Archive of Our Own

It’s a bitterly cold day when Arthur’s life irreversibly changes. He doesn’t know that yet, of course, he’s more preoccupied with de-icing the car before his extremities freeze and so remains blissfully oblivious to what – or who – is waiting in the wings to enter stage right and shake up his world as though he was nothing more than one of those cheap snow globes the tourist shops flog on the Royal Mile.

Despite having now endured two Scottish winters, Arthur’s never really liked the cold – he’s far more a French Riviera kind of man – and he spends several minutes regretting every last one of his life decisions that brought him here as he scrapes a thick sheet of ice off his car windscreen.

Fine, maybe he’s being a tad dramatic because despite the fact he’s freezing his nuts off and it’s pretty much still pitch dark Arthur wouldn’t swap his life up here for the emotionally cold one he’d been leading in London. Rich, yes, successful, very. But his father had kept him on a far too tight leash and in the end Arthur had woken up and decided life was too short to be working fourteen hours seven days a week without a word of thanks being said to him.

The memory of dawning shock on his father’s face when he’d pushed across the desk his letter of resignation keeps Arthur warm at night when he’s snuggled up in a goose down duvet and thousand thread Egyptian cotton sheets. Take that, you bigoted old bastard, and shove it up your arse, he’d thought, face carefully schooled into neutrality, even as his heart beat out a rhythm that was pure joy. He’d moved to Edinburgh a month later and never looked back.

The last bit of ice comes free and Arthur’s grateful he at least lives near the office because he’s running quite late now. A good blast of the car heater and he’s easing his beloved e-type jag slowly out of his sloping driveway. A few slightly cautious minutes later and he can see the office through the murk. Once the traffic lights finally change from amber to green he accelerates away.  

And slams on his breaks.

“Watch where you’re going, you fucking twat,” he hears someone yell.

Arthur looks over to where a man about his own age is standing with a look of outrage on his face, or the little of his face he can make out through the yellow woolly scarf he’s wrapped up in. It clashes horribly with an orange and pink hat that unfortunately isn’t quite large enough to cover a pair of ears that could easily double as satellite dishes.

Arthur winds down his window. “You’ve got eyes haven’t you. How about you use them and don’t walk out in front of traffic. And watch your tone.”

The man approaches the car and slaps his hand down on the bonnet while peering in through the window.

“Oh I’m so sorry, my lord and master. Watch where you’re going, you fucking posh English twat.” He looks very pleased with himself.

“I’m going to be even later than I already am if you don’t get out of my way,” Arthur snarls and puts his hand on the horn for good measure in the hope he’ll deafen him. He certainly has the ears for it.

The man gives a one-fingered salute, which Arthur ignores, before loping off around the corner, disappearing like a ghost.

Arthur soon puts the encounter out of his mind. A nice strong coffee later and he’s feeling much more human and is busy looking over a plate of shortbread with interest when Gwen, a human ray of sunshine and the world’s most efficient office manager drops by to see him.

“Good morning Arthur, horrible out there today isn’t it? So, I’ve checked your availability and popped in some time for you to meet the new head of fundraising this afternoon. He started last week but you’ve been so busy I thought it could wait until he was settled in. Here’s his CV. Oh those look delicious, may I?

Arthur reluctantly slides the plate over to her and glances down at the CV.

“What sort of name is Merlin Emrys?”

“The Welsh sort.”

Sipping on his coffee, Arthur can see that Merlin, despite the name, has an impressive track record since leaving Oxford. Another stint in academia after that, followed by three years overseas doing humanitarian work. Arthur’s interest is piqued in spite of himself.

“An Oxford man, I see. So he can’t be entirely stupid.”

Guinevere’s eyes twinkle. “Oh you Oxbridge types. Something tells me I think the two of you are going to get on really well.”

*

Merlin Emrys is staring at Arthur in open horror. “Fuck me.”

Arthur views the man in front of him with distaste. “Sorry to disappoint but you’re really not my type.” Which is a lie, but never mind.

Fathomless blue eyes shine with disbelief. “Christ, You don’t remember, do you. Of course you don’t because you were too busy looking at me like I was a piece of dirt stuck to the bottom of your stupid five hundred pair of shoes.”

And well, that’s unnecessarily rude.

“You do seem vaguely familiar but—"

The man cuts him off. “You nearly killed me last week because you were driving like a - like a lunatic.”

Ah. Come to think of it, the accent and the enormous ears are now ringing a faint bell.

“Then I clearly wasn’t trying hard enough. And it’s hardly my fault I didn’t recognise you dressed like a normal person instead of as a colour-blind toddler.”

“At least I don’t dress like an Eton toff and speak with a plum in my mouth.”

“It’s called having taste, something I assume you don’t possess if that scarf is any indication.”

Emrys’ lips flatten to a thin line and he glares at Arthur. Something warm flares up in Arthur’s belly. A hit, a palpable hit. He starts to enjoy himself, just a tiny bit.

“And what exactly is wrong with my neckerchief. It’s very smart.”

Arthur snorts. “Oh, nothing at all if you were blind or an octogenarian granny.”

Eyebrows lift towards to the ceiling. “At least I’ve not been bankrolled my entire life by my father.”

That hits a little hard. Arthur stares daggers at him. “Would you care to repeat that?”

“Just doing my homework,” Emrys says, gaze settling on Arthur’s face for a long second. “Once an academic, always an academic.”

Arthur can’t believe what he’s hearing. Does Emrys have any idea who Arthur actually is. “How very thorough of you. I wonder if there anything else you’d like to get off your chest sine you seem to be in the mood for oversharing?”

He takes care to make his words drip with sarcasm but Emrys doesn’t respond, instead studiously studying his nails. Arthur can play him at his own game though so he ostentatiously circles certain phrases on Emrys’ CV in red ink. Only when he sees Emrys out of the corner of his eye fidgeting in his seat does he look up.

“No? In that case I suggest we continue with the introductions. Arthur Pendragon. CEO of this organisation and, as you seem to need reminding, your boss. So tell me why I shouldn’t be showing you the door after that deplorable display of insubordination.”

