagines himself back in London. In his achingly modern office, with that rather attractive, but slightly overpowering secretary just outside the door. But then Morgana bangs his drink down on the desk and drags Arthur from his reverie.

He opens his eyes and finds her grinning at him again. "Oh piss off," he mutters, reaching for the mug.

As he sips his drink, Arthur takes a moment to look around his new office. The desk is certainly neither as large, nor as imposing as his last one, and his view of a grey Carmarthen industrial estate hardly compared to the sleek architecture of Canary Wharf. Then he gives himself a mental shake – there's no point thinking about it, he knows that, not when all it does is make his chest tighten and his breaths come shallow in a way that his GP had suggested was the onset of panic attacks. Not that Arthur gave that suggestion any credence.

"Did you notice him?" he asks finally, aiming for nonchalance.

"Who?" Morgana's face is carefully blank in the way she knows drives Arthur crazy.

He huffs. "Don't play dumb; you know who. It was a bit hard to miss him with ears like that."

"Ooh, you mean the cute one from Accounts?"

"Cute?" Arthur splutters just a little into his Latte. "I would hardly say that."

Morgana smiles. "I would."

"Anyway," Arthur decides to ignore that line of conversation, "he's the idiot we nearly ran over last night."

"We?" Morgana asks, and perches on the edge of Arthur's desk. "It's just as well that you didn't then. I doubt it would have endeared you to the staff."

"There are chairs in here," Arthur says pointedly.

Morgana smiles, takes a sip of her drink, then says, "I know."

Arthur's too tired to do battle of wits with his sister today, or at least that's the reason he tells himself he doesn't reply. It has nothing to do with the fact that he usually comes off worse in those little exchanges. He turns his attention to his computer, and as he's mentally complaining about the ancient technology in this bloody place, he logs on to his emails.

The first one is from his father. They haven't spoken for several days, and Arthur is still nursing a sizeable grudge – he doesn't care how Morgana spins it, this move is nothing more than a humiliating punishment for him. He clicks on it reluctantly, knowing only too well what it will contain.

Clearly he doesn't hide his reaction as well as he thinks. Morgana slips from her perch, rounds the desk, and is reading over his shoulder.

"Oh, for God's sake," she mutters in exasperation. Before Arthur can respond, she's snatches the mouse from his hand and clicks delete.

Arthur gapes in shock. "Are you crazy?"

Morgana blithely carries on emptying his deleted items folder, removing any hope Arthur has of salvaging the situation – his father does not appreciate being ignored. "There," she says finally, a tiny smirk of satisfaction on her face.

"Morgana."

She's unrepentant. "You don't need to be reading that sort of rubbish on your first day. It's not helpful."

Once again Arthur is filled with a strange mixture of gratitude and irritation – it's not an unusual combination where his sister's concerned. "You didn't read it all," he points out.

"No need to." She hops back up to her perch on his desk. "I'm perfectly familiar with Uther's special brand of motivation, and the last thing you need right now is the remixed version of his failure is not an option speech."

Arthur knows he looks like he feels – pathetically grateful. Morgana's always been able to stand up to his father in ways he never can. It's one of the things he loves most about her, the way she always speaks up for what she believes is right, regardless of the consequences to herself.

He knows most people see the clothes, the hair, the shoes, and they have Morgana pegged as a rich bitch trust fund girl – and they're right in some ways; she can be a real cow when she wants. But there's so much more that people don't see, and if he's honest, Arthur knows he couldn't wish for a better sister, even if there are times when he could strangle her cheerfully.

Like now, for instance, because she has her shoes on his chair, and Laboutins they might be, but they'll still scratch the leather.

He doesn't say anything more on the subject – because it's just not the sort of thing they do. Morgana likes to say it's because Arthur's emotionally repressed, but mainly, he suspects, it's because they both understand without the need for words. So instead, he gives her feet a push and nearly unsettles her perch.

"Do you plan to spend the entire day sat on my desk?"

Morgana smiles – the one that makes Arthur exceedingly wary.

"You can at least make yourself useful and come round the departments with me."

"Don't you want," she pauses here and indicates the door with a flourish of her hand, "Hilary to take you around? I'm fairly sure she knows the way better than me."

"God, no." Arthur fakes a shudder. "She keeps looking at me like I'm a naughty school boy. I'm expecting her to give me detention at any moment."

Morgana laughs. "Kinky." But before Arthur finishes spluttering, she continues. "At least she's not already imagining herself as Mrs Pendragon like most of your secretaries do."

Arthur flushes but says nothing; it's still a bit too soon to be making jokes about weddings, the memories still a little too raw.

Merlin's journey back to his office is spent frantically texting. Gwen made him promise faithfully to keep her posted about the day's developments, and he knows that if he doesn't comply, there's every danger that she will turn up in person – it wouldn't be the first time.

He's still not quite sure whether to be relieved or disappointed that the potential man of his dreams appears to be a complete dick. Gwen, however, seems less concerned by Merlin's impending redundancy, and much more interested in what his boss's arse looks like in a suit. The answer to which, Merlin is forced to give honestly and much against his will, is amazing.

He gives one last grin at Gwen's increasingly suggestive texts and shoves his phone back in his pocket; it's going to be hard enough to concentrate today without those sorts of mental images floating around his brain. Only he's not getting off that lightly, because the instant he walks back into his office, Miffy is ready to accost him with her own special brand of interrogation.

"So, what's he like? Is he as gorgeous up close? Did you get a look at his arse in that suit?"

Not for the first time Merlin is grateful that he's had the sense to keep Gwen and Miffy apart; he'd never withstand the double onslaught. He simply smiles at his assistant and then chuckles as her frustration becomes evident.

"You're holding out on me, Emrys." She gives him a poke that leaves Merlin wriggling out of the way. "That's the last cup of coffee you're getting."

"I'm not having this conversation about our boss," Merlin replies. "Besides, you're practically old enough to be his mother."

It's less of a poke and more of a soft punch this time. "I'll have you know I'm in the prime of life, and younger men, well, they're known for their stamina."

Merlin laughs out loud at this. "And your husband's okay with this obsession of yours, is he?"

Apparently Merlin's voice carries a little farther than he realises, because this stops Owain in his tracks across the office. "Obsession?" he asks, looking between them with obvious interest.

Merlin rolls his eyes; he really does work with the most inveterate gossips. "Never mind," he says dismissively.

Owain's not that easily dissuaded. He takes a step back and runs his eyes the length of Merlin's body. "Wouldn't have anything to do with you being all dressed up today, would it? Got a thing for the new boss already, have you?"

Merlin groans mentally; he really doesn't need this, today of all days.

Owain gives him a nudge. "He's quite a looker, isn't he?"

Miffy giggles at this and Merlin has to fight the blush he can feel rising up his neck. "Just because I'm gay, doesn't mean that I'm hot for every good looking bloke that crosses my path."

Owain nods thoughtfully. "That's true," he agrees. "After all, you appear strangely immune to my charms."

"Don't you have work to do?" Merlin tries hard to keep the laughter out of his voice.

"Yes, boss." Owain gives him a quick wink before turning away, swaying his arse as he crosses the office.

Merlin gives up on controlling his laughter. Owain's as heterosexual as can be, but he seems to take it as some kind of personal affront that Merlin doesn't fancy him. It's not that there's anything wrong with him, it's just that the tall, dark, and lithe sort really don't do it for Merlin. He prefers his men a little more muscular, and preferably blond. A bit like...Merlin stops that line of thought before it progresses any further, and gives himself a shake. When he looks up again, Miffy's grinning at him knowingly.

"Work," he snaps, and it comes out a little more harshly than he intends. But considering she walks away shaking her head and chuckling softly, Merlin knows they're still okay.

He pulls out his chair and slumps at his desk. There's a mountain of paperwork filling his in tray, and Merlin hasn't the stomach to check his emails just yet, so instead, he fishes for his phone and resumes his earlier conversation with Gwen. Which is not the best of ideas, it transpires, because just as he's flushing red from Gwen's suggestion that he put in a little overtime on his knees, the door opens and in walks the man himself.

There's a sudden silence in the office, the kind Merlin would give his right arm for most days, and he swears he can hear Miffy panting just a little. He doesn't even want to think about what Owain's doing in response to Morgana's presence – Merlin only hopes that whatever it is, he does it quietly, and in the privacy of his own room later.

Discarding his phone on the desk, Merlin reluctantly gets to his feet. He tries to calculate the possibility of him being able to wipe his suddenly clammy palms down his trousers without being noticed – but then there's a hand thrust out just in front of him, and now the odds look negligible.

"Merlin, right?" And god if that accent isn't as hot as the rest of the package

Merlin nods. He's fairly sure that any attempt at speech right now will result in complete humiliation, because as if that voice wasn't enough, there's a strong manly hand gripping his, and bugger if that's isn't hitting one of Merlin's not so secret kinks.

"That's an...unusual name." There's a hint of a smirk around Arthur's lips and Merlin can't help but feel relieved. He's more than used to people mocking his name –he's had over twenty five years of it – and now that the 'prattish' side of his boss is emerging once again, so Merlin's ability to speak has returned.

However, before his tongue has time to get him into trouble, Morgana's smiling at him, and Merlin's fairly sure he hears the sound of Owain's head hitting his desk.

"Bore da, Merlin. Shw mae?" Morgana grins brightly at having managed the foreign words and Merlin finds himself responding in kind.

"Da iawn, diolch." He shakes her hand and smiles broadly. "You speak Welsh?" he asks curiously – most Welsh people don't speak their own language so Merlin is intrigued at the prospect of someone English who can.

Morgana shakes her head. "No, not really. Just a few words I've picked up. I'm hoping to learn while I'm here, though."

"I might be able to help you there. My uncle runs classes at the local college – night school, you know? I can get you some details."

"Diolch y fawr," she replies happily.

Merlin's impressed with the accent and tells her so – it's not everyone who can get their lips around his mother tongue. Morgana smiles warmly again, and really, Merlin thinks, she's so beautiful he could almost be converted.

Arthur coughs pointedly, clearly not impressed at being ignored. Morgana rolls her eyes and it's all Merlin can do to swallow his laughter.

"Sorry," he chokes out, trying his best to appear contrite. Then his phone starts vibrating insistently on his desk – and Arthur really looks unimpressed now. Merlin reaches over and clicks it off, apologising again.

"I'm more of a Blackberry man myself," Arthur comments, eyeing Merlin's phone distastefully. And isn't that just typical, Merlin thinks, and internalises his smugness at the superiority of his phone. Then he realises that his boss is now actually talking about work, so he really should pay some attention.

"I have to admit that the figures coming out of this department are impressive. Yours is the only one that exceeded its last quarter targets."

Merlin feels himself puff a little with pride. This may not be what he spent three years in a history degree to become, but it's his job, and he's damn good at it. And to hear recognition of that fact, even from his prat of a new boss, well, it feels good. There's no time for him to reply though, because his desk phone starts ringing.

It's an external ring, so he really can't ignore it, however much the glare he's getting from Arthur makes him wish he could. "Excuse me just a moment," he murmurs before reaching for the handset. "Credit control, Merlin Emrys speaking," he says into the handset, and definitely doesn't blush under the scrutiny of his boss.

Then there's this high pitched squealing in his ear and it takes only a split second to work out that it's Gwen and that she is, in fact, shrieking something about - Arthur and him in a tree together, and as he hangs up incredibly quickly, Merlin is just grateful he didn't go for the speaker phone option.

