Work Text:
In hindsight, Gwen realizes that she could have anticipated a lot of things about the public's reaction to Arthur and her relationship with him based on the Great Twitter Incident. Or, as Arthur refers to it, the Not My Fault, Okay Maybe A Little Incident.
*
She is perched on a football, legs stretched out comfortably in front of her. All around her, thirteen-year-old girls slouch on the grass or each other, guzzling water and gossiping voraciously.
“Did you hear that Jamie’s going with Angelique? Ohmigod, she is so lucky!”
“Ew, no, he’s such a tosser. Plus, he has braces. I much prefer Devon any day.”
“You would, Cara. You don’t mind a bit of ginger!”
There’s scandalized laughter, and Cara half-heartedly squirts a bit of water in Eliza’s direction.
“All right, girls,” Gwen says with a bit of warning in her voice. She doesn’t mind gossip, and it’d be virtually impossible to get teenage girls to knock off, but she tries to steer them away from being too mean-spirited. “Break’s over.”
Joking groans echo around as the girls get to their feet and trot back out onto the pitch. It’s unseasonably warm for May, and Gwen takes one last gulp herself before rising and following her players. Given the heat and the fact that it’s early in the season, Gwen decides to forgo any more conditioning drills and sets the girls on three-a-side scrimmages.
They’re good girls, and she’s been with most of them for several years, watching them grow in self-awareness from rambunctious children to awkward adolescents, hyper aware of their dawning sexuality and trying to navigate the pitfalls of secondary school. It’s a bittersweet age to observe, and Gwen does so thankfully, glad she doesn’t have to repeat the experience herself.
Amy, who’s utterly fearless and never hesitates to throw herself bodily in front of any obstacle, be it ball or human, has just won the ball with a slide tackle that’s a fraction over the line of what’s legal. Gwen steps forward, whistle in her mouth, when behind her she hears Eliza say with great interest, “Who is that?”
Gwen rolls her eyes without turning round. The one thing more pressing than gossip to her thirteen-year-olds is a cute boy, and she can just imagine this one, all 130 pounds of floppy haired and treble-voiced masculinity.
Margot comments, impressed, “Look at that car. That’s brilliant, that is.”
At that, Gwen turns, thinking that any boy old enough to drive a car probably should be discouraged from hanging round. She realizes who it is at the same time that Cara says, “Oh my god. That’s bloody Prince Arthur!”
It is bloody Prince Arthur. He comes striding over the grass, long denim-clad legs stretching in a way that Gwen would have normally appreciated if she wasn’t busy being annoyed. They’d only been dating for several weeks, and, she thought, they’d agreed to keep the relationship as quiet as possible. She can see Kay and Owain, his protection officers, leaning against the side of the silver sports car.
Of course, the girls all immediately stop playing and gather behind her, muttering like inquisitive chickens. Arthur reaches them and flashes that famous smile. There are a few audible sighs. “Hi,” he says.
“What are you doing here?” she asks.
“You said you had practice, and I had a couple free minutes, so I thought I’d stop by.” Behind her, she can hear the murmuring rise a level. Arthur pulls a ball closer with one foot and begins to juggle it, nonchalantly. The murmuring increases, impressed.
Gwen narrows her eyes. He’s clearly showing off, and he and the girls all know it. He pops the ball over into the middle of the girls and Amy catches it easily on one foot, letting the ball balance for one moment before passing it on. Cara juggles the ball on her thighs and knees it on to Becca, who’s distracted by Arthur moving closer. He catches the flying ball, grinning at her, and starts the ball again. Becca’s blushing and there’s a fair amount of giggling and elbowing as the girls fall into a circle around Arthur and continue to juggle the ball.
Gwen pinches the bridge of her nose. Her practice has been hopelessly derailed and she’s well aware that the girls won’t be able to get over this visit and settle down in the last thirty minutes that they have left. She sighs and motions to Kay and Owain. They come over, frowning.
“Sorry, Gwen,” Kay says. “I know we’ve wrecked your practice.”
She waves that off. “I know who's responsible for this. We might as well do something reasonably productive with it. Would you like to play a game of Around the World?”
Owain’s eyes light up. “Sure!”
Kay frowns. “Around the what?”
“World. It’s a game,” Gwen explains. “A free-for-all, really. You play in front of one goal, and everyone has a partner. You’re just trying to score. The last person who touches the ball before it goes in gets a point for their team.”
“So…you’re basically just standing in front of the goal, cherry-picking?” Kay asks.
Gwen shrugs, smiling. “Pretty much.”
“Why’s it called Around the World?”
“Oh. Because you and your partner choose a country. Before you kick the ball, you have to yell out your country’s name, otherwise the goal doesn’t count.”
“Huh,” Kay says. “Okay.”
Gwen raises her voice, calling her errant players to order. She tells them to pair up, but adds forestallingly, “Arthur will play by himself.”
She glares at him, and he smiles sunnily back. “What’s the matter, Gwen? You don’t want to be on my team?”
“No.”
“All right. But I get to be England.”
Gwen rolls her eyes.
The girls start out a little cautiously, caught between celebrity worship and also, not really knowing what protocol to follow until Arthur, of course, goes in for a really hard hip check that makes Amy stumble. She counters with a move that would have been extremely illegal had she not tripped over the ball and sent them both sprawling. Arthur’s first on his feet and pulls her up, laughing and asking her who taught her that move and could she please show him how it’s done? After that, it seems like the girls almost forget who they’re playing with.
Almost, until practice is called for the day and the girls are stripping off their shoes and shin guards and Arthur wanders over and thoughtlessly presses a loud, smacking kiss to Gwen’s temple. The girls all pop their heads up like prairie dogs, eyes wide, and stare. Arthur freezes, arms wrapped around Gwen.
“Are you guys dating?” Eliza asks, completely unashamed.
“Eliza!” Becca hisses but she too, continues to gaze up at them.
“Well, why else would he come?” Eliza says.
“Er…” Arthur says, eloquently.
“Ohmigod, you are!” Cara squeals. “Are you going to get married?”
Before Arthur or Gwen can react to this, Eliza exclaims, “Oh, Gwen, you’re going to be Queen!” She leaps up, engulfing Gwen into a bear hug. Shrieking, the rest of the girls follow suit and Gwen is surrounded by screaming, flailing teenage girls.
Arthur, ignored for probably the first time in his whole damn life, regards the general hysterics with no small amount of trepidation, calls, “Uh…thanks for letting me play today girls,” and then turns and hightails it out of there like the coward he so miserably is.
Gwen is going to kill him.
*
The next morning, #omgnewqueen is a trending topic in London.
("How was I supposed to know they'd tweet about it?" Arthur asks plaintively.
"They're girls, Arthur, what'd you expect?" Merlin snorts.
"I hate the internet," Arthur grumbles.)
Gwen starts getting a lot of phone calls, but only takes one, from Morgana, who spends the first five minutes laughing hysterically (“You got outed on Twitter! By children!”) and the next five giving her some unwanted advice on how best to avoid the paparazzi (“Oooh, can we go buy you some wigs?” “No, Morgana.”).
Lady Sarah, Arthur’s press secretary, pours herself a stiff whiskey and informs Arthur that he’s never allowed to make a quick stop anywhere without her prior written permission. Then she tells Gwen that she’d better invest in a good pair of sunglasses.
“I’ll buy them for you,” Arthur offers weakly.
“You’d better,” Gwen mutters.
“So…I guess Arthur’s not allowed to come to any more of your practices,” Merlin says mischievously.
“Shut up, Merlin!”