Emrys sinks deeper into his chair, mouth turned downward in a pout. “I misspoke,” he admits grudgingly. “I was out of order, about your father at least. It must have been – erm,” and here he pauses, clearly searching his brain for something Arthur hopes won’t be so offensive as to have him having to call human resources. He really doesn’t want to have Morgana involved, it’s far too early in the day for her form of biting wit. “Er. Hard.”

Arthur fiddles with his ink blotter, wryly thinking how that has to be the understatement of the century. The shouting matches had left Uther hoarse and Arthur under threat of being disinherited; not to mention the almost gleeful and extensive coverage in the finance pages of the broadsheets following his father’s brusque announcement of Arthur’s imminent departure from the family business. Public relations had never been his father’s forte, although on this occasion Arthur suspects Uther of deliberately being less than diplomatic in his communications.

Eventually he sighs because surely Emrys’ terrible efforts to make repairs have to be genuine because surely no one pretending could do make a bad job of it. Finding himself wanting to believe that Emrys is not actually as awful a person as he’s coming across as, Arthur offers up the only piece chocolate chip shortbread on the plate and hopes Emrys sees it for the olive branch it is. Arthur doesn’t willingly share.

“Apology accepted. Care for a biscuit?”

“I’d rather choke,” Emrys says sweetly, but one corner of his mouth turns upwards as he takes it.

Arthur’s amused despite himself. “That could of course be arranged,” he says and comes round to clap Emrys on the back when some crumbs go down the wrong way. And if he’s a little overzealous with his ministrations, he’s only doing his best to save a colleague a visit to the hospital, after all. Morgana would be proud of him.

“I’ll be seeing you again very soon,” he says, making it clear their meeting is over, and it only partly sounds like a threat.

When they run into each other the next morning, Arthur looks Emrys up and down and is relieved to see he seems to foregone the weird scarf thing. He’s actually wearing a navy suit that doesn’t make him look like he lives in a squat. In fact, it fits rather well, showcasing long legs and slim shoulders.

Arthur lets Emrys squirm beneath his appraising look. “Well,” he says once he’s suffered enough. “At least you’re dressed appropriately today, Emrys.”

A set of perfectly straight very white teeth are bared at him, stare flat like a shark’s. “I don’t think I’m caffeinated enough to be able to tolerate a compliment from you. And can you please stop calling me by my surname. We’re not in some posh school where all the pupils have been inbred for generations.”

“Luckily for you that wasn’t a compliment but I can see how you’d be easily confused, but that’s to be expected seeing as how you attended the local comprehensive for seven years,” Arthur says cheerfully. “I’ll see you at the two o’clock meeting. Merlin.”

The look on Merlin’s face reminds Arthur irresistibly of a cat getting caught in the rain and it puts quite the spring in his step when he bids him a good day.

*

Arthur has been stealthily observing Merlin for the last two weeks to see if there isn’t a way to have him fail his probation so he’s not sure whether to be disappointed or not to see that he’s settling in well and seemingly has all the women and some of the men (Gwaine) in the office in his thrall. His team hang on his every word, he’s won Morgana over which is no mean feat, and there have been several calls from existing and prospective clients who’ve fallen for Merlin’s somewhat dubious charms. Which mainly seem to involve singing show tunes off-key, smiling in a way that crinkles the corner of his eyes and form dimples in his cheeks, bonding with Angus the office cat who hates absolutely everyone, and telling ridiculous, self-deprecating stories about his misspent youth.

God, it’s annoying.

“See,” Gwen says one morning from behind his shoulder after catching Arthur watching Merlin make a cup of coffee from behind a strategically placed pot plant, making him jump out of his skin, “I knew you’d love him once you got to know him.”

“Guinevere, love is a strong word. I barely tolerate him, he’s an incompetent fool,” Arthur willingly perjuring his soul once he’s got his heart beat back under control, because really, what a ridiculous thing to say, but all she does in response is pat him on his shoulder in a motherly fashion, and say, “Of course, if you say so,” in a way that clearly indicated she doesn’t believe a word leaving his mouth.

He turns to glare after her departing back because she’s just wrong. Merlin may be good at his job but otherwise, he’s a walking disaster zone who can’t be trusted with so much as looking at a hot beverage. Case in point, only last week Merlin had knocked over a full mug of scalding hot tea all over Arthur’s favourite paperweight in a desperate and ultimately unsuccessful bid to beat Arthur to the last slice of chocolate and hazelnut cream gateau. Arthur had particularly enjoyed savouring every last morsel of the cake, watching Merlin’s face grow redder and redder with every slow lick of the fork. The victory had been delicious in every sense of the word and -

“Why are you hiding?”

Arthur jumps out of his skin and makes a noise he’d deny until his dying day.

“I’m doing no such thing. I am. That is.” He swipes at a leaf that is tickling his cheek.

Merlin smirks. “Well, that was very eloquent. Cambridge must be so proud to have you as an alumnus.”

Arthur glowers at him.

“Anyway, the team are out tonight, we’re celebrating bringing Sir Gerald on board. Fancy joining us?”

Merlin’s mouth turns down when Arthur declines the invitation to join them, lying about having made other plans. “Come on, it wouldn’t kill you to mix with your team would it?”

“I have other plans,” he says, and an expression of what on anyone else’s face might be disappointment flickers across Merlin’s face. “And I’m sure I’d only cramp your style. Or would if you had any.” He very carefully does not look at Merlin’s tie which has tiny purple thistles and stripy bees on it.

Merlin’s eyes have lost a little of their usual sparkle but offers up a cheeky enough mock salute and, with a, “Well, if you change your mind,” lopes off, slopping tea over the newly polished floor as he goes.

“And I expect you in at nine sharp tomorrow, hangover or no hangover.”

He shakes his head when Merlin flips him the bird.

Later on, Arthur waits until he’s sure the team have left for the night out and gives them an extra thirty minutes on top to be on the safe side and then heads over to a nice cosy pub with a real fire a five minute walk away, hidden down a narrow street that the tourists always walk straight past. It’s got lots of snugs that offer up peace and quiet and chooses a vantage point that offers seclusion and a nice view of the bar. He orders a glass of decent red because why not, and opens up his laptop. If he’s feeling really decadent later, he might order a meal as well. They do a rather tasty venison pie.

He’s worked his way through that one glass, and then another, and is feeling loose enough to undo his tie when he hears a by now familiar voice say his name.

