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When Merlin agreed to take over his cousin Gilli’s paper route for the summer he expected it to dullen his life, not endanger it.
Running as fast as he can down Camelot Drive, he reminisces about the days he’d spent on this route himself to earn a few extra dollars during high school. It’d been all sunny days and neighborly smiles, a real Leave it to Beaver-esque type gig. Now it’s all burning calves and sweaty pits. Lovely.
Merlin’s magic has called all types of creatures to him in the past, both mythical and mundane, but not like this. Even the hydra didn’t try to maul him.
He would’ve written it off as a fluke, a bad day of fleas and stale kibbles, but it’s been three weeks and the mutt hasn’t relented in the slightest.
The place with the mile-long driveway and lion statues went from dream mansion to monster house real quick. He can’t remember the last time his legs weren’t sore. He’s taken to double-knotting his shoelaces in order to avoid a repeat of last week’s face planting incident.
All because of a dog.
A full grown, pure bred golden retriever with a perpetually shiny coat and a bark that sounds more like a roar. Merlin hasn’t caught its name yet, probably because it takes one whiff of Merlin’s scent to set the hellhound after him like a goddamn search and destroy mission.
Merlin’s tried everything from magical intervention to a prime rib- nothing sets the little fucker at ease. His magic makes him a friend to nature and all its inhabitant, but Deadly Dingo doesn’t seem to get the memo.
With all his thoughts slowing him down, the Murderous Mutt manages to catch up to him and takes a vicious nip at his heels. Merlin yelps and pushes himself faster, tearing down the upscale suburban sidewalk like the comic relief scene of a crappy romcom.
He finally manages to ditch the Pernicious Pup by jumping over Ms Cook’s picket fence. Out of the fire and into the rose bushes, Merlin counts his blessing as he thanks his past self for choosing to wear pants despite the summer heat, only his forearms suffering any real damage from the thorns of prize winning American Beauties.
He stands up and shakes, dislodging a few rogue roses before wandering across a couple of backyards and making his way back to the street.
Hunith sighs upon seeing the state he’s in when he walks through the front door. “Oh, honestly, sweetheart. Again?” she chides, her scathed son who stands there looking defeated.
“I’m being attacked,” Merlin tells her morbidly. She turns her back and heads into the kitchen to hide the humored smile stealing onto her features. “I’m serious,” Merlin calls as he trudges after her, prodding at one of the bigger cuts the roses left just above his hand. He murmurs a healing spell and watches his skin stitch back together. “Someone is out to get me.”
“Does this someone happen to have four legs and a wet nose?”
“Very funny.”
Hunith laughs and flutters about the kitchen, retrieving various sandwich ingredients. “So one animal out of the entire kingdom of creatures doesn’t like you. In a way, you should consider yourself lucky.”
Merlin slumps against the counter and looks at her deadpan. “In what possible way am I, the target of a deadly, persistent assassin lucky?”
“At least the scary ones like you,” she points out, motioning for Merlin to put together his own sandwich with the things she’s set out.
Grabbing the peanut butter and the relish, Merlin insists, “Mum, the chupacabra doesn’t hold a candle to this beast. It’s terrifying.”
“It’s a puppy, Merlin.”
“It’s fully grown!” he shrieks. “Big as a horse, it is. Nasty as a snake. Teeth like a great white.”
“You’re dramatizing.”
“Maybe I am,” he concedes, layering a bit of lettuce before cutting his sandwich in half, “but the point still stands. I’ve done absolutely nothing to this dog, and it still hounds after me like I'm lined with rib eyes. It’s really detrimental to my job performance.”
“Oh I’m sure it is,” Hunith coos, patting him condescendingly on the cheek. “Very difficult, your job.”
“It is when I have to run for my life.”
Hunith laughs again. “I’ll give you a break from your oh so terrible job and let you clean up.”
“Very considerate.”
“Anything for my favorite son,” she tells him.
“I’m your only son,” he reminds her, and is dismissed with a wave of her hand as she exits the kitchen.
Left alone, Merlin sighs and does as he’s told, refusing to let his mind fester on the day’s earlier events. He magicks the rest of his cuts and scrapes closed and washes the little smears of blood away in the kitchen sink.
He grabs a juice box from the fridge and lugs himself down the hall to his bedroom, flopping down on his bed making the springs squeak. He stares up at his ceiling fan and wonders what to do about his hairy problem. He’s contemplating the risks of wearing a padded body suit smeared with salsa when his door creaks open, startling him.
