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Merlin fic: Shadowplay -- Chapter Seven
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: ~7,400
Notes: Heaping piles of gratitude to![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
venivincere for her beta work, and to accordingtomel for checking to make sure the porny bits were suitably porny.
Previous chapters: Prologue + One | Two | Three | Four | Five | Six
"I don't like the looks of this," Arthur said, grim as he stared down the streaming surveillance videos that lined one wall. Huddled inside their unmarked van parked in an undisclosed location, Arthur and Merlin followed the funereal proceedings from several angles on as many screens, and on them now were shots of Arthur's wake, in and around the funeral home supposedly containing Arthur's body. Inside, rows of empty folding chairs faced the closed casket, save for the handful occupied by Uther, Morgana and Morgana's personal assistant.
Merlin leaned over to see what he was looking at. "What is it now?" he asked, with what Arthur considered unwarranted exasperation.
Just because Arthur had remarked that the wreaths were ugly and the photo display on top of the casket -- a magnified version of his staff ID badge from years ago when he had still been new and trying out an ill-advised hairstyle -- was a far cry from what he'd have chosen, didn't mean Merlin had the right to sound so long-suffering.
"Are the minister's robes too white?" Merlin asked flatly. "Is the stained glass window not up to your standards?"
"No, shut up, Merlin; have some respect for the dead." Before Merlin could bleat at him about only being fake dead, Arthur added, rather sulkily, even though he had no real reason to expect otherwise, "Only three people have turned up for my funeral."
"Arthur, you were just complaining that you didn't want your father here."
"That's different," he clipped. "He's the head of the best intelligence agency in the world; do you know how many people want him dead? It isn't for larks that he practically lives in his office, you know. And here he is, gadding about in broad daylight."
"Well, without him there'd be only two, and that would just be sad," Merlin said. Deflecting Arthur's glare, he handed Arthur a headset, along with an encouraging look. "You know, I heard from Morgana that your father being here was his idea."
Arthur only blinked at him, uncomprehending.
"Well, you just said yourself that he's putting himself at risk for you just by showing his face in public. But what father wouldn't attend his own son's funeral?" Merlin explained, patient now, and if he was trying to be patronising it wasn't coming off. "It may only be for show, all this, but the fact that he's here probably means he cares about you. A lot."
"It's only to try to move the case along," Arthur said, as his father's presence here did make it a little more believable that he'd been offed, should anyone be watching, though he still wasn't at all convinced that any of this was a good idea.
"Well, that, too, but they're not mutually exclusive, you know," Merlin pointed out, and put his own headset on, fiddling with the sound controls. He flicked a small smile at Arthur. "And if this were your real funeral, I'd have come, if that helps."
It probably shouldn't have, but it did. His job came first, always, and Arthur never made a habit of lamenting his lack of friends; it was a necessary sacrifice to do his work well, and he was proud of his achievements, was fulfilled by the good he was doing for the country's safety, but once every blue moon, something would make him stop and think: for all the difference he was making in the world, who would really, truly miss him if he was gone?
But it was a useless question. Agents weren't conditioned to be social; they could fake it, absolutely, could charm their way into any number of hearts, pants, or parties, as circumstances required -- but they were never out to make friends. Even among peers, they were taught and expected to slot people into scaled categories, by usefulness or reliability or trustworthiness. A minute shift in any direction elicited immediate reassessment as to whether the person in front of them could be relegated to background noise or needed a bullet in the head; with the practice drilled deep enough it became a default setting, and it was no surprise if it leached into an agent's personal life as well, what little existed.
For Arthur, who, by necessity and added expectations, embodied all the values of what it meant to be a good agent, applying the mechanics of the agency's rulebook to everyday interactions wasn't just a matter of best practice but a way of life. He'd made sure that he'd risen to the top on his own merits, but so long as his father controlled the agency, he would always have that something extra to prove.
As such, he could not afford to waste time mourning the state of his own existence. He knew how it was all supposed to work, and he was happy to be a part of it, one of a special breed. Agents like him always worked alone; even if partners or teams were required for particularly big jobs, the handlers never kept them intact after cases closed. Other than the confounded few whose hearts tricked them into taking a trip down the altar, agents always lived alone. And in the best interests of keeping inquiries to a minimum, agents always tried to die alone.
Maybe he should count himself lucky to have as many as three people at his funeral. Four, if he included Merlin, which he was inclined not to, because just the thought of it made him question all the rules and standards he was meant to uphold, and made everything he'd just told himself about what a good agent was supposed to be seem like a silly lie. Maybe the truth was that as much as the rules were there to guide him, what he used them for were more like places to hide.