“Arthur! Of all the joints, you had to walk into mine.” Merlin is standing right in front of him, hair standing on end as though he’s recently been dragged through a hedge backwards. Arthur is faintly appalled that it’s rather disarming seeing him look warm and flushed like this, and decides then and there that this glass is his last for the evening.

Down Merlin flops with all the grace of a sack of potatoes into the seat opposite him without so much as a by-your-leave.

“What are you doing here, did you get stood up?”

Arthur looks at him, puzzled.

“You said you were meeting someone and that’s why you couldn’t come out with us. I assumed you were, um, you know.” Merlin pulls a series of faces that leave Arthur none the wiser.

“I said no such thing, Merlin.”

“So, not a date then.” There’s that look again, the one Arthur doesn’t quite understand.  

If it was anyone else Arthur would think they were fishing for information but this is Merlin, who he’s heard from Morgana has a nose for gossip the way a hound can smell truffles, no matter how trivial, so it’s probably nothing more than nosiness. He does suspect however that once he has the bit between his teeth, Merlin’s not one to easily let a subject drop and the last thing he needs is him in cahoots with Gwen, Gwaine and Morgana.

“I can’t see that it’s any of your business,” he says, taking a long sip of his drink. Merlin leans in and puts his elbows on the table, which explains the state of some of his shirts. “Your interest in my love life is a bit creepy, Emrys. Not to say wildly inappropriate or are you forgetting who I am?”

Merlin examines his nails. “No chance of that, seeing as how you like to remind me only every five minutes that you’re the boss.”

“Good to know you listen to me occasionally, then.”

Merlin rolls his eyes and then leans in across the now too small table so Arthur can see the freckles dusting his cheeks. “I’m gay.”

Arthur is regretting drinking red wine because his cheeks feel uncomfortably warm. “I see. Thank you for sharing that with me, I think?”

Merlin rolls his eyes. “Well go on, now it’s your turn to share.”

“Fine,” he says, and is a tiny bit amused when Merlin fails to hide his excitement. He pretends to think. “Let’s see. I’m thirty. From Wiltshire originally. Live alone, thanks for asking, unless you count my very spoiled rescue cat called Noodle. Don’t ask. One sister, Morgana, as well you know, older than me but not by much, and the bane of my life. And now if you don’t mind, I do actually need to do some work, so.”

He hardens his heart to the pouting that’s going on opposite him, and opens up his laptop. Finally Merlin slides out of the chair. “Alright, I know when to take a hint,” he says; a statement that Arthur very much doubts. “But if you change your mind, we’re over there having a game or two of pool.”

Arthur makes a shooing motion and watches Merlin leave, and determinedly doesn’t look over again until an hour later when against his better judgement he finds himself casually making his way over to the pool table and five seconds later is looking at the cue that’s handed to him as if it’s about to bite him.

“Okay, so you’ve got to line up your shot,” Merlin says, sloshing his beer everywhere as he demonstrates the angle. A sullen looking younger man, early twenties possibly, grabs hold of Merlin’s wrist and mutters something about Merlin being clumsy and having someone’s eye out if he’s not careful.

Arthur eyes him, disapproving of his tone, because only he owns the rights for mocking Merlin’s ability to trip over his own shadow. Merlin seems less concerned. “Oh, relax Mordred, or else you’ll put Arthur even more on edge.”

Arthur files away the name but then Merlin is turning away to signal to Arthur that he needs to take up his stance. Arthur does so, the pool cue slightly damp with sweat from his palms. Being a perfectionist, he hates making a spectacle of himself and making himself vulnerable.

“Um,” he says, a bit helpless.

“Arthur, is this the first time you’ve ever played pool?” Merlin asks, gleeful.

Before he can answer, Gwaine bears down on the group with a full tray of drinks. “Now come on Merlin, be fair to him. I’m sure he was far too busy on the polo field to get his hands dirty with a cue and balls.” Somehow Gwaine is able to infuse those words with enough innuendo to make Arthur want to curl and die a bit.

Merlin shoots Gwaine a look of annoyance and then to Arthur’s surprise rides in to his defence. “Shut up Gwaine, you’re not helping. Arthur, take a shot and ignore the long-haired twat here and show them how it’s done.” Arthur takes some pleasure in knowing that at least Merlin is an equal opportunity insulter of people and steps up to the table.

Merlin is somewhat overestimating Arthur’s talents pool but he dutifully does as he’s told, only for the balls to ricochet in all directions. One bounces its way at speed in the direction of the toilets, to accompanying whoops and cheers.

Gwaine claps him on his back. “Wow, so your form is piss poor.”

Arthur stands up and rolls his eyes. “Is there anyone in my organisation that can go three words without swearing?”

“Not fucking likely, princess.”

For about the only time in his life, Arthur wishes he had some of his father’s skill for instilling dread into his employees. Or sycophancy. Either would work.

Merlin sets aside his beer. “Alright, watch and learn, Arthur, from a master.”

“I want it on the record and in advance that I am letting you excel at something, for once, so enjoy it while it lasts,” Arthur says to Merlin’s rather nice arse which is clad in very tight denim. He makes a note to talk to Morgana about reviewing the firm’s dress code.

Merlin cleanly pots a ball and turns to Arthur. “And that’s how it’s done. Now it’s your turn.” Conscious that the entire table is now watching him, Arthur laughs too loudly. “You know what,” he said, not panicking at all. “Why don’t you and Mordred here play a game and I’ll buy us all a round.”

Merlin places his beer down and stalks towards him. Arthur has a second, maybe two, to consider fleeing to the toilet, he could say he was going to find the missing ball, but then he’s being pounced on and led to his doom.

“Okay,” Merlin says, and, then in a far lower voice right into Arthur’s ear, “coward,” which does confusing things to Arthur’s breathing, and places a too warm hand on Arthur’s hip that all but brands his skin. “Now bend over.”

“Said the Bishop to the actress.”

Arthur is going to sack Gwaine first thing tomorrow morning.

“A bit lower so it’s level with the table. Good. Notch the cue above your left thumb, line up the shot, take aim and hit it. No, not like that, like – oh, you know what, here, let me.”

