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Merlin fic: Shadowplay -- Chapter Five
Title: Shadowplay
Summary: Stood down from duty on convalescent's leave, secret agent Arthur Pendragon wonders if sheer boredom might just do him in. But when his handler saddles him with a caretaker who is by turns completely inept and strangely brilliant, and invites trouble wherever he goes, Arthur has to concede that death by boredom looks less and less likely. Death by goon squad, high-speed car chase, poison, or fiery explosion, however...
Pairing: Merlin/Arthur
Rating: NC-17
Chapter word count: ~5,500
Notes: Thank you to![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
venivincere, my perfect, lovely beta.
Previous chapters: Prologue + One | Two | Three | Four
Arthur wasn't in the habit of meeting anyone's parents; at least, not in the context he and Merlin were trying to build. Come to think of it, he'd hardly ever been in any romantic relationships that had lasted past the morning after, which Arthur thought was just as well, seeing as it would've been tedious to eventually explain why he possessed seven different passports purporting as many nationalities and names, or the fact that he owned what easily could have amounted to the entirety of a small country's munitions arsenal.
It had been encouraged, in fact, if not downright ordered, by the agency that its agents should keep close relationships to the barest minimum; after all, the more ties you had, the more opportunities an enemy had to find and break you.
Not that it had taken the agency to instill this tenet in him; shunted from boarding school to boarding school and country to country throughout his childhood by a father who firmly believed in keeping Arthur in the family business, Arthur had never been able to settle in one place for long enough to make tight friends, let alone find romance. And the one time he had thought he'd found someone he liked enough to break the unspoken rule, she'd only returned the favour by breaking his heart.
All in all, Arthur thought, perhaps it was better this way, especially if it meant not having to come under the kind of motherly scrutiny Hunith was currently subjecting him to, what with all the gentle smiles and encouraging manner and quiet laughter.
It wasn't as torturous as, say, the time he'd been tied to a chair with only a death ray for company -- and pretty unpleasant company, at that, as it had been somewhat fixated on eviscerating him, starting between his legs -- but the uncomfortable leaps in his stomach were familiar enough.
What was new, however, was the inexplicable need to impress her -- or, at the very least, come away from the ordeal with as little embarrassment as possible, as though her opinion even mattered. He was only doing this to save himself and Merlin the unnecessary effort of making up excuses as to why it was imperative that Arthur should stay in this flat, especially when Hunith had already done it for them.
All he had to do was pretend for two days. Pretending was half his job, and he was ace at his job.
"So, Arthur," said Hunith, over her cup of tea. Her eyes were warm, and kind, and Arthur felt his insides seize for a brief moment with the fear of disappointing her, which was also new, as he'd never had anyone but his father to disappoint. "Merlin never tells me anything; where did you two meet?"
He felt Merlin stiffen beside him. Arthur squeezed the hand he'd somehow forgotten to let go of, its presence an anchor to him as much as to Merlin, who seemed to ease some of the tension out of his body at Arthur's firm grip. They were in this together, to fool a woman he was pretty sure Merlin had never lied to, or at least hadn't done with much success.
"Bookshop," he said. "Waterstone's, you know. The one just round the corner here."
"Why doesn't that surprise me?" Hunith said, sparkling at Merlin.
"He was completely engrossed in the new Pratchett," said Arthur, outwardly ignoring the slightest start of surprise at his side, as though Merlin hadn't expected Arthur to have taken stock of his entire reading collection already, along with every single other item that littered his flat, "and ran straight into me on the way to the cashier."
"Well, you can't expect me not to read it the moment I'd got my hands on it," Merlin said, playing right along. "Anyway, long story short, Mum, he was a massive prat about it and made me buy him coffee."
Arthur smiled; trust Merlin to get a jibe in at him even while composing their love story for general audiences. "Think it worked out to both our advantages, though."
"I can see that," Hunith said. "It does my heart good to see you this happy, sweetheart. Both of you."
A trace of guilt flitted briefly over Merlin's face. "Well, enough about us," he said, a little louder than necessary. "How are things at home?"
Arthur let himself relax in the flow of the conversation, as Merlin and Hunith shared gossip about all the goings-on in Ealdor and people Arthur didn't know but felt himself get interested in anyway.
There was something oddly comfortable about this set-up; even in the midst of masquerading as Merlin's better half, Arthur increasingly felt the leisure of simply being able to sit and not be expected to do or be anything, a kind of unspoken permission that, up until now, only Morgana had ever afforded him, his ally in subverting Uther's rules when they'd used to steal away to the unused annex of the house that was perpetually under renovation to share cigarettes and cheap vodka and exchange Christmas presents despite Uther's annual lecture on the holiday and all its trappings being the mark of meaningless frivolity. It was a feeling of belonging, he decided, just before deciding that he was also being completely ridiculous.
The rich sound of Merlin's laughter cut into his musings, and Arthur turned to look at him. With his mind still half somewhere else, it was as though Arthur was seeing Merlin for the very first time, the way his face lit up and seemed to brighten the whole room. Struck into consciousness, Arthur glanced away, awkwardness blooming over him as if he'd inadvertently been made privy to something he ought not to have seen, and he spent a few minutes staring down his lukewarm tea, waiting for the feeling to pass and trying to think of unattractive things.
Spiders. Beetroots. Hairless dogs.
By the time all news on Ealdor's residents was exhausted, spiders were making a second go-round at Arthur's list, and it took him a moment to remember why he'd been envisioning their ugly mugs in the first place. Helpfully, Merlin cast a bright smile at him as they rinsed out their cups.
Locating an extra blanket while no one was looking, Arthur flapped it over the sofa, because no matter what Merlin said, Arthur wasn't going to turn him out of his own bed.
"Arthur, you're not sleeping there," Merlin said, noticing straight away.
"It's fine, really," said Arthur. "Not a problem."
Hunith emerged from the kitchen and gave the scene a curious glance. "I hope you weren't planning on sleeping in separate rooms for my sake, boys."
"Er, well," said Merlin.
"Yes?" said Arthur.
She frowned briefly at them, a gentle admonishment. "Don't be silly. I haven't such delicate sensibilities that I can't handle the thought of my son --"
"Mum," said Merlin, cheeks going pink.
"No," said Arthur. "No, no."
With the fatal combination of sweet insistence and firm motherly tones, however, Arthur suddenly found himself trundled, together with the extra blankets and pillows and Merlin, into Merlin's bedroom, where they both stood blinking at each other as Hunith left them with angels singing them to their rest.
Arthur dumped his impedimenta onto the bed, eyeballing it and supposing, in dire circumstances, that it was large enough for two to sleep in and keep bodily contact to a bare minimum. He glanced at Merlin. "Well."
"Mm," said Merlin, helpful as always.