Arthur shook the thoughts off and drew his attention away from the monitors for a moment to rest on Merlin, who was checking in with the other surveillance teams on his headset, alternately relaying to them the visuals they couldn't get from their stake-out spots and taking in reciprocal information. Arthur adjusted his own earpiece to listen in more closely. Onscreen, the paltry crowd of funeral attendees was moving outside, while hired hands moved the casket.
"...getting loaded onto the hearse now," narrated an agent from one of the other teams. "Route to crematorium is cle-- No, no, shit; something's scrambled my signal. Shadow Two to all units; I've lost eyes on sector four."
Merlin swore. "I'm on it," he said, his fingers a furious blur over his keyboard.
Arthur looked at the screens, trying to locate Morgana. "Morgana, are you getting this?"
Her head tilted just slightly, speaking into the tiny microphone at her lapel, as she and the others walked round to the carpark. "Yes. I'm not seeing anything out of the ordinary here, though," she said, getting into her car to wait for the hearse to come around and head the procession. "Proceed as planned."
Merlin looked up, his fingers stilling. "Revenant to Shadow Two; how's the picture?"
"It's good; it's back," came the agent's voice in their earpieces. "The hearse driver is-- that isn't our driver. Fuck, is that--? I think-- I think it's Agent Alvarr."
*
Merlin's head snapped towards the screen, a tight fist of alarm clenching in his chest. Like Arthur, he'd had his doubts about this whole plan drawing anyone out at all, much less a turncoat agent who'd last tried to blow up the Pendragon heir, and by all outward accounts, had succeeded. That Alvarr was showing his face now -- out of desperation or insanity, it didn't really matter -- could only spell no end of trouble, and the running commentary from Shadow Two affirmed the complications coming their way as Alvarr commandeered the hearse.
With a swift glance to his left, Merlin shot an arm out, an unyielding bollard to Arthur's attempts to get out of his seat and run off in hot pursuit.
"Sit down," Merlin ordered, his free hand on the gun at his hip, "and stay in the van; you'll throw this whole thing if anyone sees you."
Arthur pushed hard at his arm, glaring at the insubordination, but said, "Go."
Merlin nodded curtly and slipped out of the van, the gun free of its holster now and gripped snugly in his hands. On swift, silent feet, Merlin ran from cover to cover; the area was thick with flora, and as much as it provided him relative obscurity as he sprinted towards the funeral home, it was a visual hindrance as well, affording him only occasional glimpses of the carpark.
A violent scream of distraught tyres tore into the air, and giving up stealth now, Merlin raced forwards, hurdling a brambly hedge. He landed on the solid tarmac down the street from the carpark, loose pebbles biting at his fingers as he braced himself from tipping over, catching from afar the sight of the funeral party nearly at Morgana's car, and the tight expression on Morgana's face and the pistol in her hand.
She motioned for Uther and her assistant to go back inside, but before they could do so, the black hearse whipped around the back of the building and came barrelling towards them.
With a cry that Merlin couldn't quite hear, Morgana pulled the others with her behind the car, its long chassis the only protection out in the open lot.
Exhaust roaring like a beast, the hearse's tyres threw up sprays of gravel as it screeched to a halt, and a dark sub-machine gun extended from the driver's window.
"Get down!" Merlin shouted, too far away to do anything else, but his voice barely registered in his own ears over the deafening rattle of battered metal as the machine gun spat its rounds into the side of Morgana's car.
Sprinting on, closing in over the thirty yards that stood between him and Alvarr's one-man firing squad, Merlin saw Morgana flatten herself against the ground, just hidden in the shadow of the underside of her car; barely flinching at the machine gun's indiscriminate discharge, she blasted the hearse's tyres, puncturing, at the very least, Alvarr's hopes at a clean getaway.
Simultaneously, Merlin sent two bullets flying through the hearse's windscreen, glass cobwebbing and shattering everywhere. The machine gun jerked upwards, suddenly silenced, and in the absence of the windscreen's shield, Merlin could see that he'd hit Alvarr square in the left upper arm. It wouldn't incapacitate him entirely, but Merlin wasn't shooting to kill; as much as he might deserve it, they needed him alive for interrogation.
In the pause of gunfire afforded her, Morgana bobbed up from behind the armour of her riddled car to finish the job. She raised her gun, and with one crisp pull of the trigger, lodged a bullet in Alvarr's extended forearm.
The machine gun clattered to the ground, and as both Merlin and Morgana bore down on the hearse, Alvarr, his face ashen with pain and panic, tumbled out the door in a last ditch effort at escape, even as dark blood overspread his clothing.