Myfanwy comes to his rescue, and not for the first time, Merlin finds himself making a mental note to buy her a really nice present this Christmas. Seemingly oblivious to the awkward moment – though Merlin knows she is simply saving it up to tease him about later – she bustles forward to introduce herself.

"Miffy?" Arthur repeats, a tiny frown on his face as he speaks.

"Yes." She beams. "Like the rabbit," she adds, and Merlin actually feels a bit sorry for Arthur now – he's clearly very confused by the whole conversation.

Then a smirk crosses his face. "A rabbit," he says thoughtfully, "and a magician." He indicates Merlin with a nod. "Did he pull you out of a hat by any chance?"

Miffy giggles at this, the really embarrassing young girl laugh that she normally reserves for the cute bloke in their local coffee shop.

Merlin, however, doesn't see the funny side. "Wizard actually," he points out, offended on behalf of his namesake, who is clearly more than some Paul Daniels-wannabe.

Arthur looks at him consideringly for a moment and Merlin prays his ears aren't turning as red as they feel. "Of course," Arthur says finally. "How silly of me."

Then the bloody phone rings again, and just as Merlin's considering ripping it from the socket, Morgana parks herself in his chair and answers it.

"Merlin Emrys's phone." And Merlin holds his breath and prays that it's actually something work-related.

Only he should have known better than to hope the fates were on his side after the day he's had. Because it soon becomes apparent that it's not work-related at all. That it is, in fact, Gwen again. And not only that, but she and Morgana appear to be bonding.

Merlin just watches in open-mouthed shock as his boss's sister apparently makes plans to go shopping with his flatmate, while all the time, said boss is glaring at Merlin as if he is solely responsible for this development.

Then Arthur coughs pointedly, and thankfully, it seems to have the desired effect.

"I'd better go, Gwen," Morgana says, glaring a little at Arthur. "Big brother is watching me."

There's a sound of muffled giggles and murmured words, and then Morgana's grinning wickedly. "Oh, I know," she says, "don't think that hasn't crossed my mind."

And now Merlin feels a tiny bit sick – lord only knows what inappropriate things Gwen is saying now.

"I'll get your number off Merlin," Morgana says finally. "Bye, Gwen. Nice chatting to you."

The click of the receiver releases the band of tension around Merlin's chest and he's relieved to find he can breathe properly at last. "Sorry about that," he mumbles.

"Oh, don't apologise," Morgana says brightly, leaning back and looking rather at home in Merlin's chair. "Gwen's lovely. She's taking me shopping in Cardiff this weekend." She pauses and grins at Merlin. "I'll make sure to get all the gossip on you."

And somehow Merlin doesn't doubt that this is true. Right then he wishes the ground would open up and swallow him whole, and from the look on Arthur's face, that could quite possibly be arranged, and soon.

It's been an interesting couple of weeks, Merlin reflects, and if he's honest, things haven't been quite as bad as he first feared. If nothing else, he's finally managed to get Miffy to accept that he does not have some huge man-crush on their boss, who, it seems, might not be a complete prat all of the time.

And if Arthur is a little standoffish with his staff, then Morgana more than makes up for it. Merlin isn't sure what she does at the company – she only smiles mysteriously when he asks – but he suspects her main role is to temper her brother's rather rigid personality.

It's a Thursday evening, two weeks into the new regime, and Merlin is just thinking about leaving for the day. He looks regretfully at the work still in his in tray, but it's already six o'clock and the rest of the department are long gone. And anyway, it's not his fault he's had such an unproductive day, he rationalises. The blame for that he lays solely at the feet of Arthur Pendragon and his arse-hugging trousers. Really, Merlin thinks, how is anyone supposed to get any work done with a vision like that teasing them constantly?

Of course, it also doesn't help that Morgana parked herself at his desk over an hour ago and has been chattering non-stop ever since.

"Merlin!"

Merlin jumps a little in surprise, is wrenched rudely from his thoughts, and looks up to find his number one distraction glaring down at him. "Sorry?" he says, only it comes out more like a question.

"Ah, thank you so much for joining us Merlin."

There's something in the horribly arrogant way Arthur says his name that Merlin knows he shouldn't like, but does all the same.

"Uh...did you want something?"

"What I want, Merlin, is last month's account summaries on my desk over an hour ago, like you promised."

Merlin's eyes flick guiltily to his in tray once again – they were in there somewhere, still waiting to be compiled. "Bugger," he says, almost under his breath, but in the deathly quiet of the empty office it's clearly audible.

"Bugger indeed," Arthur replies. Merlin isn't sure, but he thinks he sees the tiniest hint of a smile. "It looks like you'll be doing some overtime tonight, then."

"But that's not..." Merlin tails off when he realises exactly how old finishing that sentence will make him sound.

Arthur clearly knows this, because he quirks an eyebrow at Merlin – the challenge unmissable.

"Fine." Merlin can't help but huff slightly.

"Arthur, come on." Morgana's frowning. "It's not Merlin's fault; I've been distracting him."

"Merlin's a big enough boy to make his own decisions," Arthur replies, his gaze never wavering from Merlin's. "Aren't you, Merlin?"

"Yes," Merlin replies through gritted teeth, and gives a tiny shake of his head when he sees Morgana ready to take up the cause again.

"Excellent. I'll be here late myself, so you can just bring them to my office once you're done." Arthur turns to leave, a smug smile plastered across his face. He gets as far as the door before pausing, and turning back to face them. "Unless, of course, you plan to just wave your magic wand over them?"

Merlin tenses a little because really these jokes about his name are getting a little bit tired. But he doesn't bite, like he knows it’s expected, and he tries a different tack instead.

"I'm not really sure the office is an appropriate place for me to be waving my magic wand, sir."

Arthur looks at him puzzled for a moment, and then a faint pink flush stains his cheeks. "W-well," he stammers, and it's the first time Merlin's ever seen him at a loss for words. "Just get on with it," he snaps eventually. The brusque tone is back, and so is Merlin's irritation.

He watches his boss storm from the room and is resolutely not watching his arse at all. "Haliwr," he mutters viciously.

"Merlin!" Morgana feigns shock at this. "Ladies present."

Merlin blushes, and really he can't remember the last time he did that so often. "Sorry, I didn't realise you'd be able to understand me. What on earth is Gaius teaching you in night school?"

Morgana gives a dismissive wave of her hand. "Remember when you learnt French at school?" she asks.

"Yes." Merlin is more than a little confused about where this is going.

"Well, what were the first words that you looked up in your French dictionary?"

Merlin scrunches his nose in thought for a moment before understanding hits. "Ah, swearwords," he replies.

"Exactly."

"Sorry," he says again, feeling even more repentant this time. "I know he's your brother—"

Morgana dismisses this with a snort. "Please, no one knows better than me what an arse Arthur can be. But he really is a decent bloke underneath that uptight exterior. You just have to dig deep."

Merlin laughs at this. "My dad was a miner," he explains. "Let's just hope I inherited some of his skills."

Morgana smiles softly. "Yes, let's hope."

There's something cold and slightly moist pressed against Merlin's face when he wakes up. It takes a few moments after he opens his bleary eyes to realise that he has, in fact, fallen asleep at his desk. And, worse still, has been drooling all over it.

He sits up with a start and is relived he's alone when it transpires he has a spreadsheet stuck to his cheek. He rips it off quickly, blushing despite the lack of audience. Then he makes the mistake of looking at his watch.

"Shit!" It's almost nine o'clock. And he experiences a brief moment of panic as the prospect of Arthur seeing him like that occurs to Merlin. But then, Merlin realises, Arthur Pendragon would never be able to walk away from such a perfect opportunity to glare or mock or do any one of the hundred other things he seems to enjoy subjecting Merlin to.

Merlin clicks his mouse, banishing the non-company issue screensaver of GQ models. He glances quickly over his earlier work and is relieved to find that it's all there, almost complete, and he kicks himself mentally for nodding off when there was so little left to do.

He exports the figures from the last of their databases and then checks carefully that it all tallies. Relived to find that it does, he allows himself a small cheer of triumph. A few further clicks of his mouse and the printer bursts into life, spewing out endless pages of tables and charts and figures. Merlin only hopes the results are impressive enough to make Arthur overlook his tardiness.

It's strange being in the offices at night, eerie even. It's so still and dark and quiet – only the low hum of the machines in the factory beneath remind Merlin that he's not entirely alone. He shuts down his terminal, grabs the paper off the printer and shoves it hastily into a document wallet, before making his way to the door.

The walk to Arthur's office seems longer than ever in the dimly lit corridors. The sound of his every breath is magnified by the surrounding silence. It's a little brighter up ahead though, and Merlin realises with a start that Arthur must still be here too.

He edges closer, talking care to keep as quiet as possible. He wonders whether he can just dump the file on Hilary's desk and claim he left it there hours ago. But as he draws nearer, Merlin notices that the door the Arthur's office is ajar, and, like a moth to a flame, he finds himself drawn inexorably closer.

Only the desk lamp is lit, causing a soft pool of light in the otherwise inky gloom of the office. Arthur is seated at his desk, like the many times Merlin has been here before. But the similarities end there, and Merlin finds his lips and throat are unaccountably dry, whilst his heart seems to be beating a non-stop tattoo inside his chest.

Arthur's jacket is off, and Merlin can see it's been tossed carelessly onto a vacant chair. The usually crisp oxford knot of his tie has been tugged loose, his top buttons undone, and the golden skin of his throat bared to Merlin's covetous gaze.

But Merlin's favourite part, the one thing that has him willing to over look every one of Arthur's faults and just beg for anything, is the way his sleeves have been rolled back, revealing the most perfect pair of arms that Merlin's ever seen.

Merlin's always had a bit of a hand kink – never made a secret of it – but this is the first time he's ever felt his chest (and other parts) tighten in response to something as simple as a pair of strong-looking arms. Only, the lamp has them bathed in a golden hue, too, and the urge to run his hands over the taught skin, to feel the play of muscle and sinew beneath is more than Merlin thinks he can resist if he stays much longer.

Loathe as he is to disturb Arthur – who despite the deep frown on his forehead as he pours over the accounts, looks more at home than Merlin has ever seen him – his sense of self-preservation kicks in.

He walks forward into the office, ensuring he makes enough noise to announce his presence. Arthur looks up in surprise, and Merlin notes, with an unexpected pang of sympathy, that he looks so tired.

"Merlin," he says softly, and without the usual sneering inflection.

"Hi." Merlin's more than a little wrong-footed by this reception. He steps forward and places his folder on the edge of Arthur's desk. Arthur doesn't notice; he's already returned to staring despondently at the screen in front of him.

"I don't suppose there's a chance you actuallycan do magic, is there?"

Merlin's not sure if it's the sense of impending doom in Arthur's words, or the way his lips move into a perfectly crooked, half smile – but either way, the need to sit becomes overwhelming. He perches in the vacant chair opposite, taking care to avoid Arthur's jacket. "That bad?" he asks nervously.

Arthur looks at him again, hair dishevelled in a manner that speaks of his distraction. "Worse," he replies shortly – all trace of smile gone.

There's a deep crease between Arthur's brows and Merlin's fingers itch with the need to reach out and smooth it away. Instead, he simply nods at the laptop and asks, "May I?"

Arthur nods, and he's still gazing at Merlin in a strangely intent fashion, as if he's trying to read the motive behind Merlin's actions.

Ignoring the tiny prickle of electricity that thrills through him, Merlin reaches out. His fingers curl around the edges of the laptop and accidentally brush against Arthur's hand in the process. Arthur pulls away instantly, but Merlin can still feel the heat from that fleeting touch long after it's over.