"Head to foot?"
"Deal."
With no further words of wisdom left to pass to one another and all forms of awkward shuffling depleted, they both climbed into the bed, keeping as far to the outer edges of the mattress as was humanly possible.
Arthur let one arm dangle over the side, fingers idly walking ellipses on the carpet while he mentally flicked through the day's events. It had been unusually taxing. What with the odds stacked against him of nearly getting poisoned, followed by nearly getting blown up, he supposed he ought to be grateful that he was still alive to impose himself on another agent's private life. He sighed. "Merlin?"
A mumble vibrated in the air.
"Thanks," Arthur murmured, and closed his eyes.
*
There were hundreds of ways to die, some more impressive than others; in very recent memory, Arthur had come up against two of the more notable ones -- three if he persisted in lodging his feet in Merlin's face.
Merlin pushed Arthur's foot away, had been pushing Arthur's feet out of the way throughout much of the night, in fact, and in sleep-dazed, less lucid moments, had strongly suspected Arthur of suggesting this arrangement specifically to displace Merlin's left eye with his big toe.
However, even as light a sleeper as Arthur was -- he had to be, otherwise any old lumbering goon could have garrotted him in his sleep by now -- he gave no outward indication, other than a soft snuffle here and there, that he was aware that Merlin was seriously contemplating shoving him off the bed and setting fire to his lower extremities.
Merlin rolled gently over the edge, landing on soft feet in order not to wake Arthur, even as he'd entertained the thought of light amputation at the knees, and scooped up his pillow. It landed next to Arthur's head, and Merlin climbed back in, muttering quietly to himself. He drifted off to sleep with the sort of triumphant high one gets when teetering on the brink between wakefulness and sleep, and every little idea that passes through seems beyond brilliant.
What he'd failed to take into account, however, was that he wasn't brilliant, and when he next woke up, it wasn't a foot that filled his vision, but Arthur's sleeping face, which was so much worse for its utter loveliness, with its soft planes shining under slanting moonlight.
In the silence of the night, Merlin could practically hear his heart exhale a dreamy sigh, and he gave himself a mental slap in the face to stop being so absurd. It was a horrible habit of his, this getting infatuated with people who didn't suit him. There had been so many men in his youth -- Merlin's mouth lifted into a smile at the thought of already considering himself elderly in his late-twenties, though sometimes he did feel it -- upon whom he'd happily, freely bestowed his heart, only to have it tossed back, a little more scuffed each time.
He ought to know better by now; actually, he did know better, but when it came to things like this, his brain seemed to lose all control of his emotions and could only watch with increased dismay as the rest of Merlin decorated the phone message pad with hearts and the initials of his future husband or picked up an aggressive interest in whatever his future husbands prattled on about (the entirety of the 2006-07 Spurs' match results committed to memory; two months of a macrobiotic diet; several more of pretending to enjoy the cacophony produced by Ex-Future Husband Number Seven's Take That tribute band).
The problem, of course, was that he'd fallen in love with all these people either while he'd been young and stupid and therefore prone to rashes of terrible judgment, or had done it under personalities that had been constructed for him from on high, and thus had overcompensated for being a liar by being a clingy liar who poured his energy into being somebody else's type and keeping himself to himself.
That, in spite of his penchant to give his heart away to anybody who seemed to be in the market for one, he'd never divulged to any of them the real details of his life and work suggested that, in the back of his mind, at least, he hadn't trusted anyone nearly enough to bring up the possibility. He'd known exactly how each relationship would end, with each man saying goodbye to whichever identity was wearing his face at the time, and how he'd carry on the same pattern next time.
To his left, Arthur snorted lightly, establishing his derision of Merlin's poor relationship skills even as he slept. Merlin studied his face for a while, the line of his neck.
With Arthur, who already knew what Merlin did for a living, through no -- well, some fault of Merlin's own, things were different. He didn't have to fake who he was anymore, and so much of what Arthur knew about him -- the occasional clumsiness, the knack for invention, the ins and outs of his personality -- were qualities he'd never feigned to begin with.
None of which really mattered, however. It only made a difference in a purely theoretical sense; Arthur barely seemed to like him sometimes, and more importantly, very importantly, Merlin wasn't going to fall in love with him; he simply wasn't. It was only a matter of willpower.
Won't, Merlin mouthed to himself, remembering the sweet thrill that had swelled in his chest when Arthur's fingers had threaded through his own in the kitchen.
He flopped over onto his right side, his back facing Arthur, and tried to will himself back to sleep. They only had to share a bed for two nights, after which Hunith was due to return to Ealdor, and the guest room would be freed up again, and then Merlin wouldn't have to deal with waking up to toes climbing up his nose or blankets inched away or -- or a slack arm draped over his middle and a solid chest at his back and Arthur's quiet breath warming the nape of his neck.
Merlin froze for a second as Arthur settled himself around his body, and then placed his hand over Arthur's, clasping his fingers loosely.
He'd start not falling in love tomorrow. Definitely, tomorrow. Good plan.
*
Although thoughts of eight-legged fiends had been fairly sufficient in distracting him from the sudden realisation that Merlin, in his own odd, bright way, was kind of (or possibly very) attractive, Arthur reckoned that nothing short of Shelobian proportions would likely draw his attention away now. It was difficult, after all, not to contemplate Merlin when Merlin was practically sprawled on top of him, a picture of reckless contentment.
There was no accounting for the expression on Merlin's face that Arthur suddenly suspected was mirrored in his own, however, and he pulled the corners of his mouth into a brief scowl to drive it away.
He had strict rules about this sort of thing, which technically didn't fall under the umbrella of a one-night stand, but had the same kind of feel to it anyway. Of course, he and Merlin hadn't done anything more than occasionally kick each other and then make up for it, unknowingly, by throwing their arms round the other, but in the incoherent limbo between sleep and wakefulness, having Merlin by his side had felt so natural and so right -- like they belonged, that Arthur found himself thoroughly distressed by it when fully conscious.
If there was anything about Arthur that gave itself to panic, this would be just the sort of thing to incite a bout of silent alarm. It wasn't that he hadn't slept with men before, because he had (and besides, he firmly reminded himself, he and Merlin had only slept); just because he had neither the time nor inclination to invest in real relationships didn't mean he couldn't find a willing body every now and then to while a night away, but that was all he'd ever let them remain, keeping all inamorati at arm's length the morning after -- though strictly speaking, Arthur rarely let any trysts progress to the morning after, slipping away before dawn's rays had a chance to highlight the awkwardness of the one-night stand.
Breakfast was, in Arthur's book, verboten, and so was exchanging personal information; beyond the trickiness of keeping his identity under wraps, it was purely a waste of time recording names and numbers of people he had no intention of ever calling or meeting again.