Her footfalls rang with fury as Morgana stalked towards a stumbling Alvarr from behind, and when he dove for the spent machine gun, she tackled him to the ground. Straddling his back as he struggled in futility, she ground her knee against his shoulder blade, the muzzle of her pistol a cold kiss against the base of his skull.
"Just try it," she said through gritted teeth. "Just you try it."
His face pressed into the hard macadam and the fight pointless, the tension in Alvarr's body visibly ebbed away, and with Merlin's assistance, Morgana drew Alvarr's arms behind his back, crossing the wrists to cuff them together. Merlin expelled a huff of breath as the locks clicked into place and several other agents arrived on the scene.
"I need a medical team. Now," Morgana said sharply into her lapel.
"You all right?" Merlin asked, his eyes raking over her for evidence of injury.
Morgana nodded shortly, but lifted her chin towards the slight shuffling movement behind the mangled car. "Uther was shot, not badly, but--"
"What?"
Merlin and Morgana whipped their heads towards the new voice, and Merlin got to his feet angrily. "I thought I told you to stay inside," he said, prodding Arthur's chest.
"You were all being shot at," Arthur protested, and flung a wide gesture towards the car, "and now I hear my father's got hurt? How can you expect me to--"
A wheezy laugh emanated from the ground. "Alive," Alvarr rasped, flicking a glazed gaze over at Arthur. A laboured puff of harsh laughter wobbled past his lips again, inimical even in its patheity.
In the distance, a car gunned its engine and hared off down the road, and with a sinking heart, Merlin realised what Alvarr meant. Arthur had been seen.
Morgana shut her eyes and took a deep breath, a picture of pure calm on her face, which never boded well for anybody, and even out of the corner of his eye Merlin could see Arthur shrink back half an inch. Handing off the job of keeping watch over their detainee to Merlin, Morgana rose, taking a seething, measured step towards Arthur, her eyes bright with anger.
"The next time you decide to play rogue agent and compromise my team and my operation, Agent Pendragon," she said in a low, steady voice that sharpened the edges of her words more severely than any amount of yelling would have done, "I will personally oversee your disciplinary trial and make sure you get burned from the agency."
Not deigning to wait for a response, Morgana turned on her heel and strode over to check on Uther, leaving Merlin and Arthur to look everywhere but at each other, and Alvarr prostrate between them.
The shrill sirens of the agency's medical squad soon filled the tense silence draped all over the funeral home, and in short order Uther's flesh wound was patched up, and Alvarr carted off to receive medical attention in his handcuffs.
Left with little other choice, Merlin and Arthur trudged back towards their surveillance van, turned off all the equipment and climbed into the cab in a perfect silence that reigned all the way back to the agency.
Merlin didn't have to look at Arthur to know how his mouth would be twisting, his jaw clenching with frustration. As aggravated as he was that Arthur had paid no heed to direct orders and blown the whole operation by exposing himself, Merlin fully understood why he'd done it, and under the same circumstances, Merlin couldn't be sure he wouldn't have done the exact same thing.
For as much as Arthur liked to advertise himself, or even think of himself as a model agent -- callous, ruthless, indifferent -- Merlin knew that at his core, Arthur was none of those things. Arthur hadn't rushed out of the van in order to prove himself superior in some way or flout the rules or play a hero; he'd done it -- probably without thinking -- because the people he loved were in danger, and his protective instinct had gone into overdrive and self-preservation out the window.
Love was a weakness, if you believed what the agency instructors said, ad nauseam, but Merlin rather thought it made Arthur stronger. There were some days when agents were nothing more than carefully trained mercenaries, but what elevated Arthur above that was his need to protect and to serve others, no matter the dangers to himself. And if that love was what kept him from becoming a truly great agent, perhaps he might find comfort in being a great man instead.
As they walked into the agency side by side, Merlin reached over to squeeze Arthur's shoulder briefly. He wouldn't say what he was thinking, but he could at least give Arthur a little support, if in presence alone.
Arthur chose not to acknowledge the gesture, but he didn't fling Merlin's hand off either, so Merlin chalked up a little victory to himself.
They strode up to Morgana's office, loitering outside the half-open door as they waited for another employee to finish wasting her time. Blood stains and grime clung to her suit, and loose waves of hair had broken free from their usual tight plait, wisping around her drawn face.
"She looks like she hasn't slept in a week," Merlin murmured.
Arthur glanced at him, as though surprised, and then peered back into the office, just as the other agent came out looking sufficiently cowed.
Catching sight of them hovering outside her door, Morgana beckoned them in, her mouth downturned at the corners in disapproval or annoyance, or more likely, both. She knotted her arms over her chest, indicating with a nod that they should sit; her clothing, uncomfortably starched from dried blood, puckered in several spots with a mild scraping sound.