And now Merlin is leaning over the table with Arthur, his fingers over Arthur’s and Arthur is convinced that Merlin can hear his heart beat racing. Oh god, and now Merlin’s other hand is sliding up to settle somewhere in the small of his back and he is sure it will burn through to set fire to the skin beneath. His breath is tickling the back of his neck and the sensation is overwhelming. He can barely think as he strikes the ball, not caring where it ends up.

“Well at least this time the ball stayed on the table.”

Another round of catcalls ensue.

“Oh, it’s like that, is it?” Arthur, never able to resist a challenge, unbuttons his shirt sleeves and rolls them up to his elbows. “Care to make it interesting?”

Merlin’s eyes flick down to Arthur’s forearm and back up. Blink, and you’d miss it. Arthur didn’t, though, and there it is again. Hi mouth goes dry.

“What did you have in mind?”

Arthur is trying very hard to ignore the hive of bees that’s taken up residence in his head, and the fact that with every movement, no matter how small, he has to fight down the urge to vomit all over his very lovely danish-designed breakfast table. His condition is not helped by all the images that insist on forcing their way into his mind. Images he does not need to keep seeing, thanks very much.

Pop. Merlin beaming at him after thrashing Arthur at pool three games in a row.

Pop. A rosy-cheeked Merlin after a pint (one pint) of Guinness and a couple of shots slinging his arm around Arthur’s shoulder and breathing beery breath across his cheek and whispering nonsense into his ear.

Pop. Merlin listing against Arthur in a booth, his head resting on Arthur’s shoulder, their thighs pressed close together.

Pop. A smiley, docile Merlin pressing a wet kiss to Arthur’s cheek before allowing Arthur to manhandle him into the back of a taxi and the tiny wave goodbye before the car had turned the corner.

Arthur subconsciously rubs his face, convinced he can still feel the trace of warm lips there. Gah. He should have known from the first day they met that Merlin would spell trouble for him, the sort of trouble of the romantic variety Arthur’s done a splendid job of avoiding for the last year or so, and to have kept his distance. But no, instead he’s gone and fallen in -  

“I’m fucked,” he says conversationally to Noodle, who’s sitting at his feet watching him with unblinking green eyes, before proceeding to have a full mental breakdown over his breakfast. Once he’s sufficiently recovered and is able to move without throwing up, he takes the path of least resistance with his clothes and then tip toes his way to work.

An hour on and he’s just thinking maybe he could manage a small – tiny, in fact, slice of bakewell tart when Merlin barges in to the kitchen at an impressive speed for a man who’d spent the later part of last evening mistaking his audience’s apathy for enthusiasm and belting out horribly out of tune Abba hits. Nobody will be offering Merlin a role on the West End stage any time soon and that’s a fact.

Arthur watches Merlin struggle to remove his sweater over his head. How he forgets he has ears the size of dinner plates is one of life’s mysteries. It goes on for so long Arthur starts to worry Merlin might suffocate but finally it’s free and Merlin’s face emerges, pink with exertion, topped by hair that is wildly curled this way and that. Merlin looks quite exhausted by the effort he’s put in so far and rests his head on the draining board or a moment or two before lifting it again.

“Oh, hello.” Distracting blue eyes fix onto Arthur before they trace a path down to where Arthur’s feeling almost naked, that bare bit of skin above the undone buttons of his shirt.

“You’re not wearing a tie.”

“You’re late,” he says in reply, and then flees as swiftly as his wobbly legs will take him. He needs at least another couple of espressos inside him before he’s ready to face Merlin and his newly emerging feelings.

By mid-morning, with coffee and three slices of an excellent Bakewell tart filling his belly, Arthur’s daring to hope he’s almost back to normal. In this newfound sunny mood, he’s making his way back to his office when he runs into Vivian and his day takes a turn for the worse.

Vivian Forbes-Bassington is the daughter of Uther’s oldest friend and Arthur loathes her with every atom of his being. Unfortunately these feelings are not reciprocated. Not by a long way.

“Oh Arthur, fancy seeing you here,” Vivian trills as a pale hand clings onto his arm the way a limpet grips a rock.

“I work here, Vivian. This is my organisation,” he growls, prising her fingers from his arm. Her simpering smile puts him even more on edge.

“Well I happened to be chatting with Muriel,” she says and Arthur resists the urge to roll his eyes because Muriel makes even less bones than he does about her dislike for this woman. “And she mentioned some time in your diary had freed up today so I thought that we could have lunch.”

“That would be lovely,” Arthur says, meaning quite the opposite, “but something urgent has just come up.”

Inspiration strikes him in the shape of Merlin who appears from around the corner juggling a mug of something hot and a pile of papers for this afternoon’s meeting. He’s not looking where he’s going.

“Ah, Merlin, there you are, you’re late for our noon meeting,” Arthur calls out, hoping Merlin will catch on and play along. “Lord Delaware.”

Instead Merlin is looking at him like he’s sprouted a second head and then his eyes flick from Arthur to where Vivian’s now clutching Arthur’s sleeve, stay there for a moment or two, and back to Arthur’s face. His mouth forms a displeased moue. “Have you finally lost your marbles?” he finally says.

Arthur would grudgingly admit it’s not an unreasonable question seeing as how Lord Delaware is ninety if a day, and possesses but two teeth, and fewer brain cells, but Arthur’s not at his best quite yet and it was the first name that came to mind on the spur of the moment. It’s just annoying that Merlin who is anything but, chooses now of all the times to play dumb.

They have a silent conversation while Vivian taps her feet impatiently. “Are you going to let the intern speak to you that way, Arthur?”

Afterwards Merlin would swear blind it was an accident, swear blind that the corridor was too crowded for him to be able to navigate his way past them without dropping either the papers or the drink and that really it wasn’t hard to choose hours of painstaking work over a dress that owed everything to money and nothing to good taste.

As it is, while Vivian’s screaming blue murder and calling for Merlin’s head, Merlin glares at Arthur out of the corner of his eye and then saunters past them both with his head held high.

*

Merlin’s avoiding him. Freya, Merlin’s highly able deputy in every department other than being able to tell lies with a poker face, tells Arthur Merlin is off sick with a tummy bug. When Arthur silently raises an eyebrow, she corrects herself, saying a relative has been taken ill. He lets her panic for a while and then when he feels she’s suffered enough, dismisses her with a, “Tell him to get his sorry arse back in here tomorrow.”