As he scrolls through the various screens, uncertain of what he's looking at in parts, and only too aware in others, Merlin feels a knot of tension forming in his belly. Things really do look that bad, and it seems Arthur isn't quite as much of a drama queen as he previously assumed.

Then Merlin finds himself wondering if he ought to apologise for that misjudgement, but that would mean confessing to having thought it in the first place, and he's fairly sure that that's something Arthur won't take kindly too – even if he does seem unusually receptive this evening.

Instead, Merlin watches with something resembling fondness as Arthur rubs tiredly at his eyes; he really does look exhausted. Then Arthur's hands move to his hair, raking restlessly through the thick golden strands, sending it into even more disarray than before.

"It's as bad as I think, then?" he asks finally, catching sight of Merlin's expression.

Merlin nods unwillingly. He's strangely reluctant to add any further weight onto his boss's shoulders, however broad and capable of bearing any load they seem.

There's an audible sigh and Arthur slumps back in his chair, his face now shrouded by the shadows of the room. But before Merlin can say anything, while he's still floundering for something appropriate to say, Arthur sits forward again. He looks suddenly less despondent, and Merlin shifts uncomfortably under the weight of his gaze.

"What?"

"You're a bit of a wizard with this sort of stuff, aren't you?" It's clearly more of a statement than a question.

Merlin scrunches his face slightly in irritation and Arthur quickly holds his hands up. "No pun intended, I swear."

"Good." Merlin's not sure why he believes him, and given recent history he probably shouldn't, but he does all the same. "Because I doubt there's a joke you could come up with about my name that I didn't hear in seven years of high school" Not that Merlin's about to confess to Arthur of all people just how miserable his teenage years really were.

"Sorry." Arthur looks just the tiniest bit sheepish. Then he leans forward, hands clasped, elbows on the desk, and there are those glorious forearms again, taunting Merlin. "So, will you help?"

"With what?" There's just the slightest chance that Merlin wasn't paying attention. "New jokes?"

Arthur's doing that crooked smile thing again, which is incredibly unfair, because how is Merlin supposed to think rationally now. "No," Arthur says slowly with a tiny shake of his head. "With this." He indicates the laptop with a nod of his head and then fails dismally to stifle a yawn.

"How about we discuss this tomorrow when you're a little less dead-looking?"

Arthur chuckles then, and Merlin stores the memory away, together with those arms and lickable throat, for considerable examination at a later point.

"I'm pretty sure I should be offended by that, but I'm too damn tired to care right now. Come on," Arthur switches off his computer and gets to his feet. "I'll give you a lift home."

Merlin gets up too, and before he realises what he's doing, he's picking up Arthur's jacket and handing it to him. "It's okay," he says quickly. "I have my bike."

"It's pitch black out there," Arthur argues, slipping on his jacket. "You're not the most observant of people at the best of times. You can't even cross a car park safely."

Merlin flushes a little – it's the first time either of them has mentioned that first meeting. "Seriously, I'll be fine," he insists; the prospect of being in such close quarters is doing nothing for his nerves. "I'll need my bike to get in tomorrow."

Arthur dismisses this with an almost regal wave of his hand. "I'll pick you up in the morning. It's practically on my way in."

This comment stops Merlin's next line of argument before it begins. "You know where I live?" he asks, eyes as wide as it's possible for them to be.

Arthur just grins rather lazily at him. "Come on, Merlin," he says, nudging Merlin's shoulder as he walks past. "I haven't got all night."

Merlin's preconceptions, and his defences, take quite a battering over the next few weeks, as, not just Arthur, but Morgana too, manage to insinuate themselves into almost every corner of his life.

Since their first meeting, where they bonded over a shared love of expensive and wholly impractical shoes, Gwen and Morgana are now so close that Merlin would worry about his best friend status if he didn't totally see the attraction from both sides. Besides, it does Gwen good to have an outlet for her more girly pursuits. Gay, Merlin may be, and he's perfectly willing to watch Match of the Day solely for the enjoyment of muscley thighs in tight shorts, but he draws the line at makeup, chick flicks, and shopping. When it comes to these things, he's perfectly happy to conform to gender stereotypes.

Then there's Gaius, who Merlin has never heard use the word enthuse, much less enact it. But now he cannot say enough good things about Morgana. And the admiration is mutual it seems, because Merlin is constantly pressed into service helping her master whatever vocab Gaius has set to learn that week. And it seems to be paying off, for while she's clearly still a novice, her attempts at conversation are winning the hearts of more than one resident of Carmarthen.

And then there's Arthur, and, well, Merlin would be lying if he didn't own to having warmed to the emotionally stunted prat.

The endless jokes about his name aside, Merlin is starting to understand just what draws people to Arthur Pendragon. It's not the money, the clothes, his undeniable good looks, (although, damn, if they aren't a bonus) it's that underneath his spoilt, sometimes brusque exterior, there really is a good man. And Merlin feels privileged that he's allowed to see this, because he's fairly certain that there aren't many people allowed close enough to find this out.

Since Arthur asked for his help, Merlin finds himself spending less and less time in Credit Control, and more often than not is to be found in Arthur's office, their heads bent together over some document or other. For the first time in a long time Merlin feels challenged by his job, looks forward to going into the office; he actually feels like he can make a difference.

The hours are longer and it pays nothing more, but Arthur asks his advice, listens even, and though he doesn't always act on it, this means more to Merlin than any company perk. And if he refuses to examine exactly why this is, well, Merlin's fairly sure Gwen is already on it.

Somewhere along the way, during those long caffeine-fuelled, meeting-filled days, Merlin realises that it isn't just about saving the branch anymore, not for him. It's become about Arthur, about...not saving him exactly, but helping him to prove himself. Merlin's seen enough of Uther Pendragon's interactions with his son that he understands Arthur's behaviour so much more clearly now.

And while his first instinct is to tell Arthur to fuck it all, that he should tell his father where to stick his job, his company, his shockingly poor parenting, Merlin has only to see the look on Arthur's face after each of these incidents to know that he never will. Proving himself to his father clearly means the world to Arthur, and somewhere along the way it becomes Merlin's personal mission to help him do this – however misguided an endeavour he feels it is.

The longer hours he puts in at the office don't just erode Merlin's quality duvet time, they also mean he's forced to cut back on his shifts at his mum's pub. Fortunately for all concerned, Gwen is more than happy to pick up his slack – friendship with Morgana is quite a costly business apparently.

Initially, Merlin worries that his mum will be upset, that she'll feel he's abandoning her, but as it turns out, nothing could be further from the truth. Their extended stay a The Drovers Arms has turned Hunith into yet another fully paid up member of the Pendragon sibling fan club.

"He's a lovely boy," Hunith says one evening, apropos of nothing – they were actually discussing Gaius's birthday present.

"Boy?" Merlin repeats into his phone, a little blindsided by this. "Mum, he'll be seventy three this year; I think boy is stretching it a little."

"Oh, Merlin." And Merlin is sure he can actually hear his mum rolling her eyes down the phone at him. "Must you be so obtuse? I'm talking about Arthur."

Merlin sighs. Not that this surprises him – it's all anyone seems to want to talk to him about just lately. "He's hardly a boy."

"No, I don't suppose he is," Hunith agrees. "Still lovely, though."

"Mum." There's a warning note in Merlin's voice now because he recognises that tone. Hunith blithely ignores it.

"I know he tries to hide it with all that bluster, but he really is very sweet."

Merlin's a little surprised by this; when did his mother become such an expert on his boss? What he says is "I hate to ruin your hat-buying plans, but Arthur's straight."

Hunith is still chuckling to herself when Merlin hangs up five minutes later.

If someone had told Arthur two months ago that he'd be enjoying himself, that he'd be relaxing into life in some sleepy backwater of a Welsh town, well, Arthur carried the card of a very good shrink in his wallet that would have been handed over instantly. But this reality has been creeping up on him so slowly over the last few weeks that when he finally realises the truth of it, he's barely even surprised.

Not that he'll mention any of this, not to Morgana who would crow triumphantly, and certainly not to his father who'd probably recall him straight back to London at the first sign that his punishment was, well, no longer punishing. Instead he keeps it to himself, and it's a warm and cosy secret – like a familiar blanket, or, god forbid, a hug – and if Arthur is occasionally tempted to tell Merlin, just because he might need to hear it out loud, and Merlin will understand in that slightly freakish way that he always does, Arthur can never quite manage to form the words. It's almost as if he's afraid of jinxing things.

All he knows is that he's glad. Glad, despite his father's apoplectic rage, Sophia's hysterics, and the rather well-aimed back eye her brother gave him, because he knows he did the right thing. That even though he knew before that his life didn't have to be that way, now he's actually got to experience the possibilities and there's no way he can go back.

Despite the unlikely odds, Arthur has grown strangely fond of his new hometown and the people in it – with their incomprehensible accents, quirky personalities , bright blue eyes and strangely adorable sticky out—

"Arthur!"

Arthur blinks. He's completely lost the train of his thoughts now. Which might not be a bad thing, because Morgana's there, glaring at him impatiently over the desk, and he's no idea how long she's been there, but Merlin's smirking wildly so Arthur figures the answer is quite a while.

"What?" Arthur's fairly certain that if he could see his reflection now, he'd find his cheeks a little more pink than usual.

Morgana gives him a lazy smile, rather like a big cat eyeing its prey, and there's no way Arthur can miss how her eyes flicker towards Merlin briefly.

"The estate agent rang," is all she says.

Arthur glares at her a little, because she's being bloody difficult and damn well knows it. But he refuses to probe further because that's what she wants, and there's no way he's letting her win again.

Merlin looks between the two of them and shakes his head. "Honestly," he says, with the sort of fond irritation usually reserved for mothers of small children. "Morgana, what did the estate agent say?"

Morgana doesn't meet his gaze – preferring to examine her nails instead. "I'm not sure I remember now."

Arthur eyes his stapler and ponders his chances of hitting a moving target. It's a pleasant daydream, but the knowledge that Morgana's retribution would be swift and dire puts the thought from his mind. He tries a more subtle tack instead.

"Tell me, or I'll regale Merlin here with the story about you and the nanny goat."

Morgana's eyes narrow menacingly, but Arthur doesn't flinch; he's more than used to them after nearly twenty years. Then a gurgle of laughter sounds from Merlin and Morgana's glare changes direction. Merlin doesn't have Arthur's natural defences against Morgana's wrath, so he quietens instantly.

"The house is ready," Morgana says finally, and Arthur can tell it's through gritted teeth. "The contracts have exchanged, so we can pick up the keys whenever."

Arthur ignores her use of the word we; they both know that although his name is on the deeds, it's as much her home as his.

"That was quick," Merlin comments – he's never quelled for long. "I remember when Leon bought his house it took forever. I thought the poor bloke was going to have a breakdown at one point."

Arthur shrugs negligently. "You'd be amazed how quickly the wheels can turn if you grease them with enough money." Then he winces, because he hears his own words, and he really didn't mean them to sound so spoilt brattish. Fortunately Merlin seems to realise this.

"You're having a house warming, right? Because I can't wait to see inside."

Arthur grins. "You won't have to wait that long, Merlin. You'll get plenty of opportunities to look around when you help us move in."

Merlin groans pitifully, but Arthur knows it's all for effect. "I walked right into that one, didn't I?"

Arthur just laughs and resolutely does not notice Merlin's rather cute pout.

"I'm taking the day off," Morgana announces.

Arthur resists the urge to point out that she doesn't actually work there. "What for?"

"Furniture," she replies as if it were the most obvious thing. "We need some. Unless you were planning on ransacking Daddy's mansion?"