Merlin waits for the intruder to make itself known. Despite knowing who it is, he still jumps a little when Kilgharrah hops onto the bed, prowling a bit before sitting in front of Merlin, tail wrapped around his forelegs. Merlin’s excitement had caused him to squeeze his juice box, forcing the punch up through the straw and over his knuckles. Merlin curses and hastily sets the box on the nightstand, grabbing a tissue as well. Kilgharrah watches him clean up his mess, unimpressed.
“Don’t you ever knock?” Merlin asks, wincing at how sticky his fingers feel.
“I’m a cat,” Kilgharrah deadpans, thumping his fluffy tail, as if to emphasize the fact.
“In this life maybe,” Merlin mumbles. “Something tells me you took this form so you could lay around all day and lick yourself without violating people’s sensibilities.”
Kilgharrah ignores the accusation. “You have a problem,” he says.
Merlin sighs. “That’s the thing about being human, Kil,” he tells the cat with a hint of melancholy. “We’ve all got problems.”
“Problems, you’ve got a plenty of, young warlock,” Kilgharrah muses, his tone making Merlin glare, “but as I’ve told you many times, you’re far beyond human.”
“Do you take joy in pointing out my issues?” Merlin asks him.
Kilgharrah licks his paw and neglects to answer. Merlin snorts. The room would be silent if not for the squeaky whir of the fan and the sound of Kil licking himself.
After giving himself a thorough bath, Kilgharrah sighs, contented. “So, young warlock, tell me. What ails you this time?”
Merlin sucks on his teeth, debating whether or not he should confide in this talking, judgmental cat. What the hell. “There’s this dog,” he starts, cutting himself off when Kilgharrah lets out a sharp hiss, startling both Merlin and himself into a shocked silence.
Merlin stares at him, one part bewildered, another part concealed amusement. “Did you just-”
“Primal instinct,” Kil claims defensively. “You were saying?”
“Anyway,” Merlin drawls, side eyeing the feline. He tells Kilgharrah about the determined demon dog, starting at the beginning. “The first time was a few weeks ago, when I took the job from my cousin- who actually gave me it, I didn’t take it, just to be clear-”
“I don’t care.”
“I was like half way down Camelot Drive, you know, the ritzy street with the mini mansions and the block parties, and this dog starts trotting down its driveway, looking cute and dog-like-” Kilgharrah stifles another hiss that Merlin pretends not to notice, “I’m squatting down preparing to get my pet on, right, and the next second it’s zooming towards me like someone pressed the fast forward button. And has done so every week since, like clockwork." Merlin’s near shouting by the end, arms thrown in the air like he’s complaining directly to the heavens, who probably aren’t listening anyway.
Kilgharrah appears unconcerned, cocking his head to the side at the human’s display of theatrics. “Well,” he says, “as long as you’re not blowing things out of proportion.”
Merlin drops his arms and glares, making Kilgharrah chuckle. “I’m not exaggerating,” he insists.
“I don’t accuse you of doing such,” Kil assures him. “But I do accuse you of being- how does this century put it? A worry wart.” Merlin squawks in protest, but Kilgharrah raises his cat voice over his. “Although humans have dullened dogs’ senses over the years with their absurd obsession with domesticity, canines still retain part of their kind’s mysticism in their cores,” he explains slowly.
“Dogs are magic, then?” Merlin asks, like he’s wondering why he never reached such a non-ridiculous conclusion himself.
“Originally, yes,” Kil confirms, his creaky, aged voice never failing to feel out of place coming from the tabby’s body. “The creatures you call dogs and their ancient brethren were some of the first sentient beings in the magical kingdom. They could interpret and anticipate others’ feelings by smelling their aura.”
Merlin yawned, his eyes were starting to feel heavy even though it was barely past noon. “That’s a nice story, Kil, but it doesn’t really help me.”
“Not quite so, young warlock,” Kil counters. “Humans may have lost the ability to communicate with dogs through speech, but their powers of sentience are still strong.”
“Meaning what?”
“They’re extremely sensitive to human emotions, just as they were in the old days,” he elaborates. “Dogs will often take on the emotional state of their human companions without even meaning to.”
Merlin stares at the wise cat at the foot of his bed. “So, what? This dog’s owner wants to bark at me and chase me into rose bushes? Is that what you’re getting at?”