*

Merlin’s back the next day but Arthur thinks he might actually have preferred it when he was pretending to have the flu because the silent treatment being meted out reminds him too closely of how his father used to freeze him out as the first hint of the most insignificant transgression. Even to this day, Arthur prefers his sister’s fiery outbursts over sulks that can go on weeks. He has a bad feeling Merlin might be someone who can hold a grudge.

It turns out he’s right and Gwen has taken to sighing gently whenever Arthur asks her if she knows what’s wrong with Merlin. “Just talk to him,” she says.

Arthur’s none the wiser. “I do that every day,” he says, baffled.

Gwaine’s not much help either. “The thing is, you’ve both stubborn and have got terrible taste in,” he says, the rest of his words muffled by the enormous portion of lemon cheesecake he’s just fitted in his mouth, when Arthur tentatively asks after Merlin, whose campaign of avoidance shows no immediate signs of letting up.

“Right,” Arthur says, sadly chasing biscuit crumbs around his plate. “In what, exactly?”

“Oh, mate,” Gwaine says. “It’s actually worse than I thought. Dumb and dumber.”

“I should sack you,” Arthur says weakly to Gwaine’s back as he sashays out of the kitchen.

*

He sees Merlin and Mordred leaving the office together one miserable wet evening, dark heads close to each other, a casual arm slung around Merlin’s shoulders. Their eyes meet, his and Merlin’s, for a split second, Merlin’s face inscrutable, and Arthur regresses to being a lovelorn teenager and spends the weekend lying around in his pyjamas listening to jazz and drinking red wine. When he greets his Monday morning with all the enthusiasm of having to attend a funeral, it feels like something crawled into his mouth and died there.  

*

“So, “Arthur ventures when Merlin drops off the new account for Arthur to review, stony-faced. “You and Mordred, that’s, um, new, I suppose,” and immediately wants to kill himself.

Merlin looks at anywhere but Arthur. Eventually he settles on the new succulent on Arthur’s desk that Morgana bought him so there was, as she put it so sweetly, something even more prickly to keep him company. “It’s not against the company rules to date a colleague if you’re not in a direct reporting chain,” he says and prods one of the leaves.

Arthur feels trapped. “I wasn’t implying it was. And don’t touch my cactus.”

“Well, good, glad that’s cleared up,” Merlin says, chin jutting out in determination. “Freya is fully up to speed on the information I’ve given you so if you have any questions she’ll be happy to help.”

He turns to leave and Arthur can’t stand it a moment longer. “You’re behaving like a five year old.”

The look thrown his way is withering. “Takes one to know one. I thought you. We were, that something – but then I saw you, with her and.” Merlin cuts the rest of the sentence short which actually makes little difference for all the sense he was making. “So, yes.”

Really, Merlin is a terrible communicator, it’s a miracle he made it to secondary school, let along Cambridge. He tells Merlin this, and that’s the last Arthur sees of him until the following week. His ears were still ringing an hour later after the door was slammed shut.

Arthur’s so confused and desperate to talk to someone that over the weekend he lowers himself to invite Morgana to lunch at his favourite restaurant where he drinks more than he eats, while she orders one terrifying cocktail after another.

“You’re an idiot,” she opines, which isn’t terribly enlightening. She calls him that ninety percent of the time. “You’ve obviously hurt Merlin and you need to make it right.”

It’s not obvious to him, and he says so. The only thing that springs to mind is that Merlin got the wrong end of the stick with Vivian but that makes no sense because anyone with eyes could see that Vivian is an actual witch. Not to mention the small matter that Arthur is gay, which he’s not exactly hiding.

“Do you think that Merlin—” He reaches for the right way to say the next bit “— was jealous?” It sounds ludicrous when he says it out loud because Merlin absolutely does not like him that way and anyway he has a boyfriend, even if he looks about twelve.

Morgana’s gaze is a bit too knowing but then her attention switches to the platter of fruits de mer brought to the table and by the time she’s sucked down half a dozen oysters, she says she’s bored of men who can’t communicate and proceeds to tell him about Mithian, her latest squeeze, who sounds to Arthur’s mind, to be far too good for his sister, and says so.

“It’ll never last,” he tells her, feeling a smidgeon more cheerful, because they are both fuck ups on the relationship front.

“Talk to him,” is all she says, and then orders two slices of lemon tart and a bottle of dessert wine.

Monday comes and goes and then on Tuesday Arthur finally admits defeat and decides that if Merlin won’t come to him, then he will go to Merlin and at least see with his own eyes if Merlin is happy in his new relationship so he can then wallow in his own misery for the rest of his life.

“So you’re going to stalk him,” Morgana says when she spots him leaving by the back door, cap pulled down over his ears, coat collar turned up, in an attempt to look less conspicuous. “As your head of Human Resources it would be remiss of me to not point out that this is very much not appropriate behaviour in the workplace.” Knowing he’s been caught in the act, Arthur shifts uncomfortably. “I wouldn’t put it quite like that,” he says awkwardly, breath visible in the frigid air.

“how would you put it then?” she asks sweetly to which he has no real answer. She sighs. “Why don’t you just take him out for a coffee to clear the air.”

It sounds so simple when she says it like that but Arthur’s heartbeat accelerates. “As in asking him out on a date. Merlin?”

“Yes, Merlin, you giant moron. It’s what normal people do, although normal is probably stretching it when it comes to you because of that massive stick that lives up your arse.”  

Arthur ignores this sisterly advice although he puts on a show of pretending to give a coffee date serious consideration.

They both know he’s going to continue with his non-stalking plan.

He waits until Morgana has gone slinking off into the biting cold night and then he heads off to The Old Stag, where he nurses the same glass of single malt for a good hour or so.

Watching and waiting.

Because Arthur can also be manipulative when he wants to be, and he’s long learned to know the weak link in any chain. Will is Merlin’s weak link, a man loyal to a fault but without any sort of internal filter between his mouth and his brain so all it had taken earlier today was a ‘may I have a quiet word’ accompanied with a single raised eyebrow for Arthur to learn that Merlin would be here tonight, playing pool, and – quite unsolicited - everything that Will didn’t like about Mordred.

It had been a long list and Arthur had been late to his next meeting.

And then there Merlin is, exactly as Will promised, by the pool table with a group of people including Mordred who seems to fancy himself a gothic anti-hero in the Heathcliff mould, if the sullen expression on his face is any sign.