Arthur fights the urge to scowl; he hasn't even told his father about buying the house yet.

"I thought not." Morgana steps closer and holds out her hand.

Arthur looks at her blankly for a moment. "I know you're excited about the house, but don't you think we're a little old, and British, to be high-fiving each other?"

"I need your credit card," she says, determinedly ignoring his attempt at humour.

"Why?" Arthur's wary now; he can't think of a worse combination.

"Because I'm not paying for it myself, because Uther said I could, and because I'll tell him you bought instead of rented if you don't – take your pick."

There's no question of Arthur withholding it now – he has no doubt she will follow through on her threats, she always does. Something Arthur has learned the hard way.

The plastic has barely touched Morgana's palm before she's heading for the door, and Arthur can already hear the shopkeepers of Cardiff rubbing their hands in glee. Then Merlin snickers – Arthur fixes him with a baleful glare.

"I don't know what you're laughing at, Merlin. You're going with her."

The shock on Merlin's face is more than enough to boost Arthur's mood. His eyes widen impossibly and his mouth gapes slightly. "Why?"

"Because someone needs to restrain her spending, and she just might listen to you."

Merlin's snort clearly shows he thinks otherwise, but Arthur steels himself against the puppy dog eyes currently fixed on him. He gives a wave of his hand. "Go on. You'll have to hurry to catch her as it is."

Merlin pokes out his tongue, and the quick flash of slick pink muscle does unexpected things to Arthur's chest. But before he has time to analyse this response, Merlin's on his feet, leaving the room, and it's another part of his anatomy altogether occupying Arthur's thoughts now.

"I don't see why we have to start so early." Merlin leans his head against the wall and yawns expansively.

Gwen rolls her eyes. "For saying how tired you claim to be you seem to have a lot of energy for whinging." She knocks on the door and then reaches over to ruffle Merlin's hair. "Did you actually brush this morning?"

"I'm not even sure I got dressed," Merlin answers, looking down at himself as if he expects to find his usual pyjamas. "I barely opened my eyes until a few minutes ago."

Gwen's about to reply when the door swings open to reveal a beaming Morgana. Merlin scowls; even in casual clothes at eight in the morning Morgana still manages to look amazing.

Morgana takes a step back and ushers them inside. She spots the expression on Merlin's face and grins. "Someone's not a morning person, I see."

Merlin grumbles and bats her hand away as she moves to pat his hair.

"Going for the just shagged look, are you?"

Merlin glares, but he suspects that the pillow creases on his cheeks lessen the effect somewhat.

Gwen giggles. "Chance would be a fine thing, wouldn't it, Merlin?" she teases, and Merlin can feel his cheeks hotting up.

"I need coffee," he states firmly, ignoring the laughter of his two friends. "Please tell me you have some?"

Morgana shepherds them into the kitchen and Merlin can feel some of his sleepiness receding as the smell of hot, freshly-brewed coffee stirs his nostrils. Then his eyes spy the sleek, silver machine gurgling away happily on the work top. He steps closer and traces his fingertips over its shiny – and rather hot, damn it – surface, inhaling deeply. It's just like the one in Arthur's office, only better, and Merlin's fairly sure he's in love.

He gives it one last fond look, before turning to Gwen. "We have to get one of these. I need one," he adds, sensing Gwen's objections even before she's voiced them.

Gwen laughs at his enthusiasm. "Merlin, the only way you're getting your hands on one of those is if you move in here. You do remember the size of our kitchen, don't you?"

Gwen's always been horribly practical, Merlin thinks, but rather than point this out, because he fears it's not quite the insult it should be, he sulks. "It's not that small," he mutters, and then watches happily as Morgana takes pity on his plight and pours him a cup.

Gwen eyes him disbelievingly. "It's either one of them, or the microwave; there isn't room for both."

Merlin clutches his drink tightly, feeling its heat seep through the china to his cold fingers. "You're a cruel woman, Gwen Smith. Cruel, I tell you."

Gwen rolls her eyes and Morgana snickers. "He always like this in the mornings?" she asks with a nod in Merlin's direction.

"Only after a late night; he's much less melodramatic once the caffeine kicks in."

"Late night, eh, Merlin? Something you want to share with the group?"

Merlin ignores them both; he has coffee and that's all he's concerned about right now.

"Someone, was up till four this morning watching a Buffy marathon on Scyfy."

"That's dedication," Morgana observes, grinning madly behind her own coffee for no reason that Merlin can tell.

"Spike," he says, like that explains everything, and judging from the echoing sighs that sound in response, it does.

"He is lovely," Gwen agrees, "in that bad boy way. But I always preferred Angel."

"The dark, brooding type," Morgana says knowingly, before turning to Merlin. "I'm with you. Can't beat a bad boy, especially not with a body like that."

"I was always rather partial to Buffy, myself."

Merlin almost drops his cup in surprise as a rather large cardboard box, with arms and legs and an apparent crush on Sarah Michelle Gellar enters the room. It's not Arthur, he knows that much – even without the voice – which leaves him more than a little perplexed.

"Lance! What are you doing here?" Morgana's shriek answers Merlin's question before he has time to ask it. She's off her stool just as cardboard box- man sheds his disguise to reveal a man so achingly perfect that Merlin starts to wonder if maybe there is a god after all. Something in the newcomers chiselled, handsome face tugs at the edges of Merlin's memory, like he should know who this is. Though, looking like that, it's entirely possible the only place Merlin has seen him before is on the cover of GQ magazine.

"Surprise?" Lance asks, only his voice is muffled somewhat because Morgana chooses that moment to fling herself upon him.

Morgana pulls back and hits him on the arm. "You could have told me." She really does pout like a true expert, Merlin thinks. "Does Arthur know you're here?"

Lance laughs, and it's a wonderful, deep rumbling noise. "Well, seeing as I've just driven halfway across the country with a van full of his crap, I should hope so."

Just then, a second cardboard box arrives, this time held by hands that Merlin knows only too well.

"Is there a reason you're all just lazing around in the kitchen when there's work to be done?" Arthur places his box carefully on the worktop and gazes round the room. Seeing him stood next to Lance like that, it suddenly hits Merlin exactly where he recognises the other man from. And it's quite ironic that he didn't recognise him quicker, considering that stalked Facebook photo has been saved to Merlin's hard drive for weeks.

"We were just having coffee and discussing Merlin's Buffy obsession," Morgana replies blithely. "Want one?"

"What?" Arthur asks acerbically, "the drink or the obsession?"

Morgana laughs, as does Lance. "Well, the latter you already have. So how about I just make you a latte?"

"Come on, Merlin, I'm doing all the hard work here; you're barely lifting at all, you slacker."

Merlin glares at Arthur, but it's a pretty pointless exercise he realises, because there's no way his boss can actually see his expression through the double mattress they are currently manhandling up the stairs. He'd make some scathing retort if he could, but right now Merlin needs to conserve his breath for important things – like breathing.

Arthur says nothing further as they clamber the final few steps, and it occurs to Merlin that maybe silence is more effective than biting sarcasm. He files this piece of information away for further examination at a later date.

They finally let go of the mattress and it falls into place with a thud. Merlin waits barely seconds before he collapses on it, the plastic cover rustling beneath his body.

"I'm knackered," he huffs.

"You really are a girl, aren't you, Merlin?" Arthur aims a kick at Merlin's feet which are hanging over the edge of the bed.

Merlin props himself up on his elbows and fixes Arthur with his most withering gaze. "Prat," he replies, and then flops back down. "Urrggh! I'm too tired to even argue."

"I'm sorry," Arthur asks with mock-incredulity. "What was that again?"

"Sod off," Merlin mutters, fighting the urge to smile.

"I can see I'm going to have to make sure you're exhausted on a regular basis if this is the result."

Merlin almost chokes on his tongue as Arthur's words fill his head with images of exactly what Arthur could do to induce exhaustion. Merlin is sure his face must be flaming by now, and prays that other parts of his body aren't showing the level of interest that they're feeling.

It's a good thing Merlin knows Arthur is straight and utterly oblivious, because otherwise he'd be calling him a shameless prick tease, and he suspects that's not the best way to go about earning a promotion. Merlin's still marvelling at just how clueless Arthur appears to be, when there's a muffled thud and the mattress dips at the side of him.

"I suppose we could take a little break," Arthur says casually. "We wouldn't want you fainting or anything."

Merlin summons just about enough energy to reach over and poke Arthur's side. Arthur wriggles quickly away before returning the favour. After a series of half-hearted prods that neither of them really seem invested in, Merlin relents. "I give," he says, and allows his hand to fall back to the mattress.

Arthur chuckles. "Girl," he digs, and then allows his hand to drop as well. They're closer now than they were to start with, and Arthur's hand falls half on top of Merlin's.

Merlin lays there, Arthur's flesh searingly hot against his own, and holds his breath. Then he waits. For Arthur to pull away, for him to make a joke of it, and there's even a tiny and previously unacknowledged part of Merlin that's waiting for Arthur to lace their fingers together. And...nothing. Merlin waits for what seems like an eternity for the other shoe to drop, only it doesn't.

Merlin knows Arthur can't possibly be oblivious to this, to them touching, practically holding hands, yet he lays there calmly as if nothing out of the ordinary is happening, as if he isn't currently rocking Merlin's world to its very foundations.

And the questions why are you going this? and what does it mean? are clawing their way up Merlin's chest, leaving jagged, raw wounds in their fight to be released. But he stalls too long and the moment is lost as Gwen burst into the room, breathlessly carrying a rather large box.

"Morgana says this goes in here." And she puts down the box without quite making eye contact, and all Merlin can think is fuck. Because clearly Gwen knows; she saw their hands and the way Arthur just pulled away as if Merlin were burning him, and now she's looking at Merlin in a way that tells him he's in for a grilling later.

He smiles weakly at her and fights a sudden wave of nausea. He's tried so hard to hide it, and even harder to fight it, but Merlin knows his big gay crush on Arthur Pendragon is about to become public knowledge, and that then everything will be ruined.

"There's nothing to tell." Merlin does his best to sound convincing, but even to his own ears he's doing a poor job.

Gwen sighs. "Merlin, I'm not stupid. I have eyes; I've seen how you look at him."

Merlin denies this hotly and chokes on his biscuit in the process. He thinks that with hindsight he really should have seen this conversation coming when Gwen cracked open the chocolate Hob Nobs. He's fairly sure she's got some Hagen Daaz stashed away somewhere too – their standard fare comfort food.

Gwen wraps her hands tightly around her mug and gazes intently across the table at her best friend. "I'm just worried about you."

Some of Merlin's irritation at being cornered like this fades. But still... "I can take care of myself," he mutters, a touch sullenly. "I'm not some fragile flower."

"No," Gwen agrees slowly. "I don't think that you are. But I'm worried that you're setting yourself up for a fall. I saw how you were after Will, and I don't—"

"Stop it." It comes out a little harsher than he intended, but Gwen's just crossed an unspoken line.

Gwen shifts uncomfortably in her seat, clearly aware of the taboo she's breached, but the determined jut of her chin lets Merlin know the subject is far from closed. She slides one hand across the table, but appears to think better of it halfway.

"Look, I know we're not supposed to mention him, but, Merlin, I saw what that did to you and I can't just sit back and watch you put yourself through it again."

"Arthur's different," Merlin says. "He's—"

"Straight," Gwen cuts in remorselessly.

And even though Merlin thinks she's probably right, he can't help but give voice to the tiny part of him that hopes. "You don't know that for sure," he says stubbornly. "Sometimes...he says things, and he flirts. I swear he does. You saw him the other day."