Which would be a problem if he let himself get used to this comfortable whatever with Merlin; so the man smelled kind of nice and had the cheekbones of a sculptural masterpiece, but they were living together indefinitely, and breakfast was a given, and there was just no getting around how utterly unprofessional it would be to start a dalliance up, however meaningless. Not to mention how preposterous it was, verging on complete madness, in fact, that he should be thinking about this in the first place.
Merlin was just a colleague. A mate, if it came to that, but nothing more, and there was no reason why he should be anything more.
He gently moved Merlin's arm away and slid out of bed, feeling the sting of his own gesture ever so slightly. Arthur frowned, looking at Merlin nestling his face into a pillow. It didn't really count as abandonment if he was only going to see Merlin again later that morning.
It was only after leaving the warm confines of the room, however, that Arthur realised it might not have been the best move to make.
"Oh, good morning, Arthur!" said Hunith, cheerily, from the kitchen, a bag of ground coffee in one hand and a large French press in the other.
"Hi," he said, seeing no other option but to come forward and make small talk, the unobtrusive hum of the refrigerator only enhancing the early morning silence.
It wasn't that he didn't like Hunith; she seemed like a perfectly lovely woman and a sterling mother to boot. But without Merlin there as a buffer, what was he supposed to talk to her about? It was true that his job often required making up incredible lies on the spot, but this was... different, somehow. There was an inexplicable weight attached to this particular charade; no lives hung in the balance and no economies would crash if he got this wrong, but for something so small it felt strangely important, and uncomfortably personal.
"Big plans today?" Arthur asked, sliding onto a bar stool in what he hoped was a nonchalant, friendly fashion.
"First day of the conference; always exciting," Hunith said, neatly rearranging the contents of one of the cupboards. "It does last all day, though, so you boys will have to amuse yourselves without me. I'm sure you'll have no trouble." She winked.
"Ah, yes, well," said Arthur. "We'll soldier on."
Still rummaging around the cabinets, Hunith clucked her tongue at a box of something that apparently had outlived its sell-by date by several decades. "I swear, this boy..." she muttered, and tossed the box in the bin. She smiled up at Arthur. "Leave him alone for too long and he'll just end up eating beans straight from the tin all three meals if no one's watching. But I'm sure I can trust you to take care of him?"
"I -- yes." Arthur frowned minutely, not sure what to say to having had Merlin's welfare suddenly become his responsibility.
Hunith's hand rose to her mouth, abashed. "Oh, I don't mean to put you on the spot like that. It's just -- well, maybe I'm making a lot of assumptions, but I think you're something pretty special to Merlin. I can see that he cares a lot about you." She smiled again, like this was supposed to make him feel all warm and gooey inside, but guilt had hogged all the space to itself.
"Well, he's quite, er," said Arthur, clearing his throat, "special as well."
"I do worry about him, you know. Being lonely," she went on. "He's happy enough in his job, of course, but -- well, you know how it is; it's so secretive, and I don't think he's ever felt like he could trust anyone with knowing what he does for a living, until you. He's never even let anyone in his flat besides you."
Arthur considered remarking upon Merlin's messiness and the fact that if he would just clean up his little scrap heap and stop pointing weapons at his own door in the hopeful, mad semblance of home security, he wouldn't have a problem letting anyone in. But Hunith obviously wasn't getting at that, and Arthur knew what she meant besides. There were other agents he knew who'd got married and had children and were content to let their families think they worked at the local box factory rather than go to the trouble of explaining who they truly were.
"It is quite something, all this secret government agency business. Bit difficult for some people to take in, I expect," Arthur said, though he'd never personally come up against this issue, mainly because he'd never let it become an issue. His family -- all two of them -- knew exactly what he did, and, in fact, usually were the ones to order him to do it. Other than that, he had cultivated no close ties with anyone else to even have to consider whether or not to divulge his secret; some days this was more depressing than others.
"But not you," she said with approbation.
"No, I think he's brilliant," Arthur said, and meant it, before even realising that he did.
Hunith beamed proudly, and handed him a cup of coffee. "That makes two of us."
He accepted the coffee gratefully, glad to have something to do with his hands aside from fidget in his lap like at every admissions interview he'd ever done for school. He couldn't recall ever feeling so awkward and out of his depth, and it probably said something about the state of his priorities that outwitting villainy was old hat, but when it came to simple chit-chat with his fake boyfriend's mother he had no clue where he stood. What it said specifically he wasn't sure he wanted to know; perhaps he could just chalk it up to being out of practice. Or, more to the point, never having had the practice.
What did she want from him, exactly? The way she talked about his relationship to Merlin made him feel like he'd been hugged by a lovely, fluffy teddy bear with a webcam hidden behind its eye. The thought processes of megalomaniacs were easy to suss out -- with them it was all trap doors and smug cats and world domination, but doting mothers... completely incomprehensible.
It had been fine the night before, with Merlin there, all bright and chirpy, to steer the conversation to lighthearted topics where nobody could accidentally step on mines that erupted in things like how serious are you about my son or break his heart and I'll break your face, and, yes, to be fair, Hunith had not said any of those things thus far this morning, but even so, couched behind the gentle, approving smiles, Arthur could see the steel of a woman who had singlehandedly raised an only son and would go to the ends of the earth to protect him from getting hurt.
He was in the middle of some kind of parental test, he was sure, and it wasn't entirely his competitive streak that made him want to pass with flying colours. It mattered, somehow, even though it really, really shouldn't. Didn't.
His relationship with Merlin wasn't real by any definition; it was a farce slapped together less than twenty-four hours ago to make things easier for everyone involved, though Arthur was beginning to think they had all momentarily confused the meaning of easy with that of horrendously guilt-inducing and nerve-wracking and oh god what does that gleam in her eye even mean.
With great relief, Arthur turned to the sound of Merlin's bedroom door swinging open. Merlin shuffled to the bathroom, grunting some kind of morning greeting as he passed by, his hair mussed and pyjamas rumpled. Stealthily, an involuntary smile crept up Arthur's face.
"He's a good boy," Hunith murmured, apropos of nothing, but Arthur wasn't sure whether it was his imagination that tacked on an unspoken so you had better treat him right.
Arthur mustered up a confident smile, and wondered what Merlin would tell her when, inevitably, the necessity of pretense dissolved and they broke up. Would they have an amicable split? Would it be a stupid fight that ended it all? Would Arthur be the villain of the piece and run away with the milk man?
He rubbed his face, not liking the feeling, even fictionally, of being the reason why Merlin would have to call his mother with news that his heart was in shards.
Merlin trotted out of the bathroom, a little more awake now, his face freshly scrubbed, unshaven and shining. "Morning, all."
"Morning, sweetheart," said Hunith, filling a small thermos with coffee. "We were just talking about you."