Eventually Merlin bends down to pick up his bag, saying something to the group. Mordred takes hold of his arm, pulling him back. Merlin looks tired, and maybe even a little bit deflated but he puts on a forced smile and wishes everyone a goodnight.

Arthur bides his time; long enough for Mordred to detach himself from the group and follow Merlin outside. A few seconds after that, the whiskey still burning a path down Arthur’s throat, and he too is on his feet, pausing only to grab his papers to shove them in his briefcase, and his coat and scarf.

In the car park, he sees Mordred come up behind Merlin.

“Don’t run off like this. You want this, Merlin, you know you do. Don’t be an arse and break up with me.”

“Just how many more times do I have to say it’s not working before you accept my decision.”

There’s a faint cry and Arthur sees red. Without another thought he’s sprinting over to where Mordred has shoved Merlin up against the wall.

“Hey, unhand him now.”

Merlin looks pissed off as he looks over to where Arthur’s standing, hands clenched. “Oh, terrific, just what I don’t need.”

And now Arthur’s pissed off as well. “Oh yes, it definitely looks like you’ve got everything under control.” He ignores the huffing noise Merlin makes and turns to Mordred. “He’s not interested so back off before I call the police.”

Merlin says something that sounds very much like drama queen but Arthur’s only interested in Mordred. Arthur stares him down and eventually Mordred shrugs.

“Fine, he’s a total loser anyway so you’re welcome to him.” Mordred melts into the shadows and only then does Arthur take a hit of cold air into his lungs. He approaches Merlin as he would a skittish horse, knowing he needs to tread carefully.

“Are you hurt anywhere; do you need to go to hospital?”

“I’m fine, he barely touched me.” Merlin sounds anything but, his voice wobbling as he checks the back of his head. It comes away clean.

“Let me take a look.”

He’s by Merlin’s side now but not touching.

“Will you listen to me if I say no?” Merlin sounds weary but no longer cross. He’s probably coming down after a bit of an adrenalin rush.

Arthur raises his eyebrows to let him know the answer to that question. Merlin submits to Arthur’s ministrations because Arthur knows about head injuries from his rugby playing days on the Eton playing fields, giving him a faintly amused look as Arthur tilts his head this way and that and asks him how many fingers he’s holding up.

“Three, you prat. And who the fuck says unhand him like they’ve stepped off the pages of a Jane Austen novel?”

“Someone whose vocabulary stretches beyond insults and swearwords?”

“Twat,” Merlin says but he’s smiling properly now.

Arthur’s satisfied Merlin isn’t about to drop dead any time soon. “Come on, I’m only around the corner and some food inside you will make you feel better.”

Merlin looks like he wants to argue before Arthur shushes him. “It’s only a few minutes’ walk, and I promise I won’t poison you.”

Merlin nods slowly, wincing as he does so. “Well in that case, thank you.”

Arthur’s place is nice if he says so himself. Morgana had laughed the first time she’d seen it, saying she never imagined he’d choose a place like this after the penthouse his father had sorted for him overlooking Chelsea harbour. But that had never felt like a home. This does. It’s a four storey townhouse, Georgian, full of original features, with an emphasis on cosy rather than chrome and glass. He’d fallen in love with it at first sight.

“Oh,” Merlin says, blinking as he steps over the threshold. “This is not what I was expecting at all.”

“Do you like it,” Arthur asks, and finds himself holding his breath because the answer actually matters.

“Yeah, I do.” Merlin trails behind Arthur on the way to the kitchen, stopping to admire the art work and knickknacks collected from travels to Europe and beyond. “Oh, and who’s this?”

“Noodle. Long story. And don’t laugh, you’ll hurt his feelings.”

“He’s gorgeous.”

Arthur looks at where Noodle is winding his way between Merlin’s legs.

“He’s a rescue cat so he came with the name and I didn’t have the heart to change it. Alright, make yourself comfortable over there. Do you want a hot drink or I’ve got beer or wine, or…”

“A beer would be good.”

“Pale ale, or lager, or Guinness or – “

Merlin’s laugh is soft and genuine. “Relax, Arthur. I’m easy, I’ll have whatever you’re having.”

Noodle leaps onto Merlin’s lap and makes biscuits against his thigh. Lucky cat.

“He doesn’t usually like strangers.”

Merlin looks delighted. “Then he has excellent taste.”

Arthur pokes around the fridge and fishes out a couple of bottles of beer. “Open these, will you? And what do you fancy to eat. I could knock up an omelette or spag bol, or I think I might have risotto rice somewhere.”

“I’m not that hungry, to be honest.”

Arthur turns from where he’s collecting glasses and a bottle opener. Merlin looks pale and something flutters in Arthur’s chest. “It’s no bother, I assure you.”

Merlin traces a pattern on the table. Arthur doesn’t quite know what to do with a polite, subdued Merlin; it’s disconcerting.

“I’m sorry to put you to this trouble.”

“You’ve nothing to apologise for,” he says seriously. “I wouldn’t have invited you here if I hadn’t wanted to.”

There’s a sigh and Merlin cracks open the beer. For a moment there’s only silence as he tilts the glass to keep the head of the beer to a minimum. “It was never that serious, with Mordred, just a fling really. But well.” There’s a long pause. and then he laughs, an unhappy sound. “There’s someone I’ve got a bit of a crush on but nothing’s ever going to happen there, he’s totally out of my league.” His mouth twists downwards.

Arthur’s stomach twists. “Anyone I know?”

“Yeah, you could say that. He’s straight for starters.”

Arthur hates himself for asking but somehow can’t stop himself. “Oh?”

Merlin gives him an odd look. “And oblivious.”

“Selling yourself a bit short, there, aren’t you. I mean you’re not entirely hideous.”

Merlin shakes his head but the look he sends Arthur is oddly fond for some reason and Arthur feels his face turn warm. Clearly whiskey followed by beer doesn’t agree too well with him.

“I know I probably didn’t seem very grateful for you riding into rescue me like a knight on a white charger back there, but I am, truly.” Merlin lifts his glass and clinks it against Arthur’s. “Cheers. And here’s to not dating any more tossers.”

“I’ll drink to that.”