Kilgharrah isn’t as amused by Merlin’s wit as Merlin himself is, but there’s still a hint of fondness in the roll of his eyes. “What I’m getting at, young warlock, is that the dog itself is probably not the root of it. There might be someone else influencing it. Your problem might not even be a problem at all.”
“What else would it be?”
The cat grins. “Destiny in disguise.”
Merlin watches him hop off the bed and prowl out of his room, giving the cat an odd look that’s dutifully ignored. He shrugs the weird feeling that’s suddenly settled over his skin off and sinks into his mattress, giving into the sweet call of a much needed afternoon nap.
*
Despite the fact that Kilgharrah is a magic, talking cat, Merlin has always held him in high esteem. In addition to being his mentor in all things magical while he was growing up, he’s also his friend. Hell, he was one of Merlin’s references on his college application.
Which is why he’s decided to put stock in Kilgharrah’s advice and go to the source of his issue.
Which is why he finds himself stealing across backroads and trespassing on private property early the next day, thinking far too hard about putting one foot in front of the other so he doesn’t slip on the dewy grass and muck up his pants before he faces his supposed adversary.
His travels take him right up to the backyard of the offending dog’s house, which is enclosed by a sand colored stone wall that looks like it’s from some Hollywood built medieval castle. He sighs, missing the warm embrace of his bed already, and rubs his hands together before taking a heroic stab at scaling the wall. Of course, he falls flat on his ass. He tries to get back up, but screws up his footing and ends up on his back, grimacing at the feeling of morning dew seeping through his clothes and clings to his exposed arms and neck. He sighs and stands up, successfully this time, and brushes himself off.
Merlin does a 360 to make sure no one is around before placing a hand on the cold stone and muttering a quick spell that makes a section of the wall transparent, it’s physical presence broken down for a moment so Merlin can step through easily, sparing him pain and dignity.
Merlin dusts off his hands as he takes in the house in front of him, which is grand even from the back. It’d be a lot more awe inspiring if he hadn’t grown up with the kids who lived in houses like these. The knowledge that the bigger the house the bigger the inhabitant’s sense of entitlement downplays the beauty of it.
Showcasing a terrible lack of imagination, the spare key is hidden under the welcome mat in front of the patio door. Sighing at the cliche, Merlin unlocks the door and walks in, wondering if it’s still considered breaking and entering if he didn’t actually break anything whilst entering.
He thanks the god of well intentioned crime that there’s no alarm system going off, but remains wary as he steps through the house, keeping his ears open for the sound of claws clicking on the hardwood floors. He’s almost passed the kitchen, which is to his left, when the attack comes from his right.
At first it’s just a shape in his peripherals and he almost passes it off as a very broad coatrack until the thing fucking moves. Startled, Merlin jumps about a foot in the air, leg flailing out in a very poor imitation of a kick. He lands in a shaky fighting stance, fists raised, letting the attacker know he’ll be going down swinging.
It takes Merlin less than a second to recognize his so called attacker, and then takes another second for everything to make sense.
Arthur Pendragon stands not ten feet away from him, clad in only pajama pants with little cartoon lions on them, toilet plunger raised above his shoulder, like he’s lining up to swing. His features are struggling to convey shock, anger, and a little bit of what the fuck all at once.
That’s something Merlin can understand. The last time they saw each other was the night of their high school graduation ceremony. After thirteen years of being teased in ways that sometimes bordered on bullying, Arthur had approached him after commencement, which was surprising enough. What’s more, though, is the hug that Arthur drew him into. It was one of those can’t tell where you end and I begin, face in neck type hugs that warmed Merlin down to his bones and quite honestly took his breath away. He’s not sure what that hug was meant to convey, and he never got to ask the hugger himself because right after they separated Arthur was off weaving through the crowds, graciously accepting every offer of congratulations shot off at him.
Hilariously enough, the first thing Arthur does is nod his chin in Merlin’s direction and tell him “You’ve got grass in your hair.”
Stunned and slightly embarrassed, Merlin grasps at a comeback. “I’m saving it for later.”
Arthur cocks his head curiously, gazing at Merlin with far too much familiarity. “Well, at least now you’re eating your greens.”
Merlin glares at him through narrowed eyes. “Nice pjs,” he quips, mostly sarcastic.
“Nice fighting stance,” Arthur shoots back. “Very intimidating.”