Merlin's head cocked to one side suspiciously. "Have you been doing a mum thing at him?"
"What mum thing?" she laughed, as she looked through another cabinet. "There's a bit more coffee in the press, dear, if you want some. We were just chatting."
Arthur smiled as Merlin mouthed a Sorry at him, and said, "Yep, nice little chat."
Merlin hopped up onto the counter, looking perfectly at home as he sat there sipping his coffee, as well he might. "Mum, stop fussing with my tea things. Every time you come, I can never find anything after," he said, and set off a bout of good-natured squabbling about proper kitchen organisation.
Glad to have Merlin shoulder the conversational duties again, Arthur kept quiet, observing. He couldn't recall a time he'd ever been so familiar with his own father, efficiency being the Pendragon watchword, in work and in life and in conversation, and minimalism a close second, especially in affection.
"Tarragon?" Merlin said incredulously, cutting into Arthur's thoughts. "Tarragon's useless; why would I want to put it near the front?"
"Then you'll remember to use it more often; otherwise it'll just go to waste," Hunith explained.
"Starving children in Africa, Merlin," Arthur interjected.
"Well, then I will ship this bottle to them," he said crisply, and raised an interested eyebrow at Arthur. "It's all very well for you to say; you've never used a spice in your life. And aren't you supposed to be on my side?"
One corner of Arthur's mouth tilted up. "Probably wiser not to, if I want to make a good impression on your mum."
"Clever boy," said Hunith, amused. "I knew I liked you."
"See how well it's working?"
Merlin narrowed his eyes at both of them over the rim of his coffee mug. "I can see this is not going to end well for me. Go to your conference, Mum, before this gets out of hand. I won't have you joining forces against me in my own kitchen."
Hunith laughed, and bussed him on the cheek fondly. "All right, darling, I will go. But only because they always have good pastries and I want to have my pick of them," she said, and squeezed Arthur's arm on her way out.
When the door shut behind her, Merlin pulled a face at Arthur. "Sorry," he said again, audibly this time. "She's -- Well, mothers, you know."
He didn't. "She's nice," Arthur said.
Merlin's gaze landed on the door again. "She likes you more than any of my other boyfriends," he said, a small sadness in his tone that couldn't be drowned out completely by the lightness he tried to pile over it.
Arthur looked at the dregs in his mug. "What are you going to tell her when -- when this is over?"
Merlin shrugged. "The usual, probably," he said, and at Arthur's inquiring look, added, smiling wryly, "It's usually me that's fucked it up."
A little ache settled in Arthur's chest. He tried to look helpful. "You could tell her I've run off with the milk man."
"If we lived in the 1950s I would," Merlin said primly.
"No, listen, Merlin," said Arthur, suddenly filled with an urgent need to make himself clear, even though he didn't really know what he was feeling. He just knew that, even for a fabricated end to a fabricated romance, he didn't want Merlin to have to be the one to take the blame for it. "Just tell her I was a bastard and didn't treat you right, all right? It'll be me. It won't be your fault; it'll be me."
Merlin looked at him curiously. "Okay," he said, not quite understanding.
"Good," said Arthur, eager to get away from the subject now. "Breakfast?"
Jerking the fridge door open, Merlin contemplated its near emptiness, and Arthur spied an ancient wedge of cheese inside this close to making it on PETA's blacklist for encouraging the fur trade. Merlin frowned, and consulted the pantry instead. "I have dry cereal," he concluded. "And beans."
Arthur chuckled softly to himself. "Well, I was given specific instructions not to let you subsist on beans, so maybe we should head out for breakfast. My treat?"
Merlin grinned. "About time."
*
It was over a fry-up, for which his insides would avenge themselves on him later, that Merlin came to the belated conclusion that while it was all very well making plans to not fall in love with someone, the execution of such plans were a very different story.
All things considered, it was probably his own fault, but he'd been raised right, and according to his mother, when one was raised right, one made a point of asking after a conversational partner's well-being, and then extending that concern to that of the conversational partner's nearest and dearest.
And so Merlin had asked, out of politeness and some curiosity of his own, what Arthur's mother was like, only to find out she'd died when he was very small, leaving him in the sole care of his stuffy, tight-lipped father, like some twisted, modern-day version of Little Lord Fauntleroy. And that visual association hadn't helped matters any, because once he started picturing a sad, tiny, motherless Arthur in those twee little suits it was all over. He suspected there was a part of his brain that would never stop cooing girlishly over that image, and that one day this would all make perfect sense as he paid a professional to tell him what was wrong with him.
So he was probably not in the best position to say, but with Uther Pendragon as a father it seemed a wonder that Arthur had turned out remotely normal at all. And not just kind of normal, but charming and noble and all sorts of other adjectives that people hadn't been since the eighteenth century.
"Your father, then, erm," said Merlin hopelessly. He knew Uther was alive, at least. Unless he believed the occasional rumours in the agency that no such person existed since nobody saw him, which Merlin didn't, mostly.
"My father is not as scary as everyone believes," Arthur said, smiling slightly.
"So..." said Merlin, "he hasn't got booby traps lining the walls of his office?"
"I never said that. Though he probably uses them less than most people think." Arthur's eyes twinkled, though Merlin tried to ascribe the leap in his stomach to having eaten a vat's worth of oil used for his full breakfast.
Merlin narrowed his eyes, not sure whether Arthur was taking the piss, until Arthur laughed at his gullibility.
"He's a lot of things," Arthur said, "but he isn't insane. Can you even imagine the architectural nightmare it would be for his office to be everything people think it is? Trap doors, bottomless pits, revolving walls -- Health and Safety would have his head. But I tell you this only in the strictest confidence lest it tarnish his reputation, so keep it to yourself."
"Mm, well, I doubt anyone would believe me anyway. I bet-- I bet in real life, he's all warm and squishy and jolly, isn't he?"
Arthur let out a breathy chuckle, but there was no real laughter behind it. "God, no," he said, and something in his voice told Merlin he shouldn't push the issue. "How about your father, then?"
Merlin shrugged, pushing some leftovers around on his plate, forming the lumps into deliberate groups. "Never met him. He left before I was born. Mum doesn't really like to talk about him; she gets a bit watery, so I just stopped asking." He inched an uneaten sausage towards the rim of his plate, completing the gastronomic portrait of a wobbly smiley face.
"Well," said Arthur, after a pause, "this has been a thoroughly uplifting conversation."
"Indeed," Merlin said solemnly, and turned his plate around so that his leftovers beamed at Arthur.
Arthur snickered. "You've got to be the strangest person I know," he sighed, but if the smile he gave Merlin was any indication, strange wasn't such a bad thing.
In answer, Merlin's mobile tootled something horrible from the Top 40. He glanced at the screen. "It's Morgana."
