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“Stay still,” Morgana murmurs, her lips next to Gwen’s ear, her fingers resting on the hem of her skirt, where Gwen can feel her pinkies resting against her kneecaps, as if she’s a teacup and Morgana is a very, very posh drinker.
Gwen tries not to breathe.
Morgana smiles. Her fingers tighten, and a ripping sound echoes through the bathroom as she rips the fabric and steps back.
“There,” she says cheerfully, stepping back. “Much better.” Her eyes travel up to Gwen’s face, appreciative. “Like it?”
“Yup,” Gwen squeaks, trying not to squirm as Morgana’s eyes drop back to her now-bared thighs and definitely lingers. “I—I—”
She runs out of the bathroom.
*
“Did you make out with her?” Merlin wants to know from Arthur’s lap.
“I ripped her clothes.” She dumps her bag on the coffee table and shoves Merlin’s legs away unceremoniously. “Hello, Arthur.”
“Why do you always say it like I’m some long-lost enemy appearing at the foot of your throne, where you’re sitting like you’ve been waiting for me? Merlin, tell my sister I am not a long-lost enemy appearing at the foot of her throne.”
His boyfriend ignores him in favour of shoving his feet into Morgana’s lap so that he looks even more like a pole, Arthur thinks, stretched out on the sofa.
“You mean ripped her clothes off?” Merlin suggests, like a spellchecker.
“No, I mean I ripped her clothes. Literally. Her and me, in a bathroom, at a party. I made her dress shorter.” She squints at Merlin, reaching for a cup of tea. “Do you think I came on too strong?”
“No,” Merlin shrugs, just as Arthur butts in with a very decisive yes.
“Explain.”
“Morgana,” Arthur intones slowly, as if explaining to a child, “this may come as a surprise to you, but not all girls are lesbians.”
“That’s true,” she concedes, nodding. “Some are bisexual. And some are pansexual.”
“And some don’t identify with any labels,” Merlin adds helpfully.
“Shut up, Merlin. As I was saying, not all girls are lesbians. It may even turn out that Guinevere, sweet as she is, is a straight girl. Don’t gasp. It’s happened before.”
“Yeah, but,” Merlin points out, “it’s never happened around Morgana.”
“Sophia was straight. I know, because she was my girlfriend.”
“Yeah, about that.” Morgana sips her tea. “She kind of only went out with you because she thought you might agree to a threesome with me.”
Merlin turns his face into Arthur’s groin, patting his hip comfortingly. “Well, that would explain why she never gave you any blowjobs.”
*
Gwen isn’t straight. Morgana knows that, because she has terrific gaydar. She also knows it because Arthur is never right. He thought he was straight until Merlin kissed him, and now he thinks he’s gay, and Merlin is still trying to explain the concept of fluidity to him. Morgana figures he’s probably, like, bisexual in theory but Merlinsexual in practice, but the long and short of it is that Arthur is never right.
Right now, Morgana is trying out a new tactic. She and Arthur descend from a long line of barbarians (“Military strategists,” Uther proclaims. “Pendragons have always been a noble family. We must breed only with other nobles, and never with any peasants.”), which Morgana figures is why she has great game. She doesn’t know what went wrong with Arthur.
Gwen sits one seat down in the row in front of hers. This criminology class usually holds Morgana’s interest, but today Gwen has her braid pinned up, and Morgana is sure she’d be able to identify her in a morgue by the freckles dotting the back of her neck. DNA fingerprinting be damned, she knows more enjoyable ways to mark out bodies for identification.
She should write that one down.
You have a really cute back, she scribbles on a piece of scrap paper, folds it in half, and aims for Gwen’s arm.
Her phone buzzes, jolting her elbow. The note flies from her hand and makes a beeline for the person on Gwen’s left.
“Goddammit,” she yells.
The whole lecture hall turns around to stare at her.
Fuck, she thinks, but thankfully doesn’t say aloud.
“That, uh, is a really interesting point, Professor,” she offers, wrinkling her brow in what she knows from experience is an expression of concentration. “So unexpected. Jesus Christ,” she adds, realising Gwen is looking at her too, “don’t stop.” She winks.
