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Merlin’s towelling his hair dry when somebody starts hammering on his door. There’s only one person who has this irritating habit of turning up at his flat unannounced at the most inconvenient times.
“Gwaine, for Christ’s sake, give me just a second, will you.”
And for a blessed second, the knocking does stop. Then it starts up again, only harder and more insistent this time.
“I hate my friends,” he mutters to his reflection in the hallway mirror and flings open the door.
“You’re not Gwaine,” is probably not the smoothest thing that’s ever come out of Merlin’s mouth but at least it’s the truth because lounging against the doorjamb like he owns the place is a ridiculously handsome man Merlin’s never set eyes on before, in a fitted navy suit showcasing impressively muscular legs and lovely broad shoulders.
“Is that a good thing?” The man seems genuinely interested, tilting his head as he fixes his gaze on Merlin.
Who the actual fuck are you is what Merlin’s thinking only by the time he’s formulated a suitably pithy reply which sounded better in his head than when said out loud, the man’s already moved the conversation on in favour of making a cryptic statement that has Merlin staring at him in open-mouthed disbelief.
“You know, I must say you are not what I was expecting at all.”
And what the fuck does that mean is the next question that fails to make it from Merlin’s brain to his mouth because at that very moment, in a stealth movement worthy of a serial killer, one highly polished shoe insinuates its way across the threshold so when Merlin tries to slam the door shut, it falls six inches or so short of its goal.
Merlin stares down at the offending article. He thinks he can see his face reflected in its glossy surface and takes a moment to wonder whether it’s sensible to be engaging in any sort of conversation with someone who is clearly off their rocker before pushing hard against, at a guess, three hundred pounds’ worth of Italian loafer.
“You’re very rude. Now kindly fuck off before I call the police.”
The man pouts and pushes himself away from the door frame. Merlin’s relief is however quickly erased because instead of turning around and doing as Merlin asked, the man takes another step nearer and then poses, hand on waist, one hip jutting forward which results into the fabric straining in a way that leaves very little to the imagination across very thick thighs. It’s as if he’s some sort of catwalk model.
Merlin makes a funny noise in the back of his throat and has to watch a small victorious smirk form on his would-be murderer’s face.
“Language, please.” The man tuts as though he’s starring as the maiden aunt in a 1930s film noir. “And if you would be so kind as to desist from all the pushing and shoving. These shoes were hand-made by none other than Signor Matteo, of La Casa di Corso fame.”
He’s saying a lot of words, all of them in a cod-Italian accent, none of which Merlin understands.
“What the fuck are you wittering on about,” Merlin asks, not unreasonably to his mind.
The man pouts. It’s not the least bit attractive, it really isn’t. “In Milano.” Merlin stares stonily at him. A deep sigh is followed with, “a fact which is clearly wasted on you.”
Merlin can’t resist muttering ‘posh drama queen twat’ under his breath.
The man’s eyes narrow to a frown at the insult but then he does an elegant one-shouldered shrug. “I take it then, that fashion isn’t your thing so perhaps we’ll agree to disagree and move on.”
Move on to where, exactly, Merlin’s not sure but he does think, a little sourly, that if he had to look (for example if being held up at gunpoint) on the bright side, at least he can probably stop worrying he’s about to be mugged or murdered because unless he’s reading this all wrong, your usual sort of serial killer isn’t this nosy and probably tends not to bore on about fashion houses.
(And be generally less good looking and self-satisfied.)
A subtle once over offers further reassurance because thanks to the tight-fitting nature of the suit, Merlin quickly ascertains the man is clearly not wearing a concealed weapon. He’s checking, just to be on the safe side, the trouser pocket situation because you can never be too careful when a dry cough has him lifting his eyes in time to see the tail end of a smirk disappear.
“See anything you like?”
There’s something in the gaze resting steadily on Merlin’s face that sets a flush off across his cheeks.
Merlin yanks open the door wider in order that when he gets to slam it in this terrible man’s face it will be all the more satisfying, but first it’s very important he gets to have the last word.
“Don’t flatter yourself,” he says, pleased at how crisp and firm he sounds. If he’d stopped right there, he might yet have been able to rescue what remained of his evening, but he goes and ruins it, because he cannot resist falling headlong into the trap so neatly laid for him. “And what do you mean, I’m not what you were expecting?”
The look of cool amusement on the man’s face prickles a memory at the back of Merlin’s mind because he’s sure he’s seen that same look on somebody else and recently.
He’s distracted from trying to recall who else he knows whose gaze has the ability to burn through layers of skin when the man’s expression shifts to something far more intent.