"I do know," Gwen says softly, and the sad smile she gives him makes Merlin want to scream; he's not going to break.

Gwen takes a sip of her coffee, and Merlin can see she's gathering her thoughts, working out what to say, and he wonders if this is how she is at work, breaking the bad news to relatives.

"Did you never wonder why he's here?" she asks finally. "Arthur, I mean."

"The business," Merlin replies; the stupid is implied by the tone.

Gwen shakes her head. "That's why he came here to Carmarthen, but it's not why he left London, why his father sent him away."

Merlin looks up, indignation written all over his face on Arthur's behalf. He's privately thought for some time that father-son dynamic was dysfunctional to say the least. But sending your own son away, banishing him to another country – it's positively medieval. But Merlin refuses to probe further. This is Gwen's story, and if she chooses to tell it, he'll listen – mainly because she is quite likely to tie him to the chair if he tries to leave – but he's not going to encourage her.

"He was engaged," Gwen says finally. "To a woman."

Merlin rolls his eyes, because the clarification was really unnecessary. But he reaches for another Hob Nob and dunks as disinterestedly as he can.

"Her name was Sophia; she was the daughter of one of Uther's business associates. Arthur broke the engagement weeks before the wedding, caused quite a scandal by all accounts, and lost his father a major client in the process."

Merlin tries hard to think sympathetically about the abandoned fiancée, but he's only human. Gwen's looking a little smug, like she's just made her point, but Merlin feels like he's missing something.

"Is that it?" he asks. "Because I can see how the whole fiancée thing is a tick in the het column, but he ditched her, left her at the altar practically. So it proves nothing." He sits back in his chair, arms folded, and directs a triumphant look at his friend.

Gwen isn't fazed. "Lance says the reason Arthur proposed to Sophia was because Uther was pressurising him to settle down, and to stop sleeping his way through every secretary in the company. It was bad for business apparently."

Gwen's flippancy does nothing to lessen the slight tightening of Merlin's chest at her words. He sits in silence, idly picking at the loose skin around his thumbnail. He's never really given any thought to why Arthur's here, but the story has a ring of truth to it, and Gwen, well, Gwen wouldn't lie. Not to him. Not about this.

He wants to deny it because he's always harboured the tiniest vain hope that Arthur just might like him.

"I'm sorry." Gwen's hand makes it all the way across the table this time. She covers Merlin's with her own, her thumb running slowly across his knuckles.

Merlin shrugs as nonchalantly as he can muster. "It's okay. It's not like I'm in love with him or anything."

And it's true, he isn't. But as he lies alone in bed later that night, he can't deny to himself that he wanted to be. That given half a chance to get closer, he could very easily fall head over heels for Arthur, his apparently heterosexual boss.

It's occurred to Arthur lately that he's seeing less of Merlin than he usually does, and there's a nagging worry at the back of his mind that he's being avoided. It's nothing major, but recently Merlin always seems to have somewhere he has to be, some pressing, prior engagement that deprives Arthur of his company.

And try as he might, and Arthur really does wrack his brains, he can't think for the life of him what he's done to cause such behaviour.

He's that perplexed by it that he even taxes Morgana on the subject. She just gazes at him thoughtfully for a moment and then suggests that leaving magic tricks and Harry Potter books on Merlin's desk, in an effort to further mock his name, is perhaps not the best way to endear himself to his employee. Which gives Arthur pause for thought, because he's always assumed Merlin didn't mind – he's always laughed along, and even gets his revenge on occasion.

Arthur smiles fondly as he remembers walking into his office to find a large rock with a sword sticking out of it. To this day he doesn't know how Merlin managed it – even Hilary is remaining tight-lipped on the subject.

So the thought that Merlin might not take his teasing in good part causes Arthur concern, and he resolves to temper his teasing a little. Because it occurs to him that he actually misses having Merlin's dopey smile around.

As he waits in his office for Merlin to join him, Arthur is full of good intentions. He's going to remember that Merlin is not Lance, or Kay, or even Gawain, and isn't used to the merciless barrage of pranks that characterise Arthur's other friendships.

But then Merlin arrives, and he looks uncomfortably awkward, so reluctant to be there, that it suddenly becomes horrifically clear what the problem is. And Arthur panics because he knows now that this isn't about anything he's said, but about what he's done.

There are moments when, if he concentrates very hard, Arthur can still feel the ghost of Merlin's skin against his own. He knows it's pathetic, has been telling himself this ever since. They weren't even holding hands. Yet despite his denials, Arthur knows he got more pleasure out of that one brief moment with Merlin than he did out of his entire relationship with Sophia.

But looking at Merlin, as he fidgets nervously, an almost skittish expression on his face, it's clear he doesn't feel the same. And Arthur thinks, with a sickening lurch, that maybe the reason Merlin didn't object, that he lay there and allowed Arthur's touch, was because o f this, because of work, and the fact that Arthur is his boss. And right there the whole memory loses its shine.

"You wanted to see me?" There's something in the even, professional tone of Merlin's voice that causes Arthur’s chest to clench painfully. Instead of the tentative step forward that he imagined they'd taken, they have in fact taken great leaps backwards. And Merlin's neutral expression takes Arthur right back to the start of their working relationship.

Arthur nods and buys himself another few seconds to ready his voice. "I did, yes. Thank you for coming so promptly." And that in itself is telling, because Merlin is almost never on time for anything.

He gestures to an empty chair, and is relieved when Merlin takes it without protest. But there's that wary look again, so Arthur pushes on.

"I think I may have found a solution to our problem."

"Really?" Merlin sounds uncomfortable as he looks, and if Arthur's not mistaken, there's a faint flush of embarrassment on his face – which isn't good for many reasons, the main one being the way it draws Arthur's attention to his cheekbones.

Arthur clears his throat and looks down at the buff-coloured folder on his desk. He reaches out and slides it across the polished surface. "I'd like your opinion," he says honestly. "Have a read of it, would you?"

Merlin appears intrigued despite himself. "What is it?" he asks, long, tapered fingers curling around the file.

"Ministry of Defence contract," Arthur replies. "Or a potential one at any rate."

"What do we need to do?" Merlin's eyes are bright with interest and he's sitting forward in his seat, and even though it's work related, Arthur's relieved to feel things between them relax a fraction.

"We need to come up with the best proposal," Arthur says it like it's the simplest thing in the world, because he's not willing to dampen Merlin's enthusiasm. But he knows from experience that competition for lucrative M.o.D. contracts is high, and they'll need all the luck then can get.

Then, because he doesn't want to completely mislead Merlin, he adds "It's going to mean a lot more work for us. Longer hours. Weekends, maybe. But it'll be worth it if it pays off."

Merlin smiles then and Arthur can't quell the tiny burst of hope that it's at the prospect of them spending time together. Merlin kills that with his next words.

"Maybe we should ask Leon for his input?"

When's he's feeling a little more rational, Arthur knows he will be forced to admit this makes sense – Leon knows the company inside out, has been there longer than either of them – but right now he's too busy smarting from the perceived rejection.

"I think we should have a party!"

Arthur scowls at his reflection. It's always a bad idea to listen to Morgana – the last time she uttered those words it had precipitated his rather spectacular fall from grace.

He settles his crown carefully atop his perfectly styled hair and scowls again. He'd protested rigorously against fancy dress, but Morgana had proved immovable. "It's Halloween," had been the only excuse she could offer, but then Merlin expressed a desire for vampire fangs and fake blood and Arthur knew he didn't stand a chance at holding out.

He makes another quick adjustment to his costume, broad palms smoothing over the fabric of his tunic, down to the hilt of his sword. If he's honest, Arthur was quite impressed with his costume initially – he'd made the brave or naive decision to allow Morgana to choose it – but it took him until he saw his reflection to work out exactly who he was supposed to be, and then not all the chainmail in the world could shift his sulky pout.

Realising he can't put of the inevitable any longer, Arthur takes a deep breath and heads towards the living room. He's got a bad feeling about tonight, which only increases when he spots Merlin wearing the gaudiest wizard robes ever. Seriously, Arthur thinks, he makes Dumbledore look subdued.

Despite the urge, Arthur doesn't go over straight away. He can already hear Morgana's gleeful cackling when she catches sight of them side by side—king and his most trusted advisor. And ironically this is the first time Arthur has made the connection between their names. Despite his relentless teasing of Merlin's handle, Arthur has never once stopped to consider his own.

Huh, he thinks, and the carefully tucks that revelation away to be examined later, when he's in more of a mood to consider fate.

A quick scan of the room confirms what Arthur suspects – that despite recognising a far few people in the room – virtually all of them through work – he knows hardly anyone. And those he does are otherwise engaged.

He spots Morgana first, mainly because she's impossible to miss in her skin tight Cat Woman outfit. Plus the trail of men with their tongues hanging out is a bit of a giveaway. Not that Morgana's aware of this attention. She is, Arthur is disgruntled to notice, far too busy flirting with Leon to pay it any heed.

So he turns instead to find Lance, who, since his stint as removal man, has become something of a regular visitor. Arthur has his suspicions about what motivates his best friend to make such an arduous journey most weekends, all of which are confirmed when he spies him dancing with Gwen.

Bloody marvellous, Arthur thinks, and for the first time in a long time he wishes he was back in London. His social life there might have been shallow, but at least he was usually at the centre of it – not hovering around the sidelines of his own party like Billy bloody No-Mates.

He heads into the kitchen where he knows a ready supply of alcohol can be found; there's no way he's getting through this evening without his senses being numbed just a little. He's just finished filling a glass with the toxic-looking punch that Morgana has created, when it's suddenly liberated from his hands.

Arthur turns in surprise and is greeted by a grinning Merlin who raises the glass in salute, gives a cheery "Iechyd da," and then proceeds to drain the glass. Arthur would be rather impressed with his downing skills if not for the steady trickle of blue liquid running down Merlin's throat, soaking into the velvet neckline of his costume.

Arthur concentrates hard on ignoring the urge to lick, and instead eyes Merlin warily. "You're very cheerful," he comments as Merlin slaps the empty glass back on the counter.

Merlin grins. "Your sister throws the best parties. I think I love her."

Arthur can't help but be infected by Merlin's mood, and he's eternally grateful that Morgana can't see the indulgent smile he just knows he's wearing at that moment. Then, a distinct hiccup distracts him.

"Merlin, exactly how much have you had to drink?"

"I think I might be a little drunk," Merlin confides. He leans in close to say this and the tickle of his breath against Arthur's ear is...well, rather nice. But then Arthur inhales.

"You smell like a gin factory." Merlin's already stepped back and is busy making eyes at the punch bowl. Arthur takes hold of his wrist just as he reaches for the ladle. "I think you've had enough."

"Spoilsport." And there's that pout again, the one that makes Arthur want to suck on Merlin's bottom lip rather desperately. "It's a party, Arthur," Merlin whines.

"You keep going at this rate, you won't see much more of it. And you'll thank me in the morning."

"I wouldn't count on it," Merlin replies, still looking at the punch bowl with longing. But then he starts swaying in a rather alarming fashion.

"You really are an awful lightweight, aren't you?" Arthur can't keep the grin out of his voice.

Merlin sniffs. "At least I'm enjoying myself."

"Even if you can't stay upright?" Arthur asks, placing a steadying hand on Merlin's waist. "Come on; let's get you some fresh air."

For a moment it seems like he's going to refuse, but then Merlin gives Arthur that lopsided grin and nods. "Lead the way, your Majesty." The giggle that follows may not be Merlin's manliest moment, but Arthur can't help but think it's his cutest.