“Yea?” Merlin asks heatedly, still not lowering his fists. “Well- nice. Plunger. Thing. Is that really your weapon of choice or is this more Three Stooges than it is Taken?”
Merlin is graced with a look Arthur trademarked back in highschool, a non verbal inquiry as to why the recipient insists on speaking. “What.”
“Well,” he starts again, “it’s just that- you know in the movies it’s usually a baseball bat.”
Arthur continues to look at him like an idiot. “I don’t play baseball,” he tells him scathingly.
“I was just saying,” Merlin exclaims. “What? Am I supposed to know every detail about your life-”
“You know where I live,” Arthur points out.
Merlin scoffs. “Who says I’m here for you?”
Arthur scoffs back. “Who else would you be here for? My dog?”
“I- hm. Actually-”
“You have got to be kidding me.”
“Listen, Pendragon, I’m not here to nap your dog. I’m here to ask you why you’ve trained your beast to sic me on sight.” Merlin lets down his defensive hands and crosses his arms over his chest, bravely ignoring the gross feeling of his jeans sticking wetly to his legs.
Arthur lowers his stance as well, bringing the plunger down to his side. “I’d ask you what in the blazes you’re going on about but I’m afraid you’d continue to talk,” he says, dropping his guard entirely and moving further into the kitchen.
“Don’t act like you don’t know what I’m talking about,” Merlin fumes, following him to the marble island that’s larger than two of his dining tables put together. He attempts to ignore the way Arthur’s muscles shift under his skin when he reaches to grab a skillet from the rack above the stove. He nearly succeeds.
“The thing is, Merlin, that I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Arthur says slowly, and not without that healthy pinch of condescension.
Asshole tone aside, something tells Merlin it’s not exactly a lie. Not exactly.
“Your dog has been chasing after me for three weeks. Do you know how many rose bushes I’ve dived into?”
Arthur laughs, the sound of it bouncing off the tiled walls and making Merlin’s eye twitch unconsciously. “Honestly, Merlin. He’s a golden retriever, not a bloodhound. Besides, why would I take precious time out of my busy schedule to train him to chase you?”
So maybe hearing it said out loud made Merlin realize the tiny bit of ridiculousness. Still. “I didn’t even know you were back in town.” Arthur adds, sounding a little bitter, which seems to surprise Arthur more than it does Merlin. Arthur clears his throat and turns his back to the other guy, walking towards the fridge as he says, “Not everything is about you, Merlin.”
Merlin chokes on the laugh startled out of him by the irony of the said and the sayer. Arthur glares at him over his shoulder, probably sees right through him, which is probably why he slams the refrigerator door harder than necessary, walking back with a set jaw and a carton of eggs in his hands, not sparing Merlin a glance.
The silence isn’t so much as heavy as it is loaded. Arthur cracks eggs angrily as Merlin stands beside him, hip cocked on the counter with his tongue between his teeth.
“Can I be honest?” Merlin asks suddenly.
“Aren’t you always?” Arthur retorts, Merlin once again baffled by the sheer irony.
“I just. Didn’t think you could cook,” Merlin admits, waiting to gauge Arthur’s reaction.
For his part, Arthur gives a small smile, though he still doesn’t look Merlin’s way. “College,” he explains. “Had to start fending for myself sooner or later.”
Merlin finds himself smiling as well, inching a little closer to Arthur. To better observe his culinary process. Arthur doesn’t seem particularly bothered by their increased closeness, but all the same says, “You’re hovering,” without taking his eyes off the pan.
“I’m observing,” Merlin corrects him. “Making mental notes and such.”
“For what?”
“For my own technique,” Merlin says reflexively, pausing before adding “and also in case your future ghost writer needs heartwarming anecdotes that prove you’re human.”
“Are you always this rude so early in the morning?”
“I skipped breakfast,” Merlin lies, his stomach confirming the fib with a low growl even though Merlin had anxiously eaten his way through three bowls of cereal before he’d set out for Arthur’s house this morning.
Arthur spares him a glare, maintaining that eye contact while he reaches for another egg. Merlin braces himself for the impact that doesn’t come, and he’s never been so relieved to hear the sound of an egg cracking open on something other than his head.
Merlin tries to keep his smile small. “For a minute there I thought you were gonna-”
“There’s still half a carton left,” Arthur interrupts, focusing his attention back on the pan. “Don’t get too comfortable.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Merlin says offhandedly, content to watch Arthur finish cooking in silence, as odd as it seems.