Merlin eyes him over the brim of his glass. “So now I’ve horribly overshared with the boss, how about you return the favour.”

Arthur shudders at the thought. “Oh no. Not a chance.”

“Come on,” Merlin says in a wheedling tone. “Until you open your mouth you must have the ladies flocking after you, being all posh, blond, rich, country estate, a little place on the Amalfi coast, a pad in New York.”

Arthur’s always been a bit sensitive about his teeth. “It’s only my incisor that’s crooked,” he says defensively. “My father always told me it was good to have at least one imperfection.”

Merlin dimples at him and Arthur wants to cry at little at how much he likes it. “I didn’t mean your teeth, you daft sod. You look. Um. It suits you.” Arthur’s not sure but he thinks Merlin might be blushing. “No, I meant that I saw you with Vivian, the day after the pool game. You looked like you belonged together. You know, the landed gentry, high tea, weekends killing poor innocent pheasants, that sort of thing.”

Arthur wonders if perhaps the blow to his head was more serious than he’d thought. “Are you daft as well as blind? I wouldn’t touch Vivian with a ten foot pole. The woman’s a leech. And could you get down from your classist high horse while we’re at it. It’s getting boring.”

Merlin raises an eyebrow. “The way she was fawning all over you, you could have fooled me.”

“Well that wouldn’t be difficult, would it.”

“You really are—"

“And in any case, they - she’d be wasting their time. My tastes lie in a different direction altogether.” He watches how his words register with Merlin with a grim kind of pleasure. “Close your mouth before you catch flies.”

There’s a silence, a rare phenomenon where Merlin’s concerned. Eventually he attempts to string together a coherent sentence but it’s mainly a lot of spluttering.

Arthur watches him with growing amusement. “Was there a question in all of that?”

Merlin looks indignantly at him. “But you never said anything when I told you I was gay.”

“Were you expecting an all staff memo on the subject, something along the lines of Arthur Pendragon likes to take it up the arse?”

There’s a lot more spluttering. Arthur eyes him with curiosity. “Did you really have no idea?”

“So what was that whole thing going on between you and Vivian?”

Arthur assumes a patronising tone that wins him a glare. “What did you see exactly, Merlin, other than two people talking to each other. I admit I’m curious as to what provoked you into drenching her in second rate coffee from the canteen.”

“She was all over you like a rash.”

“And did you see me reciprocating in any way?”

Merlin’s expression turns sheepish. Arthur presses home his point, a rapier tip to Merlin’s chest. “So you walked around the corner, saw me talking to a woman and immediately assumed – what, that we were fucking? In a serious relationship. Or that I was shallow enough to be taken in by a title and a nice pair of shoes.”

“Fine, you’re a man of hidden depths. ” Merlin takes a long drink of his beer and Arthur drags his eyes away from Merlin’s throat as he swallows but not before Merlin catches him. They stare at each other and there’s a speculative look on Merlin’s face now, as his gaze fixes on Arthur’s face. 

It feels as if all the oxygen in the room has been sucked out of it and there’s that silence again he hates so much. He rushes to fill it with words, and lots of them.

“Well, now that we’ve discussed your relationship disasters, and really what were you thinking, choosing Mordred, and I’ve cleared up for you my sexual preferences, even though a blind man on the moon could have made a sensible guess, do you want to stick with beer or move onto wine and if so red or white? I’m starving even if you aren’t, and pasta is quick and easy and there’s a tomato sauce already made that I can heat up.”

Merlin doesn’t answer for a moment, lost in thought, and then he looks at Arthur again; a long look that has an unsettling effect deep in Arthur’s belly. “Oh no you don’t, I know that look and it never means anything good for me,” he says, holding up his hands to ward Merlin off. “Whatever insane idea has got into your head, get it right back out again.”

“Too late,” Merlin says letting out an uneven breath as if he’s steeling himself, before getting up and moving around to Arthur’s side of the table, a look of determination on his face. Arthur freezes and warily watches his approach, and then he’s being pulled in close and Merlin is very thoroughly kissing him. Arthur can’t help but sink into it, even as a little voice in the back of his mind tells him this is a terrible idea. Not because he doesn’t want it; Christ only knows how much he does, but because Merlin might still be suffering the after-effects of his set-to with Mordred.

Arthur reluctantly pulls away when he runs out of oxygen. He stumbles over his words but manages to get out, “Merlin. God. We need to stop. We shouldn’t be doing this. Not after what’s just happened. I’d hate for you to—"

Merlin takes a stumbling step backwards, a look of something akin to horror flitting across his face, hands fluttering in front of him.  “Shit. Oh shit, I’m such a fucking idiot. Of course you wouldn’t want to…Fuck. I’ve got to go…”

“No, you’ve got the wrong—"

But Merlin’s moving quickly around, movements jerky as he collects his things. When he straightens up and pulls a soft jumper over his head, Arthur can see a hint of flat stomach and has to look away, mouth turning dry.

“I have to go.”

“But?” Arthur feels he’s missing something important. “Look, I was only trying to - at least stay for some food before heading home.”

“You’re right, this was a terrible mistake,” Merlin says, even though that’s not what Arthur had said. “Thanks again for, well,” and then the door is slamming shut behind him. Arthur feels his eyes pricking with frustrated tears that he blinks away. He’d only been trying to say they should slow things down, in case it was adrenalin making Merlin do things he might regret in the morning, because he wouldn’t be able to bear letting Merlin in only for it to turn out to be one-sided.

He sits on the sofa, Noodle curled up in the crook of his arm, to the sound of rain drumming against the window and drinks down his neat scotch in two gulps.

*

Arthur rarely smokes these days but he’s in a foul mood. Gwen had lured him into the kitchen with a degree of low cunning more normally seen in Morgana with the promise of coffee and hazelnut eclairs but it had turned out to be a trap. Instead of choux pastry filled with nutty goodness he received an uncomfortable pep talk about how he should be reaching out to Merlin before Gwaine makes good on his threat to lock them both in the stationery cupboard.

And whose fault is it anyway they they’re not speaking. Not Arthur’s that’s for sure because it wasn’t him who pounced on Merlin and kissed the living daylights out of him before running off into the night, and yet it’s ‘oh poor Merlin, what did you say to him’ this, and ‘do I need to remind you you’re his boss and it’s only right you sort it out’ that.