Walking, it seems, poses just as much of a challenge as standing, and it isn't until Arthur loops his arm around Merlin's waist and supports him that they make any progress. None of this is helped by the fact that Merlin appears to be nuzzling his neck. But Arthur has a vague memory of Gwen telling him Merlin's one of those affectionate drunks, so he tries really hard not to read too much into it.

Once they're outside it occurs to Arthur that he really hasn't put much thought into this. For starters, it's bloody freezing -- which given the time of year is to be expected, he supposes. It's all right for Merlin, insulated with alcohol and velvet robes, but sobriety and chainmail are doing little for Arthur's body temperature.

And then there's the fact that he has no idea what to say. He had all these grand speeches planned ready for the next time he and Merlin were alone together, but it hardly seems appropriate now, and Arthur can't think of anything else. Not when Merlin's gaze is fixed on him so intently. He's watching Arthur thoughtfully, his lips parted slightly as if about to speak, but suddenly all Arthur can see is a smear of bright lipstick on his cheek. Garish, Arthur thinks, and does nothing to temper the irrational burst of jealousy he feels at the thought of anyone kissing Merlin. Just because Merlin's gay; it's still not on.

This is the last thought Arthur has for a while, because clearly he's not thinking when he reaches out and cups Merlin's cheek with his palm, dragging his thumb slowly over the cold flesh until every trace of the red is gone.

Merlin gasps and brings Arthur back to the reality of what he's doing. "You had...uh...lipstick," he says finally, quite unable to believe what he's just done, what he's still doing, because his hand is still on Merlin's face and frankly Arthur doesn't see it moving any time soon.

Merlin flushes a little, faint pink splodges of colour dot along his cheekbones. "Miffy," he says finally by way of explanation. "She always wears too much." Then completely without warning, he turns his head slightly and presses the lightest of kisses to Arthur's thumb.

There's something almost teasing in the gaze he gives Arthur, almost like he's daring him. And Arthur's never been one to back down from a challenge, especially not when he wants so desperately. He steps closer and his free hand settles on Merlin's waist, the plush velvet of his robes fisted between Arthur's fingers. The other hand stays where it is, cradling Merlin's face, angling it gently, ready for when Arthur leans in.

The kiss is chaste at first, almost painfully so. Arthur is too overwhelmed by the feel of Merlin's lips against his own. But as he feels Merlin's arms tighten around him, pulling their bodies flush against each other, Arthur stops thinking and just goes with it.

But then, as his tongue slips between Merlin's enticing lips, Arthur can taste the sickly sweet punch in his mouth, and it's like a bucket of cold water over his desire. Merlin's drunk, very drunk – why else would he be doing this when he's so clearly wanted nothing to do with Arthur for weeks now.

Ignoring the devil on his shoulder who's cheering him on, Arthur slowly pulls back, places his hands against Merlin's chest, and puts some space between them.

Merlin's gaze is heavy-lidded and the way he looks at Arthur, lips slick and swollen, is more of a temptation then he thinks he can bear. "We can't," he says finally. "You're...I can't..."

The smile vanishes from Merlin's face in an instant and Arthur is sure it's just got a damn sight chillier. "I see," he says, and every trace of the easy, drunken affection is gone. "Of course not; how stupid of me."

"It's not you," Arthur splutters, because he's come to the awful realisation that Merlin has misunderstood what he's trying to do, and he just needs to explain.

"If you follow that up with 'it's me', I may be forced to kill you."

Arthur grins nervously, but Merlin's not smiling. "This is all coming out wrong." He rakes one hand through his hair uncertainly. "I only meant that—"

"Just forget it, Arthur." Merlin turns away from him so Arthur can't see his expression, but the taut lines of his back speak volumes.

"Merlin," he tries again, because things were finally starting to make sense and he can't leave it like this, he just can't.

It's the soft "please" that stills Arthur's hand inches above Merlin's shoulder and leaves him reeling like a punch to the gut. He's really, really fucked it up this time, and his only hope, as he troops despondently indoors, is that Merlin's also the kind of drunk who forgets.

"You'll catch your death out here."

Merlin looks up in surprise. He's so busy wallowing in misery and rejection and humiliation that he doesn't realise he's got company until that moment. At the sight of Robin Hood shifting uncertainly in front of him, Merlin can't help the faint smile that crosses his face, and he thinks that very few men could carry off green tights with quite as much aplomb as Lance currently is.

"I'm fine," he mutters, wishing Lance far away, but not quite having the heart to say so. "These might be hideous," his fingers tug at the velvet robes, "but at least they're warm."

Lance smiles. "That's what comes of letting Morgana pick your costume for you."

Merlin nods, because he really should have known better. "Schoolboy error," he agrees.

There's silence then and it's clear to Merlin that Lance has come out there with a purpose, is working himself up to something, and he just wishes that Lance would get on with it, because, in Merlin's case, misery really doesn't love company. He wants to be alone, to get his head around what's happened, and, more than anything wants to lick his wounds in peace.

Lance is either incredibly unobservant – which, given his closeness to Arthur is quite possible – or he's stubbornly ignoring the go away and leave me alone signals that Merlin is clearly putting out. Whichever it is, Lance sits himself on the bench at Merlin's side and takes a deep breath.

"You can tell me to mind my own business if you want."

"That sounds like a good idea." Merlin's still got enough alcohol in his system to circumvent that brain to mouth filter of his.

Lance smiles even wider this time. "I asked for that," he admits ruefully. Then he pauses and looks briefly behind him in the direction of the house – when he turns back and faces Merlin it is with determination in his eyes. "Just hear me out first, okay? Then if you still want to tell me to piss off, that's fine."

Merlin just nods, because Lance is a nice guy, and if the way he's been looking at Gwen lately is any indication, they'll be seeing quite a bit more of him in the future.

"I spoke to Arthur." Merlin stiffens instantly and Lance puts up a hand to stall his protest. "He didn't tell me what happened. And I didn't ask, either."

Merlin relaxes slightly at this; the wound is still too fresh, too raw to be prodded just yet.

"Besides," Lance continues, "I've seen enough of the way you two act around each other to have my own guess at what's happening."

Despite the cold air, Merlin can feel his cheeks heating up. He'd thought he was doing a good job of keeping things hidden – apart from Gwen, of course, but she's different. The idea that Lance, someone he's met only a handful of times, and, even worse, who's Arthur's best friend, has caught on to his feelings just adds to the humiliation Merlin's already feeling.

"Gwen said she told you about Sophia." Merlin can almost hear the distaste in Lance's voice. "And I think...there's something you should know about Arthur. Something that might just help you make sense of things."

"It's fine," Merlin says stiffly; this is one conversation he doesn't want to be having again. "I already know he's straight. You don't need to regale me with his heterosexual exploits."

Lance goes quiet for a moment and he just watches Merlin thoughtfully. Merlin looks away, not quite able to hold the gaze; one misguided crush is all he can handle right now.

"You haven't met Uther, have you?" Lance asks finally.

Merlin shakes his head, a frown of confusion creasing his brow.

"He does love Arthur, I don't doubt that. It's just he expects so damn much from him."

Merlin nods now because he's heard enough phone calls, seen enough emails to know that this is more than true.

"And Arthur..." Lance tails off uncomfortably and Merlin can see he's trying to find the right words without betraying his friend. "He wants so much to make his father proud. Too much sometimes. And he ends up sacrificing his own happiness in the process.

Merlin's not sure what to say to this, and Lance doesn't really seem to be expecting a response, so he remains silent, and just waits.

"Marrying Sophia, that wasn't Arthur." Lance runs a hand through his hair in agitation – he knocks off his jaunty hat in the process, but seems oblivious. "Well, obviously it was Arthur, but it was all because of Uther. Because he thought it was time for Arthur to settle down, that it would be good for business, and because..." Lance looks a little pained now, "Not all of those secretaries were women."

Merlin nods; he stopped really listening some sentences ago – self-preservation and all that. But when Lance's final words register, it's like someone reaches into his chest and squeezes the air from his lungs.

"H-he's..." Merlin flounders.

"Yes. Uther tolerated it for a time, dismissed it as a phase, but once the men began to outnumber the women, he put his foot down."

"Why are you telling me this?" Merlin narrows his eyes suspiciously.

"Look, Merlin, I don't pretend to know how Arthur feels about you – he's always kept his cards close to his chest – but I know there's something there. I've known Arthur long enough to recognise the signs."

A faint hope stirs to life within Merlin, something he's ruthlessly quashed until now. But then he remembers. "He's got a funny way of showing it."

"You're drunk, Merlin," Lance says softly.

"Not so much that I don't know what rejection tastes like." Something about Lance just seems to coax unwilling confessions out of Merlin, and he wonders if his cheeks will ever return to their normal hue.

Lance gets to his feet and places one hand gently on Merlin's shoulder. "Arthur wouldn't...He's far too noble to take advantage of someone."

"I wasn't—" Merlin begins to protest but then he remembers the stumbling, the drunken grin, and, worse still, the nuzzling. Suddenly everything becomes embarrassingly clear. "Oh."

"Yes," Lance agrees. "Exactly."

Things aren’t as awkward as Arthur expects in the aftermath. He returns to work, belly full of knots, with no idea what to expect. So he’s completely nonplussed to be greeted by a Merlin who actually seems more relaxed in his company now than he was before the whole miserable Halloween party incident. Arthur’s not one to look a gift horse in the mouth, so he tucks away his own feelings for now, and takes his lead from Merlin.

Neither of them mentions the kiss. In fact, it’s as if the whole evening hasn’t happened. But, although he doesn’t want to rock the boat too much, or too soon, Arthur’s not sure how much longer that can go on. He can’t bear the prospect that Merlin might feel rejected, that his outward demeanour might simply be a smiling mask to hide the hurt, and, more than anything, it bothers Arthur that he can’t have Merlin.

A spoilt only child, until Morgana brought his reign to an end, Arthur has never been well-schooled in the art of patience. In the word of Pendragons, to want is to have, and what Arthur wants right now is Merlin. And the continual frustration he feels at being denied this is bound to bubble over into action at some point – Arthur is sure of this much at least.

It’s not for the want of spending time together. Merlin and Arthur, and Leon when they can prise him from Morgana’s clutches, spend every spare moment together working on the M.o.D. tender. So much so that instead of being relieved when it’s finalised, all Arthur can think is that his reasons to see Merlin out of work hours have diminished drastically, and this does nothing to improve his already fractious mood.

But Arthur has promised himself all along that once it’s over, once the tender is complete, the presentation made, he will have a long chat with Merlin about just where they stand. Because while Arthur isn’t sure just what it is he feels for Merlin, he knows it’s worth exploring.

The ring of his phone shrills into the silence of his office, disturbing Arthur from pleasant daydreams. Hilary’s crisp tones have much the same effect as a cold shower.

"Peter Wetherleigh on line one for you, Mr Pendragon."

Being referred to that way usually makes Arthur look around for his father. But not this time. This time he’s too busy reaching for the receiver with a hand that is most definitely not shaking ever so slightly, and preparing to take probably the most important call of his career to date. And strangely enough, all Arthur can think of at this point is Merlin, and how he should be here to share the moment.

"Thank you, Hilary, put him through."

There’s a quick blast of that bloody awful hold music and Arthur uses the time to take a deep breath.

"Peter, how are you?"

Arthur’s on his feet and pacing when Merlin bursts into the room – he’s never been one for decorum.