Blue eyes slowly and thoroughly map out Merlin’s favourite, if slightly misshapen, sweater before tracking down to where his grey jogging bottoms hang loose around his hips. Where they stay.
Merlin takes a moment to regret having thrown on the first things he’d found lying on his bedroom floor and hoists his sweatpants a bit higher to sit more securely at his waist before standing up straighter, hands strategically placed in front of his groin.
He coughs, and the gaze lifts, finally. Merlin’s heart does an uncomfortable jolt. It seems terribly unfair for anyone to have eyelashes that long and thick.
“My apologies, I had no intention of insulting you,” the man says, not sounding very contrite at all. “It’s only that all the other residents I’ve met so far are a bit out of my age bracket.”
Merlin’s highly developed sense of loyalty kicks in because he loves living here and loves his neighbours, even octogenarian Mrs Fortescue who tut tuts whenever she catches Merlin bringing a man home, giggly and reeking of booze. “Fifty isn’t old,” he says, cross.
“Oh please,” the man says, tone dismissive. “The only way half of them will be leaving here is in a body bag.”
Merlin makes a sort of strangled sound, which is roundly ignored in favour of another raking glance up and down and back up the length of Merlin’s torso before – finally - settling on his face and staying there. “You’re – what, twenty four, twenty five?”
Merlin splutters some more, wondering what planet this idiot lives on.
“Are you blind or stupid or something? I’m thirty one, you tosser.”
A pleased little smile tugs at the corner of the man’s mouth and very much against his will Merlin finds himself thinking for a split second that they’re nice lips, pink and full and not the least bit chapped or bitten, and then he wants to gouge out his eyes with a rusty spoon.
“Good to know.” Pouty Mouth looks up to where a lampshade Merlin’s never got round to straightening after a particularly raucous party involving in no particular order Gwaine and his new beau, tequila body shots and one too many flaming sambucas hangs at a jaunty angle. “I suppose low lighting’s always flattering.”
Merlin isn’t sure if he’s just been insulted again. Probably, he thinks gloomily. The man takes unfair advantage of Merlin’s mind flitting here and there to lean in close. He smells faintly of expensive cologne and —
“But look, here I am chatting away when you’re clearly on your way out for the evening.”
Sarcastic fucker.
“Dressed like this?” Merlin plucks at the hem of his top. “Hardly. It’s just me, a good book and a cold beer for company.”
The man’s gaze turns sharp and distinctly predatory and Merlin’s cheeks heat in the face of such a rapid transition from lazily louche to this sort of overt flirtation that it leaves his head spinning.
Painfully aware he’s given away a bit more than he meant to about his tragic dating history, he shoots the man a forbidding look that just dares him to be judgemental about his life choices. “Which —"
He gestures rather wildly in the direction of the living room and in doing so catches the lampshade, making it swing violently until the man reaches in and up to steady it.
“Woah, steady there,” the man murmurs, breath tickling Merlin’s cheek because somehow their torsos have come together. Merlin’s heartbeat is fast in his throat and he tells himself it’s only because it’s been quite a while since he’s shared personal space with a man with his own teeth and a pulse that his body is reacting in a way that is most inconvenient to his short-term sense of wellbeing.
“Oops,” the man says, not moving away. His eyes are very blue and crinkly at the corners. They drop back down to where their chests are brushing up against the other, and then flick back up. “Sorry, you were saying?”
Feeling wrong footed yet again, Merlin pulls back.
“Which you might wish to know I’m keen to get back to. So is there a particular reason you felt the need to batter my front door into oblivion and then insult me?”
Posh Arrogant Twat lowers his eyes again, this time landing on exposed and still damp collarbone. Even at this angle, there’s an expression in them that makes Merlin’s traitorous belly flip flop. If he didn’t know better, he’d say it was hunger.
In his distress, he lets slip with an, “Oi, pretty boy. My face is up here, in case you’d forgotten.”
There’s no sign of embarrassment as the man looks back up.
“Oh ho, so you think I’m pretty, do you.”
“I’m not blind,” Merlin says, pulling together the tattered remains of his dignity. “And I said – which you’d know if you were paying attention - I assumed you actually had a reason for interrupting my evening, other than just wanting to be weird and a bit slutty.”
The man mouths ‘slutty’ to himself, looking inordinately pleased, eyes dancing with mirth. “Oh, yes, of course, silly me. I need to avail myself of your balcony.”
Merlin’s conscious his mouth is wide open because that was not even in the top one hundred things he was expecting to hear. Also – avail. Avail. Really, who talks like that outside of a Jane Austen novel?