Gwen drops her pencil and flushes, fumbling for it at her feet, and Morgana’s gaydar buzzes like flies on a hot day.
The lecture hall turns back to the front except for that person on Gwen’s left, who stares at Morgana, note in hand. Morgana isn’t really sure who he is, but first of all he’s a he, and second of all he’s got hair slicked back with so much gel she doesn’t trust his hands.
“Wait till you see my front,” he drops, winking at her. “My name’s Agravaine, but you can—”
“Fuck off, straight boy.”
*
Merlin catches her after class, demanding to know why she didn’t answer his text.
“Because,” Morgana huffs, making her way out of the hall, “I’m an exceedingly diligent pupil, and I don’t believe in texting in class.”
Merlin snorts. “Yeah sure, because you never sexted in high school.”
“No, you never sexted in high school. I can tell because you’re really bad at it. Arthur can’t because he’s even worse.”
“Can I change the subject? I’m changing the subject.”
“Shoot.” Morgana peers over the heads of students streaming down the hallway, looking for a dark curly head. “Dammit, she moves fast.”
“Are you stalking the poor girl now? Don’t do that, it’s creepy.”
“I’m not, I’m just looking for her. I need her coffee cup.”
“I don’t pretend to understand you, Morgana. Stealing isn’t romantic. Anyway, I’ve got that book you wanted.”
“What?” She finally gets close enough to see Gwen steer suddenly to her left and toss her coffee cup into a bin and walk on.
“The textbook. The one on international legal application, or whatever. It’s really heavy, will you just take it?” He thrusts his arms out, textbooks nestled in the middle.
“Give me a hand,” Morgana says, and dumps her books on top of his. “Why have you got them in a blanket?”
“Because Arthur said my arms are skinny and easily bruised.” He struggles, trying to balance the pile. “What are you doing?”
“I’m trying to have a coffeeshop romance, Merlin, and you as my gay best friend are obliged to help me, not bombard me with questions.” She rolls up her sleeves, dips her arm into the bin and feels around gingerly.
“Um,” says Merlin.
“Got it.” She fishes the cup out of the bin, dumps it on top of Merlin’s pile, and flashes him a grin. “Thanks, Merlin.”
“Any time. Listen, I got that book from Gwaine, who got it from Percy’s sister, and Gwaine and Percy were shagging when I went to ask them for it, so take care of it for me, yeah? I’ve been trying to get the image out of my head for a while now.”
Morgana only smirks. “I’ll be sure to let Arthur know that.”
*
Morgana has the perfect plan and it involves a coffeeshop, which means it’s going to be cute as hell, Gwen is going to fall madly in love with her and they’re going to out-couple Merlin and Arthur.
According to Uther Pendragon’s business mantra, the first step is to know the grounds of battle. (“You cannot,” Uther insists, slamming his fist down although nobody is disagreeing, “go into battle blind. My son, do not disappoint me.”
“Um,” Arthur says. “It’s an exam.”
“Exactly. Have you scouted the hall?”)
Morgana walks into the campus coffeeshop. She’s thrown away Gwen’s empty cup, but she knows her order by heart now, having stared at it for the better part of an hour last night while Merlin and Arthur whispered conspiratorially, tiptoeing around her as if the cup might be biohazardous.
She gives the barista her order, but asks for the name to be left blank.
(“The second step is to make sure you are armed. Arthur, you must remember to bring an adequate supply of pens.”)
As the cup slides across to her at the collection booth, she whips out a marker and writes carefully, Gwen – have one on me. Then she draws a smiley face with surgical precision. If this works out, she decides, she’ll do it again and put her number down, too.
“Cheers,” she calls over her shoulder, and makes her way out of the shop, coffee in hand and Merlin’s textbook under her arm. She’s eager to get to the library and look for Gwen, whom she’s noticed goes almost every morning (“I’m really not a stalker, Merlin. I’ve just got enviable powers of observation.” “Don’t quote obscure music at me, Morgana.”)—so eager that she doesn’t look behind her as she pushes the door open with her back, so of course she bumps into someone and spills her coffee all over herself and her textbook.