Continue to Chapter Six
Summary: Stood down from duty on convalescent's leave, secret agent Arthur Pendragon wonders if sheer boredom might just do him in. But when his handler saddles him with a caretaker who is by turns completely inept and strangely brilliant, and invites trouble wherever he goes, Arthur has to concede that death by boredom looks less and less likely. Death by goon squad, high-speed car chase, poison, or fiery explosion, however...
Pairing: Merlin/Arthur
Rating: NC-17
Chapter word count: ~5,500
Notes: Thank you to
venivincere, my perfect, lovely beta.Previous chapters: Prologue + One | Two | Three | Four
Arthur wasn't in the habit of meeting anyone's parents; at least, not in the context he and Merlin were trying to build. Come to think of it, he'd hardly ever been in any romantic relationships that had lasted past the morning after, which Arthur thought was just as well, seeing as it would've been tedious to eventually explain why he possessed seven different passports purporting as many nationalities and names, or the fact that he owned what easily could have amounted to the entirety of a small country's munitions arsenal.
It had been encouraged, in fact, if not downright ordered, by the agency that its agents should keep close relationships to the barest minimum; after all, the more ties you had, the more opportunities an enemy had to find and break you.
Not that it had taken the agency to instill this tenet in him; shunted from boarding school to boarding school and country to country throughout his childhood by a father who firmly believed in keeping Arthur in the family business, Arthur had never been able to settle in one place for long enough to make tight friends, let alone find romance. And the one time he had thought he'd found someone he liked enough to break the unspoken rule, she'd only returned the favour by breaking his heart.
All in all, Arthur thought, perhaps it was better this way, especially if it meant not having to come under the kind of motherly scrutiny Hunith was currently subjecting him to, what with all the gentle smiles and encouraging manner and quiet laughter.
It wasn't as torturous as, say, the time he'd been tied to a chair with only a death ray for company -- and pretty unpleasant company, at that, as it had been somewhat fixated on eviscerating him, starting between his legs -- but the uncomfortable leaps in his stomach were familiar enough.
What was new, however, was the inexplicable need to impress her -- or, at the very least, come away from the ordeal with as little embarrassment as possible, as though her opinion even mattered. He was only doing this to save himself and Merlin the unnecessary effort of making up excuses as to why it was imperative that Arthur should stay in this flat, especially when Hunith had already done it for them.
All he had to do was pretend for two days. Pretending was half his job, and he was ace at his job.
"So, Arthur," said Hunith, over her cup of tea. Her eyes were warm, and kind, and Arthur felt his insides seize for a brief moment with the fear of disappointing her, which was also new, as he'd never had anyone but his father to disappoint. "Merlin never tells me anything; where did you two meet?"
He felt Merlin stiffen beside him. Arthur squeezed the hand he'd somehow forgotten to let go of, its presence an anchor to him as much as to Merlin, who seemed to ease some of the tension out of his body at Arthur's firm grip. They were in this together, to fool a woman he was pretty sure Merlin had never lied to, or at least hadn't done with much success.
"Bookshop," he said. "Waterstone's, you know. The one just round the corner here."
"Why doesn't that surprise me?" Hunith said, sparkling at Merlin.
"He was completely engrossed in the new Pratchett," said Arthur, outwardly ignoring the slightest start of surprise at his side, as though Merlin hadn't expected Arthur to have taken stock of his entire reading collection already, along with every single other item that littered his flat, "and ran straight into me on the way to the cashier."
"Well, you can't expect me not to read it the moment I'd got my hands on it," Merlin said, playing right along. "Anyway, long story short, Mum, he was a massive prat about it and made me buy him coffee."
Arthur smiled; trust Merlin to get a jibe in at him even while composing their love story for general audiences. "Think it worked out to both our advantages, though."
"I can see that," Hunith said. "It does my heart good to see you this happy, sweetheart. Both of you."
A trace of guilt flitted briefly over Merlin's face. "Well, enough about us," he said, a little louder than necessary. "How are things at home?"
Arthur let himself relax in the flow of the conversation, as Merlin and Hunith shared gossip about all the goings-on in Ealdor and people Arthur didn't know but felt himself get interested in anyway.
There was something oddly comfortable about this set-up; even in the midst of masquerading as Merlin's better half, Arthur increasingly felt the leisure of simply being able to sit and not be expected to do or be anything, a kind of unspoken permission that, up until now, only Morgana had ever afforded him, his ally in subverting Uther's rules when they'd used to steal away to the unused annex of the house that was perpetually under renovation to share cigarettes and cheap vodka and exchange Christmas presents despite Uther's annual lecture on the holiday and all its trappings being the mark of meaningless frivolity. It was a feeling of belonging, he decided, just before deciding that he was also being completely ridiculous.
The rich sound of Merlin's laughter cut into his musings, and Arthur turned to look at him. With his mind still half somewhere else, it was as though Arthur was seeing Merlin for the very first time, the way his face lit up and seemed to brighten the whole room. Struck into consciousness, Arthur glanced away, awkwardness blooming over him as if he'd inadvertently been made privy to something he ought not to have seen, and he spent a few minutes staring down his lukewarm tea, waiting for the feeling to pass and trying to think of unattractive things.
Spiders. Beetroots. Hairless dogs.
By the time all news on Ealdor's residents was exhausted, spiders were making a second go-round at Arthur's list, and it took him a moment to remember why he'd been envisioning their ugly mugs in the first place. Helpfully, Merlin cast a bright smile at him as they rinsed out their cups.
Locating an extra blanket while no one was looking, Arthur flapped it over the sofa, because no matter what Merlin said, Arthur wasn't going to turn him out of his own bed.
"Arthur, you're not sleeping there," Merlin said, noticing straight away.
"It's fine, really," said Arthur. "Not a problem."
Hunith emerged from the kitchen and gave the scene a curious glance. "I hope you weren't planning on sleeping in separate rooms for my sake, boys."
"Er, well," said Merlin.
"Yes?" said Arthur.
She frowned briefly at them, a gentle admonishment. "Don't be silly. I haven't such delicate sensibilities that I can't handle the thought of my son --"
"Mum," said Merlin, cheeks going pink.
"No," said Arthur. "No, no."
With the fatal combination of sweet insistence and firm motherly tones, however, Arthur suddenly found himself trundled, together with the extra blankets and pillows and Merlin, into Merlin's bedroom, where they both stood blinking at each other as Hunith left them with angels singing them to their rest.
Arthur dumped his impedimenta onto the bed, eyeballing it and supposing, in dire circumstances, that it was large enough for two to sleep in and keep bodily contact to a bare minimum. He glanced at Merlin. "Well."
"Mm," said Merlin, helpful as always.
"Head to foot?"
"Deal."