"Uther's fine," she announced, as soon as Merlin and Arthur had sat down. "The bullet only grazed him. In fact, he's back in his lair, toiling away as we speak."
At Merlin's side, Arthur released a short puff of breath.
"Agent Alvarr," Morgana continued tersely, "is still in surgery, but he's expected to make a full recovery, and we should be able to have him in for questioning tomorrow morning. I'll expect both of you to be here at seven sharp."
"Yes, ma'am," they mumbled.
Her frosty gaze rested on Arthur, and for a moment, it looked as though she might start castigating him again about his misconduct in the field, but Morgana only pinched the bridge of her nose, making a small noise of exasperation when she pulled her fingers away to discover that they were still dirty from her brief rendezvous with the floor of the parking lot. Her shoulders sagged slightly, and she shut her eyes, inhaling a deep breath that juddered down her throat. When she opened them again, all the fight was gone.
"Dismissed. Go home," she said wearily, turning away from them. "And for god's sake, be careful."
Obediently, Merlin and Arthur stood.
"Wait for me in the car for a second, will you, Merlin?" Arthur said quietly.
Nodding, Merlin slipped out of the office, catching, in the little chink of space as he turned to close the door behind him, a view of Arthur pulling Morgana into a tight hug. Merlin smiled into his chest, and clicked the door shut.
*
Sometimes it was easy to forget that Morgana, in her infinite capacity for efficiency, was human. She was too quick sometimes, too cold, too good at her job, and it was a rarity on par with total solar eclipses to see her break. Of course, she preferred it that way, but the odd reminder here and there -- that underneath the chitinous formidability she could be as fragile as anybody else -- was mostly welcome. Arthur only wished it hadn't been because of him that it had surfaced this time.
She hadn't asked him to apologise because they both knew it was useless; even if Arthur did recognise the fact that his actions were bound to throw further complications their way, he wouldn't mean it and Morgana wouldn't accept it. Sometimes decisions just went awry, and there was no point in regret or recriminations, only in picking up the pieces and moving forward.
Still, casting off regret was often easier said than done, and the thought that both Morgana and Uther might have been killed earlier because of him sat like a lead weight in his stomach. Revealing himself to enemy eyes was of miniscule concern in comparison to the danger his family had been put in for his sake; if people wanted to come after him, that was fine and that was on him alone, but Morgana and Uther were supposed to be off limits. He was the one who was supposed to get shot at. Had things actually gone south, Arthur wasn't sure if he could live with himself after the fact.
Arthur scrubbed his face hard with one palm to distract himself from the dull ache taking up an adjoining residence to the lead weight.
"All right?" Merlin asked, puncturing the bubble of silence Arthur had been glad to wallow in ever since leaving the agency. Merlin's eyes darted off the road momentarily to glance over at his passenger side as though to make sure Arthur had heard him.
"What do you think?" Arthur intoned flatly through his fingers.
"Chipper as always."
Arthur shifted in his seat, irritated. "My father was shot, Morgana could have died, and rumours of my death have now been thoroughly quashed -- and don't you dare say that's my own fault. What have I got to be chipper about, exactly?"
"Well," said Merlin, steering carefully into his usual parking spot at the flat, "nobody died, and now we have Alvarr in custody. Evens things out a little bit."
"Your relentless optimism is noted," Arthur said dryly, "but not actually all that helpful."
Merlin shrugged, throwing a little smile over his shoulder as Arthur followed him up the stairs. Arthur hovered a few feet away from the door until Merlin had dealt with the variety of whines emitted by the assorted, self-installed security measures. When everything went quiet, Arthur inched his way inside and sank into the squashy two-seater sofa, his exhaustion trickling away into the soft comfort of the cushions at his back.
It's good to be home, he thought.
Arthur leaned forward and rubbed his face again. Clearly, fatigue had overthrown the higher functions of his brain and everything that passed through his mind now was not to be trusted.
There was a dull sound of dishware being moved about the kitchen, and Merlin approached a moment later with two bright blue tumblers in one hand and a bottle of red wine in the other. "Need a drink?"
"God, yes," said Arthur, feeling a rush of grateful affection at Merlin so adroitly anticipating his needs.
Case in point, he told his deposed brain firmly. He shoved the feelings off to one side where they could titter like schoolgirls on their own time and not get in his face while he was just trying to sit in a chair and forget the chaos of the day for a few minutes. There would be plenty of opportunities later -- tomorrow -- to pull wayward thoughts into line and ask questions and generate righteous anger and maybe slam his fists onto a table if Morgana let him; right now, though, he just wanted some semblance of mental white noise, to let his mind wander somewhere unpopulated by anything of importance.