Quite frankly it’s insulting that everyone automatically assumes it has to be Arthur who’s in the wrong. Well fuck them all, he thinks bitterly, perched on the back wall of the carpark, ignoring the sleet coming down in icy sheets that matches his mood perfectly, and lighting up a cheeky cigarette. He’s just tilting his head back and blowing smoke into the air when the backdoor crashes open, and out hurls someone bundled up to their ears who’s letting off a volley of expletives.

“Woah,” says the angry person and does a cartwheeling motion because the ice hadn’t been cleared today from the ramp. Arthur leaps up in alarm and manages just in time to stop the bundle of wool from falling flat on its face. Or so he thinks until his feet go from under him on the icy pavement and a warm body lands on top of him.

“What the fuck,” Arthur says as eloquently as he can seeing how all the wind has been knocked from his lungs. He blinks up into blue eyes.

Oh well that’s just bloody fantastic and just what he needs. And judging by the look on Merlin’s face, it seems he’s not alone in feeling dismay. There’s another litany of swear words that gust warm across Arthur’s cheeks and then Merlin wails, “Gwen said that you were seriously ill and could I…oh, I’m such a fucking idiot, I can’t believe I fell for it – I should have known she was lying, as if you’d ask for me, ha, but once she looks at you with those big brown eyes of hers – ugh, she is so off my Christmas card list.”

Arthur’s still trying parse the jumble of words when Merlin attempts to lever himself off Arthur but ends up straddling him instead because he can’t gain any traction with his shoes, slipping and sliding in the slush. Arthur lies very, very still.

“I’m going to kill her.” For once Arthur is in complete agreement. He barely dares to breathe.

Merlin glares at him through narrowed eyes and tries to stand again, gets into a weird sort of crouch and then slides helplessly forward until they’re pressed close to each other. Very close. Arthur instinctively wraps his arms tight around him and then a knee catches him right in the balls.

“Fucking Christ,” he yells. “Jesus, Merlin, have some care will you? Just - stop wriggling for a second.”

Merlin peers down. Their faces are so close Arthur, if he was so inclined (he’s not), could count each individual lash brushing Merlin’s cheek.

“Sorry, I slipped. It’s the ice,” Merlin explains as though Arthur is deaf and blind and stupid. “You alright?”

He’s anything but. He can feel every bit of Merlin’s lean body pressing down on him despite the jacket he’s got on, and it’s both welcome and unwelcome, which is very confusing. He settles on a hissed, “I’m fucking freezing, thanks for asking.” That’s at least partially the truth.

Merlin mutters something that sounds very much like ‘pompous prat,’ but does at least manage to somehow make it to his feet without falling over and offers his hand to Arthur.

Arthur hesitates because he wouldn’t put it past Merlin to pretend to help him and then run off laughing and leave him to die alone, like a new born kitten or -  

“Come on before we both die out here.”

“Fine. But do not drop me.”

Merlin’s hands are clad in mittens decorated with yellow ducks of all the things, and feel nice when Arthur takes hold of them. Merlin is surprisingly strong, too strong in fact, and Arthur finds himself upright and having to hold onto him for balance. Merlin’s biceps feel – solid in his grip. They look at each other and Merlin licks his lips, gaze dropping to Arthur’s mouth and staying there a beat too long for it to be fully platonic.

“Merlin,” Arthur says, taking his courage in both hands. “Don’t hit me or anything but it’s my turn to kiss you. Do not run out on me this time.”

“You’re the one who turned me down, Arthur.”

“I did no such thing. I didn’t want you to regret anything the next morning. You were still in shock.”

Merlin’s smiling at him, really smiling in a way he rarely does. Arthur stares at him, at the way his eyes are sparkling, and his heart is racing.

“You,” Merlin says helplessly, and then his mouth is on Arthur’s, Merlin’s lips cold and chapped under his. Merlin kisses him with ferocity, kissing Arthur like he’s never been kissed before. One woolly hand comes up to cradle the back of Arthur’s head, the other goes around his waist. Arthur sucks on Merlin’s lower lip, causing him to let out a startled gasp.

Reluctantly Arthur breaks away but keeps a tight hold on Merlin. “To be clear, I don’t want to stop but I’d rather we didn’t make a public spectacle of ourselves and me losing the respect of my entire organisation.” He points to an upstairs window and Merlin turns in time to see two heads, one curly, one long and shiny-haired, retreat. “Why don’t we take this back to my house. And this time I really will cook.”

Merlin falls into idiocy. “Pheasant or venison? Caviar or foie gras You do know I’m a vegetarian, don’t you?”

Arthur places his hand over Merlin’s mouth and does not shudder when Merlin licks it.

“Merlin?”

“Mm mm?”

“Shut up.”

Not that much later, lying sticky and sated on Arthur’s very expensive sofa, Merlin props himself up on one elbow. “So I’ve had an idea,” he says.

Despite the afterglow following a bout of truly spectacular sex, Arthur is able to summon up sufficient energy to eye him with suspicion.

“Unless it involves your mouth and my cock I’m not interested.”

Merlin grins fondly at him. “Greedy. Sorry to disappoint but it’s actually about the annual fundraiser.”

“Should I be insulted you’re thinking about work after I’ve just fucked your brains out?”

“Multi-tasker, me.” Merlin says, leaning down to kiss Arthur until his toes curl to prove his point.

Arthur emerges, breathless. “So what did you have in mind. Raffling off tickets to the theatre, the festival, that sort of thing?”

“Not exactly.”

“Does any of this involve me wearing a costume.”

“Um. Not really. Although you would have a starring role.”

Arthur pinches one of Merlin’s ears. “Tell me, Merlin.”

“Not if my life depended on it.”

Arthur proceeds to put that to the test by smothering Merlin with a one hundred and fifty pound cushion.

“Help, help, murder.”

Arthur removes the cushion and inspects it for drool.

“No. Whatever evil plan you have for me, the answer is irrefutably no.”

“If you can use words that long, I clearly haven’t shagged your brain out enough.”

Arthur looks at him with what he fears is a soppy look. “Is this what my life is going to be from now on?”

Merlin does a surprisingly agile manoeuvre so he’s somehow sitting astride Arthur’s stomach. He leans down. “Oh, Arthur you have no idea.”