With no further words of wisdom left to pass to one another and all forms of awkward shuffling depleted, they both climbed into the bed, keeping as far to the outer edges of the mattress as was humanly possible.
Arthur let one arm dangle over the side, fingers idly walking ellipses on the carpet while he mentally flicked through the day's events. It had been unusually taxing. What with the odds stacked against him of nearly getting poisoned, followed by nearly getting blown up, he supposed he ought to be grateful that he was still alive to impose himself on another agent's private life. He sighed. "Merlin?"
A mumble vibrated in the air.
"Thanks," Arthur murmured, and closed his eyes.
There were hundreds of ways to die, some more impressive than others; in very recent memory, Arthur had come up against two of the more notable ones -- three if he persisted in lodging his feet in Merlin's face.
Merlin pushed Arthur's foot away, had been pushing Arthur's feet out of the way throughout much of the night, in fact, and in sleep-dazed, less lucid moments, had strongly suspected Arthur of suggesting this arrangement specifically to displace Merlin's left eye with his big toe.
However, even as light a sleeper as Arthur was -- he had to be, otherwise any old lumbering goon could have garrotted him in his sleep by now -- he gave no outward indication, other than a soft snuffle here and there, that he was aware that Merlin was seriously contemplating shoving him off the bed and setting fire to his lower extremities.
Merlin rolled gently over the edge, landing on soft feet in order not to wake Arthur, even as he'd entertained the thought of light amputation at the knees, and scooped up his pillow. It landed next to Arthur's head, and Merlin climbed back in, muttering quietly to himself. He drifted off to sleep with the sort of triumphant high one gets when teetering on the brink between wakefulness and sleep, and every little idea that passes through seems beyond brilliant.
What he'd failed to take into account, however, was that he wasn't brilliant, and when he next woke up, it wasn't a foot that filled his vision, but Arthur's sleeping face, which was so much worse for its utter loveliness, with its soft planes shining under slanting moonlight.
In the silence of the night, Merlin could practically hear his heart exhale a dreamy sigh, and he gave himself a mental slap in the face to stop being so absurd. It was a horrible habit of his, this getting infatuated with people who didn't suit him. There had been so many men in his youth -- Merlin's mouth lifted into a smile at the thought of already considering himself elderly in his late-twenties, though sometimes he did feel it -- upon whom he'd happily, freely bestowed his heart, only to have it tossed back, a little more scuffed each time.
He ought to know better by now; actually, he did know better, but when it came to things like this, his brain seemed to lose all control of his emotions and could only watch with increased dismay as the rest of Merlin decorated the phone message pad with hearts and the initials of his future husband or picked up an aggressive interest in whatever his future husbands prattled on about (the entirety of the 2006-07 Spurs' match results committed to memory; two months of a macrobiotic diet; several more of pretending to enjoy the cacophony produced by Ex-Future Husband Number Seven's Take That tribute band).
The problem, of course, was that he'd fallen in love with all these people either while he'd been young and stupid and therefore prone to rashes of terrible judgment, or had done it under personalities that had been constructed for him from on high, and thus had overcompensated for being a liar by being a clingy liar who poured his energy into being somebody else's type and keeping himself to himself.
That, in spite of his penchant to give his heart away to anybody who seemed to be in the market for one, he'd never divulged to any of them the real details of his life and work suggested that, in the back of his mind, at least, he hadn't trusted anyone nearly enough to bring up the possibility. He'd known exactly how each relationship would end, with each man saying goodbye to whichever identity was wearing his face at the time, and how he'd carry on the same pattern next time.
To his left, Arthur snorted lightly, establishing his derision of Merlin's poor relationship skills even as he slept. Merlin studied his face for a while, the line of his neck.
With Arthur, who already knew what Merlin did for a living, through no -- well, some fault of Merlin's own, things were different. He didn't have to fake who he was anymore, and so much of what Arthur knew about him -- the occasional clumsiness, the knack for invention, the ins and outs of his personality -- were qualities he'd never feigned to begin with.
None of which really mattered, however. It only made a difference in a purely theoretical sense; Arthur barely seemed to like him sometimes, and more importantly, very importantly, Merlin wasn't going to fall in love with him; he simply wasn't. It was only a matter of willpower.
Won't, Merlin mouthed to himself, remembering the sweet thrill that had swelled in his chest when Arthur's fingers had threaded through his own in the kitchen.
He flopped over onto his right side, his back facing Arthur, and tried to will himself back to sleep. They only had to share a bed for two nights, after which Hunith was due to return to Ealdor, and the guest room would be freed up again, and then Merlin wouldn't have to deal with waking up to toes climbing up his nose or blankets inched away or -- or a slack arm draped over his middle and a solid chest at his back and Arthur's quiet breath warming the nape of his neck.
Merlin froze for a second as Arthur settled himself around his body, and then placed his hand over Arthur's, clasping his fingers loosely.
He'd start not falling in love tomorrow. Definitely, tomorrow. Good plan.
Although thoughts of eight-legged fiends had been fairly sufficient in distracting him from the sudden realisation that Merlin, in his own odd, bright way, was kind of (or possibly very) attractive, Arthur reckoned that nothing short of Shelobian proportions would likely draw his attention away now. It was difficult, after all, not to contemplate Merlin when Merlin was practically sprawled on top of him, a picture of reckless contentment.
There was no accounting for the expression on Merlin's face that Arthur suddenly suspected was mirrored in his own, however, and he pulled the corners of his mouth into a brief scowl to drive it away.
He had strict rules about this sort of thing, which technically didn't fall under the umbrella of a one-night stand, but had the same kind of feel to it anyway. Of course, he and Merlin hadn't done anything more than occasionally kick each other and then make up for it, unknowingly, by throwing their arms round the other, but in the incoherent limbo between sleep and wakefulness, having Merlin by his side had felt so natural and so right -- like they belonged, that Arthur found himself thoroughly distressed by it when fully conscious.
If there was anything about Arthur that gave itself to panic, this would be just the sort of thing to incite a bout of silent alarm. It wasn't that he hadn't slept with men before, because he had (and besides, he firmly reminded himself, he and Merlin had only slept); just because he had neither the time nor inclination to invest in real relationships didn't mean he couldn't find a willing body every now and then to while a night away, but that was all he'd ever let them remain, keeping all inamorati at arm's length the morning after -- though strictly speaking, Arthur rarely let any trysts progress to the morning after, slipping away before dawn's rays had a chance to highlight the awkwardness of the one-night stand.
Breakfast was, in Arthur's book, verboten, and so was exchanging personal information; beyond the trickiness of keeping his identity under wraps, it was purely a waste of time recording names and numbers of people he had no intention of ever calling or meeting again.