Arthur doesn’t let the peace last too long, ordering Merlin about and having him retrieve plates and silverware, directing him towards the right cabinets with that annoying I expect you to listen because I am me and you are you voice of his.
Regardless of Arthur’s insatiable need to be as pompous as possible, Merlin sets the table and even says thanks when Arthur dishes his share out, albeit with a sarcastic lilt to it.
Arthur ignores his gracious manners and stares at him while he eats. Having over a decade of experience with ignoring Arthur when he gets like this allows Merlin to eat in a semblance of peace, offering a pleased grunt at the taste to keep things interesting. “Very nice,” he tells the man across the table through a mouth half full. “Little generous with the salt, but I’m young and my arteries have yet to turn against me, so I won’t hold it against you.”
“Thank you, Master Chef Merlin,” Arthur says. “Why don’t you critique my presentation next?”
Merlin swallows his food this time before telling Arthur “Because you were always terrible at accepting constructive criticism.”
Arthur stabs his fork in Merlin’s direction, a but of the egg that was speared on the end falling off. “That. Is not true,” he states, eyebrows raised as if to challenge Merlin’s mere existence.
Merlin doesn’t meet his challenge, and instead shovels another forkful of eggs into his mouth and adopts a curious expression.
“What?” Arthur asks dubiously.
“Nothing,” Merlin dismisses. “I’m just wondering if you feed everyone who breaks into your house or if I’m special.” Arthur snorts. “If I didn’t know any better,” Merlin continues, “I’d say you like me.”
The air in the room changes when Arthur’s response isn’t immediate. He doesn’t dismiss Merlin like they both expect him to, doesn’t call him ridiculous and demand that he stop making noises with his mouth and pass it off as intelligent speech. Instead, Arthur twists his mouth and flicks his gaze to the tabletop before staring back up at Merlin, his eyes saying what his mouth isn’t.
“Oh. My. God,” Merlin exhales, bringing an immediate and indignant reaction out of the other man.
“Oh, shut up,” Arthur groans, stabbing at his plate with a newfound ferocity.
“You like me!” Merlin exclaims, actions not conveying his true level of surprise, but all of his glee at Arthur’s accidental admission and relating flusteredness. “Huh.”
“You’re the one who mooned over me in highschool,” Arthur accuses. “Don’t make this into a. A thing.”
“I’m sorry- mooned over you?”
“Yes.”
“I did nothing of the sort!” Merlin objects.
Arthur levels him with a deadpan look before pitching his voice three octaves higher and flopping one hand delicately and pressing the other to his chest. “Oh, Arthur, you’re so good at sports. Arthur, you’ve got dirt on your shoe, let me get that for you. Goodness, Arthur, let me just bat my eyelashes at you all throughout prom season until you ask me to go with you and then reject you and pretend it didn’t happen.”
“....what.”
“Nothing,” Arthur huffs. “Forget it.”
“Not likely, man.”
“Merlin-”
“First of all,” Merlin enunciates, “I do not talk like that. Nobody talks like that. That was terrible. Second of all, I did not moon over you in highschool, I didn’t cater to your whims like you very obviously wished I would. I was your friend, not your servant. Thirdly? Not once did I bat my eyelashes at you and you did not ask me to prom. You came over after winning Prom King, drunk as a fish and insulted me for ten straight minutes before passing out on my couch.”
“Because you rejected me!”
“No, I didn’t!”
Arthur slammed his fork down on the table and breathed heavily through his nose before continuing his accusatory narrative of their shared past, his voice sharp and rushed. “We were lab partners in chem, and I knew you loved all that sciency shit, so month before the dance I switched out a sample for an experiment for a piece of paper that said PROM with a question mark on it. You laughed sarcastically. And then you threw the paper in the trash and scolded me for mucking up the experiment.”
Merlin was silent for a few minutes, looking confused and contemplative with that underlying hint of anger, the tightness of his mouth warning Arthur that he’s about to Get It. “Arthur.”
“Merlin?”
“You asked me exactly a month before?”
“...yea.”
“Arthur.”
“Merlin?”
“What was the date of prom?”
“May Day.” Arthur remembers that part very clearly, not only because of the strong, negative emotions associated with that day, but because he was head of the prom committee and was the one who chose it in the first place.
“Arthur.”
“Yes, Merlin?”