“Well, fuck,” she says, glaring at the mess on the floor.
*
“Merlin,” she says, gripping the phone between her cheek and shoulder.
“It’s way too early,” he mumbles, not even bothering to stifle a yawn.
“I spilled her coffee on the book, I’m sorry.”
“S’okay. Bye.”
“Oi, post-coital gay best friend. Stay on the phone. I spilled her coffee on the book, I ruined my perfect coffeeshop romance.”
“Morgana.” There’s a rustling of sheets, and she hears him yawn again. “Morgana, you’re a terrifying lesbian, go figure something else out. In the meantime, go to the library and get another copy of the book so you can study it while it’s drying. You’ve got a test coming up, remember?”
“But I don’t want to be a terrifying lesbian,” Morgana wails, stomping up the stairs because Uther’s dramatic genes had to go somewhere. “I want to be a nice lesbian. With, like, short but varnished nails and comfy plaid shirts and everything. So Gwen will go out with me.”
“You hate plaid,” Merlin points out. “And you’re—you know, you’re a nice terrifying lesbian. Honest. Here, let Arthur tell you. Arthur, tell your sister she’s a nice terrifying lesbian.”
Morgana hears some mumbling over the phone that sounds vaguely like “go make out with Gwen” as she dumps the emptied coffee cup and marches into the library.
“I can’t,” she hisses. “And I love black nail polish.” She rings the bell on the desk once, because she’s nice. Not terrifying.
“I know, I know,” Merlin assures her soothingly. “But your brother’s right. Go make out with Gwen.”
“I’m trying my best,” Morgana growls. Then she looks up, and promptly hangs up on Merlin.
Gwen is staring at her from the other side of the desk, looking slightly scared. “Trying your best to?”
Somewhere in the back of her mind, Uther’s voice booms, “The mating call of a Pendragon is, by evolutionary standards, irresistible!” but the only thing that comes out of Morgana’s mouth is a “To replace this book”, as she dumps it on the desk.
Gwen leans over the desk and turns the book around. Morgana vaguely notices that she has short fingernails, which are, incidentally, very close to her own fingers. Her hand twitches, just a little bit.
“Yeah, we have a copy of this,” Gwen confirms, looking back up. She smiles, like it’s the most natural thing in the world to be looking at a coffee-drenched textbook with Morgana on a Saturday morning. “I can show you where it is?”
She follows Gwen, winding through the bookcases until they reach one of the last in the row. Gwen walks down the shelf, running her fingers over the tops of the books, and reaches up to grab a book.
“Here it is,” she says, a little breathless, holding it out to Morgana. “Last copy.”
Morgana steps closer, puts her hand on the book and smiles. “Thank you.”
“It’s no problem. So, um,” Gwen asks, not letting the book go, “how did you ruin your copy, anyway?”
They’re very close, and Morgana has never seen brown eyes this close before. When Gwen breathes, it’s a shallow little breath, and the colour comes into her cheeks with it as if all of her is trying to move up, up towards Morgana.
“I was getting you coffee,” Morgana explains.
“Oh,” is all Gwen says. Morgana wonders if she realises it sounds like a squeak this time, too.
“Your shirt rode up,” Morgana says, and tugs at the hem. Gwen’s waist is soft where her hand brushes against it, and she looks back up to the brown eyes, searching. She presses her thumb into Gwen’s hip, gently, and hears it when her breath hitches. Suddenly she’s gripping the fabric as Gwen stretches up on tiptoes and leans forward to press her lips to Morgana’s, so sweet it’s almost chaste, and Morgana wonders vaguely, heart pounding, if every part of Gwen’s skin is as soft as this. As if wanting to answer it, Gwen moves closer, the book pressed flush against their bodies.
She slides her hand across Gwen’s waist, half under her shirt, and she feels her smile against her lips.
“You smell like coffee,” Gwen laughs, face very close, and Morgana thinks she can get used to the idea of this being a library romance instead.