He’s also deeply thrown by the flippancy of the request, hating the deepening suspicion that this is all some sort of joke he’s not in on, because really, that would make more sense than a man whose outfit cost the same as a month’s salary and who looks so golden and fucking to die for would be interested in Merlin, with his too sharp cheekbones and untameable hair.
Steeling himself for the worst, he lifts his chin in a show of defiance. “I’m only going to ask this once, and only because I need to make sure for my own peace of mind but what the actual fuck?”
The man seems puzzled by Merlin’s line of questioning, as if he’s being a bit irrational.
“You know, the thing projecting from your outside wall that’s supported by columns and enclosed with a balustrade.”
Merlin looks at him with a baffled mix of disbelief and indignant fury.
“I know what a balcony is, you complete and utter prat. I read engineering at Oxford. I meant what the hell do you want with my balcony in particular.”
The man laughs, clearly not easily offended. It’s a nice laugh, low and rich, and – ugh, no, stop thinking this man is attractive when clearly he’s a sociopath.
“Forgive me, we’ve really not got off on the right footing, have we? I’ve entirely forgotten my manners. Arthur. Arthur Pendragon. And I should have explained earlier. I moved into Number 5 during the week and there seems to be a problem with my front door key.” A bunch of keys is waved in his face.
Merlin somehow still doesn’t believe a single word that falls from his mouth. He reckons lying comes as easily to him as breathing so he stares at Arthur – if that really is his name - somewhat murderously, and besides anyone can get hold of a set of keys.
More proof is required. “I wasn’t aware that Kitty and Jo had moved out,” he says after a moment or two’s pause, and sits back to watch Arthur fall into his own very carefully laid trap.
Arthur looks highly entertained. “Never heard of them. I bought my flat from Mr Lucas. Bald as a coot, five cats?”
Well, alright, fine, but there’s no way he’s going to give an inch to someone he’s never met before, however bloody gorgeous he might be.
“And why my balcony? I’m two doors down from you.”
“Alright Miss Marple, keep your hair on.” Arthur grins crookedly when Merlin instinctively swipes a hand through damp curls. “Although,” and he audaciously leans in to tuck a loose curl from where it’s falling over one eye behind an ear, “come to think of it, you might want to introduce a brush or a comb to it. See how they get along together.”
Merlin’s face is still tingling from where Arthur’s fingers touched his face. “You really are an arrogant arse,” he mutters.
Arthur blithely ignores the insult. “And you really do say the sweetest things. I tried next door but there’s nobody in. It is eight o’clock on a Saturday night after all, so.” He shrugs.
Merlin’s so busy bridling at the implied slight that he is somehow duller than ditch water that Arthur is able to press home his advantage and smartly step past him into the apartment as if he owns the place.
Oh Christ on a bike.
An awful thought enters his head and once lodged there, refuses to leave - very much like Arthur fucking Pendragon himself. Oh god. Please don’t let him be the property owner for this apartment block, he prays under his breath. He loves it here, it feels like a real home, it’s a cycle ride away from the office and really he doesn’t want to have to sell and move to another town or city or possibly another country.
Unaware of the turmoil brewing inside Merlin’s head, Arthur is busy examining the delicate vintage vase Gwen had given him for Christmas, sitting in pride of place on the hallway table, turning it this way and that before tipping it up to look at the base.
“This is quite a nice piece,” he says. “I dabble in antiques myself, and whoever bought this has quite the eye.”
He dabbles in antiques. Of course he does. He probably eats his dinner off solid silver plates and works for Sotheby’s. Daddy probably owns Sotheby’s.
Still, this fact, annoying though it is, does mean it’s unlikely Merlin is going to be turfed out of his cosy home and onto the wild streets of North London so he can stop mentally packing up the roughly five thousand books cluttering up his living room and instead mentally crack his knuckles because it’s time to show Arthur he can’t just waltz in here and ride roughshod over him.
Time to show him who’s boss.
“And for your information I’m not some sad lonely sap,” he snaps, folding his arms. “In fact, I’ve been out every night this week.” It’s not an actual lie because dashing to the local takeaway to bring food back to your desk absolutely does count.
Lips curling up in a tiny smirk tell him Arthur might be onto him. Merlin ploughs determinedly on.
“And I have lots of friends. Lots.”
Arthur hums and lifts the vase up to the light. “Fascinating,” he murmurs, mouth widening to show off a crooked incisor and Merlin’s not sure to what he’s referring. “Who’s the lucky girl?”
Merlin stares daggers at him. “Will you put that back before you drop it. I’m gay, you arse, not that it’s any of your business. And now if you don’t mind, I’d like to get back to my sofa and ordering a takeaway. Try Number 7, they’re just insane enough to fall for your cock and bull story.”
Merlin’s rudeness runs off Arthur like water off a duck’s back.