"You wanted to see me?" he puffs, and Arthur realises he’s probably run the entire way there.

Arthur stops, leans back against his desk, and takes a brief moment to drink in the sight of Merlin – his eyes alive with what looks like excitement, and his eternally messy hair sticking up in more directions than should be humanly possible. And there’s this slow coil of want unfurling in Arthur’s belly that leaves him almost breathless.

"We got it?" Merlin asks; he’s practically bouncing on the balls of his feet with anticipation.

For a fleeting moment Arthur considers teasing, prolonging the agony, but the need to see Merlin’s reaction is strong, and Arthur can’t resist.

"We got it," he confirms, and Arthur’s fairly sure his grin rivals any his father has ever produced for smugness.

Merlin doesn’t disappoint; his smile is almost blinding in its brightness. "Git!" He steps forward and just for a moment Arthur thinks he’s about to be hugged, so the punch to the arm instead comes as something of a surprise – however playfully it’s delivered. "I nearly had a heart attack coming up here. You couldn’t have just let Hilary tell me?"

Arthur shakes his head; there’s no way he would have missed this moment for the world. Merlin’s cheeks are flushed, his ears slowly pinkening, and that smile, that perfect, heart-stopping smile makes his whole face come alive. And professionalism be damned, because Arthur’s waited just about as long as he can bear, and while for some people it may not be much, for him it’s a feat not to be sniffed at.

Apparently Arthur’s intentions are written clearly on his face, because as he steps forward determinedly, Merlin does the same.

It’s not clear who kisses who first, and Arthur’s fairly sure it’s not important. It’s hard and desperate and their bodies are pressed so tightly together that Arthur swears he can feel the pounding of Merlin’s heart against his chest.

There’s a frantic need in their movements, and from the way Merlin’s hands are fisted tightly in his shirt, Arthur can tell there’s still an underlying fear of rejection. But he has no intention of walking away this time, not when he finally has Merlin where he’s wanted him, probably for longer than he’s realised.

Distracting Merlin with teasing sweeps of his tongue, Arthur backs him up against the desk. He slides one hand around Merlin’s neck, his fingers toying with the wayward wisps of hair at the nape. Arthur’s other hand insinuates itself between their bodies, insistently tugging at the buttons of Merlin’s shirt.

Feeling them give way, Arthur lets out a muffled cry of triumph, which is swiftly followed by a low moan of desire as his palm smoothes over the planes of Merlin’s chest. They’re so wrapped up, so completely lost in each other, that neither of them notices the click of the door as it opens. The gasp of surprise goes unheard, blending in with the heavy breaths already filling the room.

"Well, I certainly didn’t see this office romance coming."

It’s Morgana. Arthur doesn’t have to look to know she’s grinning like a particularly satisfied Cheshire cat – but he does, regardless. Because if she doesn’t leave the room very soon he may well have to kill her, and that’s not a conversation with his father he’d relish.

Still grinning broadly at them both, Morgana gives an absent wave of her hand. "Carry on, boys. I won’t keep you. I’ve just remembered I need to ring Gwen anyway."

Arthur turns back around and leans forward, resting his forehead against Merlin’s, and there’s something so wonderfully intimate about it. "That was embarrassing," he mutters, his fingertips tracing along Merlin’s jaw.

Merlin chuckles softly and leans into the touch. "It’s not so bad," he soothes, his own hands still holding Arthur tightly. "You should have seen what I caught her and Leon doing in the stationery cupboard last week."

It’s all Merlin can do to keep the grin off his face most days. Since their first kiss, things between Arthur and him have progressed at what, Merlin suspects, should be an alarming rate. But somehow it just feels right, and even though it’s only been a few weeks, Merlin can barely remember what it felt like to fall asleep without Arthur’s broad chest pressed against his back.

They’re keeping it a secret for the moment; Arthur’s an intensely private person, and Merlin certainly prefers not to be the subject of office gossip. Gwen and Morgana know of course, which means by extension so do Leon and Lance, and Merlin suspects that if Arthur doesn’t stop slamming him up against his office door with quite so much urgency, then Hilary’s going to find out rather more than they would like, too.

Keeping the likes of Miffy and Owain off the scent of his new romance is really quite exhausting for Merlin, and it’s hard, because all he wants to do is grab Arthur in the middle of the staff canteen and announce to everyone that he’s Merlin’s.

With every moment they spend together – and there are a lot of those – Merlin finds that he’s learning more and more about Arthur. And even though they were friends before, it’s different now that they’re boyfriends. Even thinking that word brings a smile to Merlin’s face, and he finds himself saying it out loud whenever he can – it’s been a long time since he’s had cause to use it – not since Will – but it feels right.

Everything’s starting to look up. Not that there was anything particularly wrong with Merlin’s life before Arthur arrived – or at least he didn’t think there was at the time – it’s just that he’s seen the alternative now, and realises just what he was missing out on.

Now that they’ve got the new contract, word has spread and confidence in the business has grown. Arthur confides to Merlin over breakfast one morning that the way things are going they may actually have to look at recruiting – which is a far cry from where they were just months ago. Merlin’s so happy. Not just for himself and his friends, who will still have jobs come Christmas, but for Arthur, because he’s the one who really made it happen, put in the hours, the determination. Because this possibly meant more to him than it did to Merlin and the rest of the staff – even though Arthur’s job was never on the line – and he’s achieved what he set out to do.

Merlin’s smiling to himself as he makes his way towards Arthur’s office. Provided Arthur’s alone when he gets there, Merlin is sure of a warm reception, and he’s already tingling with the anticipation.

Hilary’s not at her desk when he arrives, which, on its own is very strange. What’s even stranger, however, is that Morgana is there, perched nervously on the desk, looking far too pale to be interesting.

The look she gives him makes Merlin feel sick. It’s so full of sympathy, of pity, that all he can think of is the last time someone looked at him like that. And it was Gwen, right before she told him about Will and the bloke from the pub down the road. Then Merlin gives himself a mental shake. Just because his last boyfriend was a lying, cheating piece of shit, it doesn’t mean Arthur is too. Arthur’s not like that; Merlin’s sure of that.

The door opens then, before either of them has the chance to speak, and some of this starts to make sense, as Arthur emerges, accompanied by his father.

The last thing Merlin wants is to make small talk with Uther Pendragon. There are too many things he’d dearly love to say to this man, too many judgements he’d like to pass, and Merlin’s long since come to the conclusion it may be better for his and Arthur’s relationship if the two of them do not meet. But it’s too late for any of that. He’s in the middle of the outer office, Uther is barely two feet away, and Arthur is already making introductions.

Uther gives Merlin what he clearly thinks is a friendly slap on the shoulder, which in actuality almost sends Merlin to his knees, because he really isn’t expecting that.

"Merlin," Uther says warmly, and without his usual harsh, accusatory tone, Merlin almost doesn’t recognise the voice. "Arthur tells me what a wonderful job you have been doing here. I understand you were a great help on the Ministry tender.""

Merlin’s completely blindsided by this reaction, and it’s all he can do to mutter a "thank you, sir", before kicking himself heartily for using a term of deference to such a man.

"You should join us for dinner tonight," Uther continues. "Help us celebrate Arthur’s promotion."

Merlin opens his mouth to utter the undoubtedly mandatory acceptance, but snaps it shut again when the full implications of Uther’s words register. Now all he feels is confusion, because Arthur is already in charge, is already as high as he can get, so how on earth can he have been promoted.

Merlin looks at Arthur, hoping to find something in his expression that makes sense of all this. But Arthur won’t meet his gaze, and coupled with Morgana’s pity, it all starts to make sickening sense to Merlin.

"You’re going back to London?" he asks hoarsely, but it’s not really a question when he already knows the answer.

Uther claps Arthur on the back this time, seemingly oblivious to the taut misery on his son’s face. "You’re looking at the new Vice President of Pendragon Industries."

Merlin swallows hard, which is difficult to do considering the size of the lump that’s formed in his throat; the expression on Arthur’s face tells him all he needs to know. So he smiles weakly, offers congratulations so obviously insincere that surely even Uther can’t miss the undercurrent, and then politely declines the evening’s invitation.

As he leaves the office, Merlin is very careful not to meet Morgana’s gaze again, because the grip he has on his self-control is fragile enough, and Merlin’s fairly sure it won’t stand up in the face of her pity. He doesn’t return to his own desk, even though the working day is far from over. Instead, Merlin walks straight out of the building and doesn’t stop until he reaches home. Where he locks himself in his room with his Buffy box sets, and a bottle of Jack Daniels, and proceeds to forget all about Arthur Pendragon, if only for a short while.

Arthur looks up in surprise as his office door is flung open and his sister storms in angrily.

"I told Hilary i wasn’t to be disturbed," he snaps, instantly deciding that attack is his best form of defence against what he knows is coming.

Morgana rolls her eyes, showing clearly what she thinks of that. "You’re an idiot," she declares firmly.

Arthur takes a sip of his coffee, stalling for time. "Thank you."

Morgana flings herself into the empty chair opposite. "I mean it," she says, glaring fiercely. "I can’t believe you’re throwing this away."

"I’d have thought you’d be glad to get back to London. You’re always moaning about the provincial shops they have here."

"I’m not coming back," she says, and there’s more than a hint of defiance in her tone. "You can sell out if you want to. I like it here; I’ve made actual friends."

There’s a painful twisting sensation in Arthur’s gut; he hadn’t expected this at all. Despite the bickering, they’ve always been close, always been there for each other, and regardless of biology, Arthur really does love her. The thought of going back to London, to the empty, soulless existence he used to have is unpleasant enough. Without Morgana there, Arthur’s not sure he’ll be able to do it.

The shock he’s feeling obviously shows on his face, because Morgana’s expression softens. She leans forward in her seat, hands resting on the edge of the desk. "Why are you doing this?" she asks; the concern evident in her tone causes Arthur’s chest to tighten. "You were the closest to happy that I’ve seen in a long time. Don’t let Uther drag you down again."

Elbows on the desk, Arthur cradles his head in his hands. "It’s not that easy." He wants to explain that he’s not like her, that he can’t just stand up to his father regardless of the consequences, that he’s all Uther has left after the death of his mother and Arthur can’t just turn his back on him. But Morgana already knows this, he realises suddenly, and it’s probably why she’s stuck around as long as she has.

"It really is." The anger’s left her voice now, but somehow the calm assurance is just as bad. "Arthur, you don’t even really like your job that much. Why would you give this up for something you don’t want?"

Arthur sits back now, hands fisted tightly in front of him. "Give what up? You think I have a future here?"

Morgana shakes her head; Arthur resolutely ignores the pity in her expression. "I think you could have a future with Merlin. Or at least, you did, before you arsed it all up."

"I’ve tried talking to him." Arthur is stung by the accusation. "He won’t listen to me."

"Do you really blame him? You just gave in, Arthur. Uther clicks his fingers and you come running, and bugger anyone who gets trampled in the process."

Arthur chooses not to answer this. He’s seen enough hurt expressions on Merlin’s face to haunt his dreams for some months to come. And the quiet disappointment on Gwen’s is just as bad. "I thought you’d be happy. This means a promotion for Leon, you realise?"

"At the expense of yours and Merlin’s happiness?" Morgana snorts derisively. "Yes, I’m thrilled."

Arthur pushes back from his desk abruptly. Morgana’s always been able to see right through his bravado, and he’s not in the mood to be an open book just now. "I’ll be fine," he says with more certainty than he feels. "It’s not like we had anything serious."

"Fine?" Morgana repeats. "Like you were before? You just existed. You go back there now and Uther’ll have you married to some polo club groupie before you know it. Are you really going to give all this up for that?"