Which would be a problem if he let himself get used to this comfortable whatever with Merlin; so the man smelled kind of nice and had the cheekbones of a sculptural masterpiece, but they were living together indefinitely, and breakfast was a given, and there was just no getting around how utterly unprofessional it would be to start a dalliance up, however meaningless. Not to mention how preposterous it was, verging on complete madness, in fact, that he should be thinking about this in the first place.
Merlin was just a colleague. A mate, if it came to that, but nothing more, and there was no reason why he should be anything more.
He gently moved Merlin's arm away and slid out of bed, feeling the sting of his own gesture ever so slightly. Arthur frowned, looking at Merlin nestling his face into a pillow. It didn't really count as abandonment if he was only going to see Merlin again later that morning.
It was only after leaving the warm confines of the room, however, that Arthur realised it might not have been the best move to make.
"Oh, good morning, Arthur!" said Hunith, cheerily, from the kitchen, a bag of ground coffee in one hand and a large French press in the other.
"Hi," he said, seeing no other option but to come forward and make small talk, the unobtrusive hum of the refrigerator only enhancing the early morning silence.
It wasn't that he didn't like Hunith; she seemed like a perfectly lovely woman and a sterling mother to boot. But without Merlin there as a buffer, what was he supposed to talk to her about? It was true that his job often required making up incredible lies on the spot, but this was... different, somehow. There was an inexplicable weight attached to this particular charade; no lives hung in the balance and no economies would crash if he got this wrong, but for something so small it felt strangely important, and uncomfortably personal.
"Big plans today?" Arthur asked, sliding onto a bar stool in what he hoped was a nonchalant, friendly fashion.
"First day of the conference; always exciting," Hunith said, neatly rearranging the contents of one of the cupboards. "It does last all day, though, so you boys will have to amuse yourselves without me. I'm sure you'll have no trouble." She winked.
"Ah, yes, well," said Arthur. "We'll soldier on."
Still rummaging around the cabinets, Hunith clucked her tongue at a box of something that apparently had outlived its sell-by date by several decades. "I swear, this boy..." she muttered, and tossed the box in the bin. She smiled up at Arthur. "Leave him alone for too long and he'll just end up eating beans straight from the tin all three meals if no one's watching. But I'm sure I can trust you to take care of him?"
"I -- yes." Arthur frowned minutely, not sure what to say to having had Merlin's welfare suddenly become his responsibility.
Hunith's hand rose to her mouth, abashed. "Oh, I don't mean to put you on the spot like that. It's just -- well, maybe I'm making a lot of assumptions, but I think you're something pretty special to Merlin. I can see that he cares a lot about you." She smiled again, like this was supposed to make him feel all warm and gooey inside, but guilt had hogged all the space to itself.
"Well, he's quite, er," said Arthur, clearing his throat, "special as well."
"I do worry about him, you know. Being lonely," she went on. "He's happy enough in his job, of course, but -- well, you know how it is; it's so secretive, and I don't think he's ever felt like he could trust anyone with knowing what he does for a living, until you. He's never even let anyone in his flat besides you."
Arthur considered remarking upon Merlin's messiness and the fact that if he would just clean up his little scrap heap and stop pointing weapons at his own door in the hopeful, mad semblance of home security, he wouldn't have a problem letting anyone in. But Hunith obviously wasn't getting at that, and Arthur knew what she meant besides. There were other agents he knew who'd got married and had children and were content to let their families think they worked at the local box factory rather than go to the trouble of explaining who they truly were.
"It is quite something, all this secret government agency business. Bit difficult for some people to take in, I expect," Arthur said, though he'd never personally come up against this issue, mainly because he'd never let it become an issue. His family -- all two of them -- knew exactly what he did, and, in fact, usually were the ones to order him to do it. Other than that, he had cultivated no close ties with anyone else to even have to consider whether or not to divulge his secret; some days this was more depressing than others.
"But not you," she said with approbation.
"No, I think he's brilliant," Arthur said, and meant it, before even realising that he did.
Hunith beamed proudly, and handed him a cup of coffee. "That makes two of us."
He accepted the coffee gratefully, glad to have something to do with his hands aside from fidget in his lap like at every admissions interview he'd ever done for school. He couldn't recall ever feeling so awkward and out of his depth, and it probably said something about the state of his priorities that outwitting villainy was old hat, but when it came to simple chit-chat with his fake boyfriend's mother he had no clue where he stood. What it said specifically he wasn't sure he wanted to know; perhaps he could just chalk it up to being out of practice. Or, more to the point, never having had the practice.
What did she want from him, exactly? The way she talked about his relationship to Merlin made him feel like he'd been hugged by a lovely, fluffy teddy bear with a webcam hidden behind its eye. The thought processes of megalomaniacs were easy to suss out -- with them it was all trap doors and smug cats and world domination, but doting mothers... completely incomprehensible.
It had been fine the night before, with Merlin there, all bright and chirpy, to steer the conversation to lighthearted topics where nobody could accidentally step on mines that erupted in things like how serious are you about my son or break his heart and I'll break your face, and, yes, to be fair, Hunith had not said any of those things thus far this morning, but even so, couched behind the gentle, approving smiles, Arthur could see the steel of a woman who had singlehandedly raised an only son and would go to the ends of the earth to protect him from getting hurt.
He was in the middle of some kind of parental test, he was sure, and it wasn't entirely his competitive streak that made him want to pass with flying colours. It mattered, somehow, even though it really, really shouldn't. Didn't.
His relationship with Merlin wasn't real by any definition; it was a farce slapped together less than twenty-four hours ago to make things easier for everyone involved, though Arthur was beginning to think they had all momentarily confused the meaning of easy with that of horrendously guilt-inducing and nerve-wracking and oh god what does that gleam in her eye even mean.
With great relief, Arthur turned to the sound of Merlin's bedroom door swinging open. Merlin shuffled to the bathroom, grunting some kind of morning greeting as he passed by, his hair mussed and pyjamas rumpled. Stealthily, an involuntary smile crept up Arthur's face.
"He's a good boy," Hunith murmured, apropos of nothing, but Arthur wasn't sure whether it was his imagination that tacked on an unspoken so you had better treat him right.
Arthur mustered up a confident smile, and wondered what Merlin would tell her when, inevitably, the necessity of pretense dissolved and they broke up. Would they have an amicable split? Would it be a stupid fight that ended it all? Would Arthur be the villain of the piece and run away with the milk man?
He rubbed his face, not liking the feeling, even fictionally, of being the reason why Merlin would have to call his mother with news that his heart was in shards.
Merlin trotted out of the bathroom, a little more awake now, his face freshly scrubbed, unshaven and shining. "Morning, all."
"Morning, sweetheart," said Hunith, filling a small thermos with coffee. "We were just talking about you."