“I don’t believe I caught your name.”
“That’s because I didn’t give you it.”
Merlin glares at Arthur. Arthur’s look back at him is all placid I can wait for as long as it takes.
“Fine. Merlin.” And really, it’s embarrassing how quickly he folded.
Is that a flicker of consternation Merlin sees cross Arthur’s face? “Bloody hell. There’s no way. You can’t be…”
Merlin raises a hand to silence him. “Save your breath, I’ve heard every joke going.”
“That wasn’t what I was going to say,” Arthur says. “I think you may know my sister, or rather half-sister. Morgana Le Fay?”
Merlin gapes at him. There is no way on this planet that Morgana and this awful human being could be related. He actually likes her, with her bleak humour and strong sense of right and wrong. And she’s as dark haired as Arthur is fair.
No. There’s no way –
Arthur carries on. “She mentioned something a month or so back about this good looking guy who’d recently joined her team, a mathematical genius or so she claimed, with cheekbones to die for but I didn’t pay that much attention because you know how she likes to go on and on.
Merlin looks at him. Does Arthur actually listen to a word that comes out of his mouth. Does he have even an atom of self-awareness.
“Pot kettle, hello,” Merlin says.
Arthur returns his look, with interest accrued. “Full sentences, Merlin. Anyway, and then when I put an offer in on the apartment, she was highly amused we were going to be neighbours. Said something along the lines of it being fate, as if either of us believe in that sort of mumbo jumbo new age hippie nonsense.”
Unlike Morgana, Merlin is not in the least bit amused. “I should have known something was up by the way she kept harping on at me about her brother every opportunity she had, only she never mentioned you by name.”
“Singing my praises, was she?”
“Hardly. She described you as, and I quote, ‘a self-satisfied stuck-up prick’ who needed taking down a peg or two.”
Arthur executes a languid flap of his hand dismissing the insult as though he was swatting a fly.
“Interesting. She told me I’d more than meet my match in you. Whip smart, she said, and not one to suffer fools gladly. And that you were very much my type.” Another sweeping, warmly appreciative glance. “For once in her life, the evil witch actually wasn’t winding me up, which shows there’s a first time for everything.”
Merlin’s going to be having very strong words with his section head on Monday, although he will give her a couple of bonus points for describing him as good looking to a walking, talking, living adonis.
“So you’re not a criminal mastermind, come to rob me blind?”
Arthur’s mouth curls up at the corners. “Not unless you’re into role play.”
“Fuck off,” Merlin says pleasantly, red washing over his face when Arthur winks at him. “Have you truly moved in next door or is this some sort of elaborate creepy blind date thingy and do I need to report Morgana for work-place harassment?”
Arthur makes a scoffing noise. “You could try.”
Merlin can sort of see his point. Morgana is a fair if tough boss to those she thinks capable; everyone else is legitimately fair game. Plus she oversees the human resources department as well, so.
“Perhaps not.”
Arthur steps close again, watching Merlin closely. “Is Gwaine someone I need to have assassinated?”
“I knew you were a killer the moment I set eyes on you.”
Blue eyes dance with amusement.
“What else did you think I was?”
“Overbearing. Arrogant. A prat. A member of the establishment.”
Another step nearer. “You sweet talker, you. Keep going.”
Arthur really is quite distracting, this close up.
“Passably good looking if you like your men built, blond and blue eyed.”
“Hm mm. Fond of alliteration, are you?”
“Ooh, long words. Trying to impress me now?”
“That’s an Eton and Cambridge education for you, Oxford boy.
Merlin laughs. “I also thought you were a model and my landlord, and possibly an auctioneer.”
“You’re going to be terribly disappointed when you find out what it is I actually do for a living.”
“Let me guess. Chartered accountant?" At Arthur's frown, Merlin laughs even harder. "Actually, don't tell me, I’ll work it out eventually. As for Gwaine, he can be quite annoying I guess. But – uh. If you’re asking in this particular context of, er. Him and me being romantically involved? No, we’re not, so I think he can live.”
Arthur looks at him, his eyes seeming all at once to turn a very dark blue.
“Very magnanimous indeed. And, good to know.”
Arthur’s expression turns heated. Leaning in he runs a finger purposefully along exposed jutting out hip bone, crooked grin full of promise.
“I tell you what, Merlin, now we’ve cleared that up, how about we discuss your – uh – preferences in the bedroom over a nice bottle of merlot and something spicy and I can spill all the dirt on my sister.”
He holds out a shapely hand, short nails perfectly manicured. Merlin takes hold of it. Something warm and fluttery and hopeful takes up residence in his belly.
“Deal.”