Arthur feels his resolve crumbling; Morgana can get under his skin like no other. His chest feels tight and his breathing is laboured, but there’s no way he’s going to break. Apart from anything else, Arthur suspects that once his defences come down, there’ll be no putting them back up again. "I don’t know what to do," he admits, which is as close to weakness as he’s prepared to come.

Morgana crosses swiftly to his side. She reaches out and ruffles his hair fondly, and it’s a sign of how distracted Arthur is that he raises no objections. Then Morgana’s arms are around him, pulling him close, and that one act comes closer to destroying his resolve than anything else.

"Yes, you do," she murmurs. "Make it right."

If he analyses his reactions too deeply, Merlin can’t help but reach the conclusion that he’s being ridiculous. He’s known Arthur for less than five months, and only one of those saw them as anything more than colleagues, friends maybe. So he can’t work out why it hurts so damn much.

Rejection is never pleasant, he knows that. But his relationship with Will lasted for years, over distance for some of it, and devastated as he was when the end came, Merlin thinks that the betrayal never stung quite as strongly as it does right now.

So for the first few days after Uther’s visit, Merlin wallows. He drinks to the point that his liver protests, and consumes enough crap that he’s fairly sure he’ll have to be airlifted out of the flat if he keeps it up. And through most of it Gwen and Morgana are there keeping him supplied with comfort, both clearly determined to show just how on his side they are. As a thank you, Merlin takes the time to expand Morgana’s knowledge of the Welsh language – the words he teaches her are hardly suitable for everyday use, and Gaius will probably pitch a fit, but when used in the context of her brother they certainly make Merlin feel better – for a short while, at least.

By the time the local shop has completely run out of Hagen Daaz, Merlin has pulled himself together. There’s no way he’s going to let Arthur Pendragon be the one who breaks him. He got over Will, hard as it was, and he can get over this. Or at least that’s what Merlin tells his reflection whilst stubbornly ignoring the quiet voice pointing out that Arthur has already come to mean more to him than Will ever did – despite their long years of friendship.

Merlin pastes on the most convincing smile he can muster and returns to work. He heads straight back to his old desk in Credit Control, without even a glance for Arthur. He’s never been more grateful that Arthur wanted their relationship kept secret. Despite the slightly bitter taste it leaves in his mouth now, at least Merlin doesn’t have to deal with well-meant sympathy or pitying looks from his colleagues.

Merlin finds a surprising champion in the form of Hilary, who, Merlin is embarrassed to realise, clearly knows exactly what has been going on. Despite working together for almost five years, they’re certainly not close, barely more than acquaintances, so Merlin is touched by her discreet displays of support. Every time Arthur seems intent on cornering Merlin for yet another chance to explain, Hilary is there, distracting him with urgent matters that can’t possibly wait.

The sad thing is, Merlin doesn’t need explanations. He knows why Arthur did it, understands the motivation. He’s seen firsthand the number Uther Pendragon has done on his son and Merlin can’t quite find it in his heart to hate Arthur for behaving as he has, because with that upbringing he really knows no different.

Today is more difficult than all the others though. The nagging sickness that has twisted Merlin’s stomach for days has become full blown nausea and he barely makes it to mid-morning break before he gives up all pretence of work.

Merlin might be studiously avoiding him, but he’s not so oblivious that he doesn’t notice Arthur hasn’t turned up for work today. And while that in itself isn’t unusual - he’s been absent more than not lately, readying himself for the move – it’s the concerned look on Morgana’s face that continually niggles at him. But still Merlin refuses to ask – he has no right to know anymore.

He carries on pretending everything is okay. He adds his figures, chats X Factor with Miffy, and tries to drown out Owain’s debauched tale of his latest conquest. Anything to help him ignore the tight band that seems to have settled around his chest, making everything suddenly more difficult to do.

He cycles home that evening, and if he thinks longingly of Arthur’s BMW as he pedals along the cold, dark lanes, Merlin tells himself it’s only because of the comfy, warm seats, and definitely nothing to do with the company. He needs to stop thinking like that, he chastises himself. After today it’s all over, Arthur’s BMW won’t be here any longer for him to covet – as of Monday it’ll be back in London.

At least he doesn’t have the awkward goodbyes to deal with, Merlin thinks gratefully.

All of which turns out to be wishful thinking, because as Merlin pedals into the home stretch, filled with the urge for a long soak in a hot bath, he sees a familiar sleek, black car parked on the street right outside his flat. There’s a sickening lurch in his stomach and Merlin slows his movements down as much as he can without toppling off his bike. But he can’t put off the inevitable forever, and Arthur is sitting on his doorstep waiting for him.

Merlin ruthlessly squashes the pang of sympathy he feels for Arthur, who looks cold and miserable, and god only knows how long he’s been sat there in the dark. "Gwen won’t let you in?"

Arthur looks up and squints against the bright glare of Merlin’s headlight. Even in the gloom of the winter evening, Merlin can see the shadows under his eyes, and just how tired Arthur looks. "She’s out with Morgana," is all he says, before getting to his feet, hands vigorously dusting off his trousers. "Can we talk?"

Merlin leans down and switches off the lights on his bike – maybe if it’s harder to see the pained expression on Arthur’s face, he’ll be able to steel himself against it. "I don’t think that’s such a good idea."

"Merlin—"

"What’s left to say?" Merlin interrupts hurriedly before Arthur can say anything more in that coaxing tone.

"Please?" There’s something in his tone, something that sounds almost broken that crushes all of Merlin’s resolve. Because Arthur’s not supposed to sound like that – this is his fault, he made it happen – but Merlin just doesn’t have the strength to hold out against that.

They’ve barely made it inside before Merlin decides that he’s taking control of this conversation. He understands why Arthur did what he did – doesn’t like it, but he does get it – but this, forcing a confrontation when Merlin’s done everything he can to show he doesn’t want one – it feels a little like Arthur’s rubbing his face in it. It’s not fair, and it’s more than Merlin thinks he can handle, and he’s fairly sure if he doesn’t end it soon, well, it won’t be pretty. Snotty noses and red-rimmed eyes rarely are.

They make it as far as the living room in silence before Merlin goes on the attack. "What are you doing here?" he demands, trying his best to glare.

"I wanted to talk to you. I’ve been trying for days, but you’ve been avoiding me."

"Don’t you think it’s a bit late for talking?" Because really, Merlin thinks, what can they possibly have left to say to each other.

Arthur just gazes at him steadily, and his expression is unreadable. "I hoped not." Then he gives an almost shy smile that makes Merlin’s insides melt just a little, and conversely makes him angry at the same time, because how dare Arthur try to manipulate him.

"Well it is." It takes all of Merlin’s resolve to sound as cold as he does. "You said everything that needs to be said when you let your father do the talking for you."

"Merlin," Arthur says softly, stepping forward and placing a hand lightly on Merlin’s arm.

Merlin throws it off instantly, and he’s angry without even having to try now. "Don’t touch me," he says tightly. "Don’t you fucking dare."

"Just listen to me, will you?" Arthur’s fist is clenched and there’s more than a hint of annoyance in his tone – all of which pisses Merlin off even more because Arthur doesn’t get to be mad, not when he’s the one responsible.

Merlin feels suddenly tired. He knows this won’t end well, that’s why he’s strained so hard to avoid this conversation for weeks. He sinks down into the nearest armchair, rests elbows on knees, and puts his head in his hands.

"Can we not do this, please?" he asks. "I’ve never been very good at saying goodbye."

Hands take hold of his and when Merlin looks up he finds Arthur crouched in front of him. Before he can object or pull away, Arthur beats him to it.

"You don’t have to."

Merlin tries to pull his hands free from Arthur’s grip, because he really can’t be expected to think straight when Arthur’s touching him. Then the words sink in. "What?" It’s a struggle to choke the words out past the lump in his throat.

"I’m not going anywhere."

Merlin stares at Arthur, trying to work out what the hell is going on, but his expression is still carefully neutral. "You’re staying?" he asks.

Arthur smiles a little now. "That’s usually what that means."

"B-but...London? Your father?" Merlin splutters, his eyes wide, tone incredulous. "What about Leon?"

Merlin suspects he’s not really focussing on the important issues, but Leon’s a good friend, and Merlin doesn’t think he can bear to see him lose out to Arthur twice. Leon hasn’t mentioned it in front of Merlin because, well, it would have been too awkward, but Merlin knows just how excited he is at finally getting to be in charge.

Arthur’s laughing now and Merlin thinks he should probably be annoyed by that, but it sounds so good, and somewhere deep inside the wounds he has been vigorously denying for sometime begin to heal.

"Leon will be fine."

Merlin shakes his head – he’d like to believe that, but... "I don’t think so, he—"

Arthur places a finger on Merlin’s lips, effectively silencing him. "Relax. The job’s still Leon’s. As of this morning I no longer work for Pendragon Industries."

Merlin’s well and truly gobsmacked now. He won’t deny he’s been fantasising about hearing those words for days, but he never actually thought he would. "You quit?" he asks quietly, sliding one hand free from Arthur’s grasp to touch his face, make sure he is real.

Arthur turns his head slowly and kisses the palm of Merlin’s hand gently. "Yes." Then he kisses again.

"And you’re staying here?"

Arthur grins and simply nods.

"I bet your father took that well." Merlin has heard enough of Uther Pendragon to know that that conversation won’t have been pretty.

Arthur pauses for a moment, and Merlin kicks himself mentally for bringing it up. "Better than I imagined," Arthur says finally. "He actually wants to meet you properly."

Merlin’s fairly sure his incredulity is written all over his face now. "You told him about..." he gestures between the two of them with his hand.

"Of course," Arthur replies. "My father’s not stupid; he’s not going to buy a sudden interest in Celtic culture as a reason for me walking away from the company."

"You’re sure he said meet and not secretly assassinate?" Merlin asks with a shaky laugh, and he’s only joking a little.

"Idiot." Arthur laughs and leans in.

Merlin puts a hand up to stop him, despite his instincts screaming at him not to be a fool, and Arthur huffing like a petulant child. "What will you do now?"

Arthur pauses for a moment and then shrugs. "I haven’t really though much further ahead than this," he says. And before Merlin can open his mouth to ask exactly what this is, Arthur is showing him.

The kisses are just as passionate, as frantic, as filled with need as they ever were. But there’s something else, something Merlin can’t quite identify, but that tastes very much like a promise. He cradles Arthur’s face, leaning into their kisses, unwilling to be parted for even a second. And Arthur lets him; he relaxes into the kiss and moves backwards inch by inch as Merlin surges forward, his tongue and lips demanding insistently.

Lost in the moment, Merlin forgets Arthur is balanced precariously on bended knees. So when he shuffles forward on his chair, desperate to bring as many parts of their body into contact as possible, he’s surprised when Arthur lurches backwards. And even more surprised when Arthur’s hands, holding tightly to Merlin’s waist, drag him downwards as well.

There’s an oof of surprise from them both as their bodies jolt on impact. But then Merlin realises that he’s accidentally managed to do what he’d been longing for all along. Arthur’s spread out on the floor beneath him, their bodies pressed together head to toe, and there’s this glorious moment as they wriggle together, working out just how exactly they fit. Then, as Merlin settles in the cradle of Arthur’s thighs and Arthur raises his hips teasingly, a jolt of pure pleasure shoots right through him. And all Merlin can think is that he hopes that Gwen has the foresight not to come home too early tonight, because there’s no way he’s stopping now, not even for long enough to make it to the bedroom.