Merlin's head cocked to one side suspiciously. "Have you been doing a mum thing at him?"
"What mum thing?" she laughed, as she looked through another cabinet. "There's a bit more coffee in the press, dear, if you want some. We were just chatting."
Arthur smiled as Merlin mouthed a Sorry at him, and said, "Yep, nice little chat."
Merlin hopped up onto the counter, looking perfectly at home as he sat there sipping his coffee, as well he might. "Mum, stop fussing with my tea things. Every time you come, I can never find anything after," he said, and set off a bout of good-natured squabbling about proper kitchen organisation.
Glad to have Merlin shoulder the conversational duties again, Arthur kept quiet, observing. He couldn't recall a time he'd ever been so familiar with his own father, efficiency being the Pendragon watchword, in work and in life and in conversation, and minimalism a close second, especially in affection.
"Tarragon?" Merlin said incredulously, cutting into Arthur's thoughts. "Tarragon's useless; why would I want to put it near the front?"
"Then you'll remember to use it more often; otherwise it'll just go to waste," Hunith explained.
"Starving children in Africa, Merlin," Arthur interjected.
"Well, then I will ship this bottle to them," he said crisply, and raised an interested eyebrow at Arthur. "It's all very well for you to say; you've never used a spice in your life. And aren't you supposed to be on my side?"
One corner of Arthur's mouth tilted up. "Probably wiser not to, if I want to make a good impression on your mum."
"Clever boy," said Hunith, amused. "I knew I liked you."
"See how well it's working?"
Merlin narrowed his eyes at both of them over the rim of his coffee mug. "I can see this is not going to end well for me. Go to your conference, Mum, before this gets out of hand. I won't have you joining forces against me in my own kitchen."
Hunith laughed, and bussed him on the cheek fondly. "All right, darling, I will go. But only because they always have good pastries and I want to have my pick of them," she said, and squeezed Arthur's arm on her way out.
When the door shut behind her, Merlin pulled a face at Arthur. "Sorry," he said again, audibly this time. "She's -- Well, mothers, you know."
He didn't. "She's nice," Arthur said.
Merlin's gaze landed on the door again. "She likes you more than any of my other boyfriends," he said, a small sadness in his tone that couldn't be drowned out completely by the lightness he tried to pile over it.
Arthur looked at the dregs in his mug. "What are you going to tell her when -- when this is over?"
Merlin shrugged. "The usual, probably," he said, and at Arthur's inquiring look, added, smiling wryly, "It's usually me that's fucked it up."
A little ache settled in Arthur's chest. He tried to look helpful. "You could tell her I've run off with the milk man."
"If we lived in the 1950s I would," Merlin said primly.
"No, listen, Merlin," said Arthur, suddenly filled with an urgent need to make himself clear, even though he didn't really know what he was feeling. He just knew that, even for a fabricated end to a fabricated romance, he didn't want Merlin to have to be the one to take the blame for it. "Just tell her I was a bastard and didn't treat you right, all right? It'll be me. It won't be your fault; it'll be me."
Merlin looked at him curiously. "Okay," he said, not quite understanding.
"Good," said Arthur, eager to get away from the subject now. "Breakfast?"
Jerking the fridge door open, Merlin contemplated its near emptiness, and Arthur spied an ancient wedge of cheese inside this close to making it on PETA's blacklist for encouraging the fur trade. Merlin frowned, and consulted the pantry instead. "I have dry cereal," he concluded. "And beans."
Arthur chuckled softly to himself. "Well, I was given specific instructions not to let you subsist on beans, so maybe we should head out for breakfast. My treat?"
Merlin grinned. "About time."
It was over a fry-up, for which his insides would avenge themselves on him later, that Merlin came to the belated conclusion that while it was all very well making plans to not fall in love with someone, the execution of such plans were a very different story.
All things considered, it was probably his own fault, but he'd been raised right, and according to his mother, when one was raised right, one made a point of asking after a conversational partner's well-being, and then extending that concern to that of the conversational partner's nearest and dearest.
And so Merlin had asked, out of politeness and some curiosity of his own, what Arthur's mother was like, only to find out she'd died when he was very small, leaving him in the sole care of his stuffy, tight-lipped father, like some twisted, modern-day version of Little Lord Fauntleroy. And that visual association hadn't helped matters any, because once he started picturing a sad, tiny, motherless Arthur in those twee little suits it was all over. He suspected there was a part of his brain that would never stop cooing girlishly over that image, and that one day this would all make perfect sense as he paid a professional to tell him what was wrong with him.
So he was probably not in the best position to say, but with Uther Pendragon as a father it seemed a wonder that Arthur had turned out remotely normal at all. And not just kind of normal, but charming and noble and all sorts of other adjectives that people hadn't been since the eighteenth century.
"Your father, then, erm," said Merlin hopelessly. He knew Uther was alive, at least. Unless he believed the occasional rumours in the agency that no such person existed since nobody saw him, which Merlin didn't, mostly.
"My father is not as scary as everyone believes," Arthur said, smiling slightly.
"So..." said Merlin, "he hasn't got booby traps lining the walls of his office?"
"I never said that. Though he probably uses them less than most people think." Arthur's eyes twinkled, though Merlin tried to ascribe the leap in his stomach to having eaten a vat's worth of oil used for his full breakfast.
Merlin narrowed his eyes, not sure whether Arthur was taking the piss, until Arthur laughed at his gullibility.
"He's a lot of things," Arthur said, "but he isn't insane. Can you even imagine the architectural nightmare it would be for his office to be everything people think it is? Trap doors, bottomless pits, revolving walls -- Health and Safety would have his head. But I tell you this only in the strictest confidence lest it tarnish his reputation, so keep it to yourself."
"Mm, well, I doubt anyone would believe me anyway. I bet-- I bet in real life, he's all warm and squishy and jolly, isn't he?"
Arthur let out a breathy chuckle, but there was no real laughter behind it. "God, no," he said, and something in his voice told Merlin he shouldn't push the issue. "How about your father, then?"
Merlin shrugged, pushing some leftovers around on his plate, forming the lumps into deliberate groups. "Never met him. He left before I was born. Mum doesn't really like to talk about him; she gets a bit watery, so I just stopped asking." He inched an uneaten sausage towards the rim of his plate, completing the gastronomic portrait of a wobbly smiley face.
"Well," said Arthur, after a pause, "this has been a thoroughly uplifting conversation."
"Indeed," Merlin said solemnly, and turned his plate around so that his leftovers beamed at Arthur.
Arthur snickered. "You've got to be the strangest person I know," he sighed, but if the smile he gave Merlin was any indication, strange wasn't such a bad thing.
In answer, Merlin's mobile tootled something horrible from the Top 40. He glanced at the screen. "It's Morgana."
Continue to Chapter Six