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There are sirens ringing in the distance, and a news anchor on the telly wearily describing the villain of the week, ending her narration with her usual plea to Rex Artorius: save us from this menace!
Merlin yawns, scratching his balls as per the script of his life, and finishes cooking a full English for himself and his husband. Just another day in Camelot City.
It’s a lazy Saturday in, and Merlin is celebrating the monumental achievement of finally getting Arthur to take a day off work. There is nothing pencilled into their planners today except for ‘shagging’, ‘lots of shagging’, and ‘make-Merlin-unable-to-walk-tomorrow amounts of shagging’. Brilliant day. Not for whomever the villain’s terrorising, sure, but friendly neighbourhood Rex’ll take care of it as he always does, so Merlin will have a lie-in with his husband (so help him God).
Loading everything onto the tray and then the trolley takes time — he’s doing it with love, after all — but soon he’s making his way to his marital bed.
He opens the door to his bedroom, breakfast trolley right behind him, and finds Arthur in the process of defenestrating himself.
“Um,” says Arthur, one leg already poking out the window, which is when Merlin notices the kitschy red Lycra balled up under his arm, and the immensely guilty look on his face.
“Divorce?” says Arthur faintly, staring down at the paper. “Really?”
Merlin taps the biggest dotted line on the sheet with the end of the pen he’s holding out to his soon-to-be-erstwhile spouse. There’s no point in responding to the massive blockhead. Or looking at him, even, so Merlin ducks his head and stays quiet.
“Really, so whilst I was off saving Camelot City from Morgan Le Fay again, you honest to God had William draw up divorce papers?”
An insulted sniff is all Arthur gets. A wave of the proffered pen. An impatient foot tap.
“I’m not fucking signing this,” says Arthur, incredulous. “One would think you’d be chuffed to find yourself wedded to Rex Artorius. Only my schoolteacher husband — for shame — only my dear husband wouldn’t be capable of joining the dots between that name and Arthur King.”
It’s not Merlin’s fucking fault he doesn’t speak dead languages in this life. Arthur was, as far as poor naïve Merlin had known, a respectable businessman raking in millions and donating as many to charity, working overtime and volunteering at various shelters across the city — ah. Holy fuck, Merlin is stupid. He’d thought Metropolis the fictional land of morons, taken in by a pair of specs and a meek demeanour. But here Arthur is, pulling a Superman, hoodwinking Camelot City with just his name. And maybe his specs, too.
“Are you even myopic?” Merlin asks to make sure.
Arthur doesn’t reply, save for taking off his sexy thick-framed glasses (Merlin’s peripheral vision is very handy) and lazily tossing them into the key basket by the front fucking door, too many metres away. So much for the “speccy git” jibes Merlin had gleefully aimed at him all these years. At least he isn’t anything close to Cyclops. He’d have been able to raze the papers to ashes then.
Merlin watches a smug grin spread across Arthur’s face and is sorely tempted to throttle him — except that won’t work anymore, since Arthur’s a bloody superhero, who might actually be impervious to normal human murder.
“I’m not signing any divorce or legal separation papers or whatever bullshit you throw at me,” says Arthur confidently.
Yeah, well. Merlin had reckoned as much. He drops the pen onto the table. It rolls towards Arthur. “I’m still moving out,” he says, to be a shit. He half-arsed packing a suitcase this morning, too. It’s right by the front door and the key basket so Arthur would think he’s serious. Which he is. Of course he is.
Of course he isn’t. But Arthur mustn’t get away with everything.
Arthur changes tack immediately. “Imagine the sex we could have now onwards, though,” he begins, smooth and seductive. “I don’t have to hold back anymore. Imagine the nights you’re in the mood for something kinkier. You know how you’ve always wanted me to pin you down and —”
“I have no clue what you’re on about.” Fuck, Merlin can imagine so many nights, so many positions —
“I’d be able to do it now that you know I’m Rex,” protests Arthur, the nag. “We wouldn’t even need handcuffs anymore —”
“Give me the divorce papers, signed, so I can leave. You’ve lied to me the entire time I’ve known you in this life. Since we were kids, Arthur. Kids.” Merlin frowns very hard at the table because the jig will be up if he glances at Arthur.
“You lied to me about your magic in the Middle Ages and I didn’t make nearly as big a scene!” cries Arthur. The outrage on his face is adorable.
“You know you would’ve!” cries Merlin right back. “You just didn’t because you had no time to, you great milksop.”
“I rescued children from a burning orphanage just the other day,” Arthur mutters, turning sheep’s eyes to him. “Give us a chance.”
Merlin suddenly wants to fuck his brave, strong husband. In light of current events and also Arthur’s ability to read him like an unlocked Kindle, this is a problem.
“You lied,” he repeats, sounding pathetic, picking up the pen. “Here I was, thinking you were such a good man, such a giving man, just like you’d been in the other Camelot, and now you’ve turned out to be…”
He glances at Arthur.
Arthur is staring at the divorce papers, motionless with genuine fear.
Fuck. Merlin’s gone much too far.
“You’ve turned out to be the best-est man I’ve ever known,” Merlin finishes. “I find it hysterical that someone with a poncey superhero name, even poncier superpowers, and a bloody business degree neglected to read the fine print on those papers.”
Once Arthur King finishes crying over these divorce papers, Merlin Wyllt shall be obliged to tear them up, declaring them null and void and a lesson about lying that Arthur’d better remember, and collect on the mind-blowing Saturday sex debt owed him. They shall then attend Gwen and Lance’s baby shower the following day, as per schedule, and resume the sex marathon upon returning home. (William Chauncey did not need those mental images. Go fuck yourselves.)
“You ass,” Arthur exclaims. He’s beaming. Merlin feels relief course through him in tidal waves; no lasting damage has been done.
He slowly gets up from the table, smiling at Arthur. Then he bolts for their bedroom.
But the superhero catches up to him, of course.
“So, what’s your kryptonite?” asks Merlin, fucked-out and indolent, many hours later.
“You,” says Arthur, plastered along Merlin’s back. He kisses Merlin’s shoulder and leaves a love bite on his neck. (He may or may not understand what kryptonite is.)
It’s an answer as cheesy as Blue Stilton, but Merlin, who’s been falling for all of Arthur’s lines since their time together began a thousand years ago, eats it right up.
“I love you and I’d never leave you, you arsehole,” Merlin whispers. “Well, if Clark Kent showed up starkers at my door I’d maybe consider a dalliance.”
“You wouldn’t, you philanderer.”
“How else would I keep my superhero husband on his toes?”
Arthur almost audibly rolls his eyes at that, but the way he pulls Merlin impossibly closer is telling.