“What date is exactly one month before May Day?”
“What, they didn’t teach you your calendar at college?”
“Arthur.”
Arthur sighs. “April first is a month before May first, Merlin. I asked you to prom on April first, and y- oh.”
“Uh huh.”
“Oh.”
“Yea.”
“Hm.” Arthur runs his tongue over his teeth. “I didn’t even realize-”
“Your mistake? Yea, you have a habit of that,” Merlin informs him, making Arthur huff again.
“Even so,” Arthur starts in again, “you knew I how I felt about you and you still ran away to uni, cutting all your ties and shutting me out for years.”
“I knew how you- what? You never said anything!”
“I hugged you!”
Merlin flat out bangs his head on the table in pure, unfiltered frustration because his stupid boy has grown into a stupid man who still doesn’t know how to express his feelings.
Merlin lifts his head slowly and stares at him, incredulous and annoyed. “So, you just expect people to understand how you’re feeling without you actually ever talking about it?”
“Don’t be such a girl, Merlin,” Arthur moans.
“Don’t be such a sexist, Arthur,” Merlin snipes back.
Arthur starts, half stunned and half indignant. “It doesn’t work when you do it,” he returns weakly.
This time it’s Merlin’s turn to breathe through his nose. “You are the most emotionally stunted person I know.”
“I don’t think that’s really fair,” argues Arthur.
“You’re spoiled.”
“That is fair.”
“You never want to talk about how you feel and then you get upset when somebody doesn’t know about those feelings that you won’t talk about!”
“No need to get hostile.”
“Ask me out.”
Arthur startles, thrown off by the demand. “What?”
“Ask me out,” Merlin repeats. “Again. And this time, do it right.”
The two men stare at each other from opposite ends of the table, both their anger and resentment bleeding out and vaporizing into the oddly calm atmosphere.
“Go out with me,” Arthur says.
“That wasn’t asking.”
“You never accused me of being polite,” Arthur reminds him.
“With good reason.” Without another word, Merlin pushes back his chair and carries his dishes to the sink. “I’ll see you around, Pendragon.”
He turns his back on Arthur and walks out the front door, not even sparing a glance over his shoulder.
Arthur remains stuck in his chair, remainder of his breakfast lying cold and forgotten in front of him. He registers the sound of Dragon’s nails clicking on the hardwood floors, but only when the dog sets his head in Arthur’s lap is he brought out of his emotionally distraught state.
And then suddenly, with his hand scritching behind his puppy’s ear, he knows what to do.
*
Why Merlin didn’t pan the newspaper gig off to some other unlucky bloke after the Incident, he doesn’t know.
Why he woke up the next week and carried on with business as usual, he doesn’t know.
Why he didn’t find an alternative route that wouldn’t bring him past what he now knows to be Arthur’s house, he doesn’t know.
He does know, though, why he comes to a stop at the end of Arthur’s driveway. His fluffy, tail wagging reason pads down the macadam and sits at Merlin’s feet, looking up at him with big brown eyes and a red rose grasped between his teeth.
Merlin rolls his eyes, albeit fondly, and sets his bag on the sidewalk before bending his knees till he’s nose to nose with the pooch and gently grabs the part of the stem that’s sticking out of his mouth. With the other hand, he cautiously goes to scratch behind the dog’s ear, their past relationship keeping him on guard.
His wariness is all for nothing, as the dog, Dragon, his tag reads, does nothing more threatening than lick Merlin’s face, reciprocating the affection.
He doesn’t necessarily hear Arthur approaching, but he senses it. He ignores him for a good while, taking his time with his new friend, only grimacing slightly when Dragon licks his eye.
“This still isn’t asking, you know,” Merlin says as he stands back up, keeping his hand on Dragon’s head.
“I was getting to that,” Arthur placates, before getting down on one knee, on the sidewalk, in broad daylight, sporting cartoon pajamas and a serious case of bed head. “Will you, Merlin, do me the great honor of putting up with me for a few hours so I can attempt to wine and dine you?”
Merlin rolls his eyes again. “Don’t be such a drama queen, prom king.” He lets Arthur pick up his bag off the sidewalk and step closer to hand it to him before he tells him, “The wining and dining sounds nice and all, but how about we start with something less...heady? Like a park date. Icecream and people watching. You can bring Dragon.”
“You’re dating me for my dog, aren’t you?”
“In a word? Yes.”