"Good job I talked you out of the cheap stuff," Arthur said, taking an appreciative sip of his wine as Merlin flopped onto the seat beside him.
"You know," Merlin said, his hands tunnelling between cushions in search of the remote control, "wine snobbery doesn't work that well when you're drinking it out of a melamine cup. Budge up; I think you're sitting on it."
Arthur let Merlin swat at him before shifting over and discovering the tail of the remote control peeking out from a crevice in the back of the sofa. Merlin snatched it up and pushed the power button.
"What are we watching?" Arthur asked, settling himself down again.
Merlin grinned. "New MasterChef tonight," he said, as though this was somehow supposed to be construed as good news.
Arthur pinned him with a narrowed glare. "Why do you have the worst taste in everything?"
"What? What's not to like? You're lucky I'm not making you watch 16 and Pregnant."
The glare deepened. "You do not actually watch that."
Merlin shrugged. "May have accidentally caught it a few times."
"Oh my god, who are you?"
"Well, competitive cooking doesn't seem so bad now, does it?" Merlin said happily, burrowing himself into the corner of the sofa and crossing his ankles on top of the coffee table.
Faintly amused and not bothered enough to argue, Arthur topped up their drinks and leaned back for the ensuing hour of TV cookery, getting up once partway through for another bottle of wine and a packet of biscuits when they both got peckish from watching the programme.
By the time it was over, Arthur was feeling warm and sleepy, nestled in his end of the sofa and hugging a cushion at his side, not even minding Merlin's nattering on about why so-and-so shouldn't have got kicked off since her something-or-other had been so much better than whatshisface's dessert thing.
Merlin picked up the remote again, his face screwing up in concentration as he tried to work out what he wanted to watch next.
"There's the news," Arthur suggested helpfully.
"Nngh," Merlin said, flipping through the channels, eyes a little glazed, "'m not in the mood for it. That's what the morning papers are for. Anyway, it's always 'Good evening; I'm Jon Snow. Shit things happened locally and internationally today.'"
Arthur took another swig of wine, its quality of less and less consequence now that he'd been downing it steadily for the past hour, noting with a smidgen of surprise that there were two empty bottles on the coffee table and a half-drunk lager.
He raised an eyebrow when Merlin darted a swift, slightly embarrassed glance at him, his remote-clicking finger temporarily stilled while a documentary on the royal wedding played onscreen.
"No," said Arthur.
"Why?" Merlin whined. Shiftily, he added, "It was an important event in our country's history."
"The Battle of Hastings was an important event in our country's history. William of Orange overthrowing the crown was an important event in our country's history. On a scale of national relevance, Prince William's nuptials rate somewhere between that cat getting tossed in the wheelie bin and Andy Murray losing a Grand Slam again."
Merlin gawped at him. "What about the romance of it all? She gets to be a real-life princess."
"Yeah, and the rest of us just get pictures in the news of one more person parading around in increasingly bizarre hats."
"One would think, Arthur, that as a defender of the realm, you'd take more of an interest in your royal family," Merlin said, slinking off the sofa in a thoroughly conspicuous manner.
Arthur's eyes followed him suspiciously. "What are you doing?" he asked, as Merlin pattered towards the kitchen and, in the background, the documentary narrator wittered on about sapphires. "Are you hiding the remote from me?"
"No-o," Merlin insisted, and tucked the remote into the back waistband of his jeans.
Standing, Arthur took a second to steady himself as blood rushed from his head. "I'm surprised at you, Agent Emrys," he said, moving towards the kitchen, where Merlin had hiked himself up onto the counter. "This childish behaviour -- it doesn't become you."
"Mm," Merlin agreed, inching away along the countertop at a torpid rate that didn't exactly augur success at escape. After a blind rummage behind him, he whipped out a whisk to fight off an advancing Arthur, making jabbing motions in the air. "I'm not afraid to use this. Have at thee, knave."
Arthur shook his head like a mildly nonplussed parent. "Seriously, Merlin, you're just being ridiculous now, and--"
He lunged for the remote, and caught his forehead on the edge of a kitchen cupboard.
"Oh, shit," Merlin exhaled on the tail end of a laugh. He slid off the counter, tugging Arthur's hand away from his forehead. "You okay?"
"Jesus," Arthur complained, dabbing a few fingers in turn at the minute point of drawn blood. Further curse words fell away to nothing as Merlin crowded in close; he lifted Arthur's chin and brushed away his fringe to inspect the wound in better light.
"It's not too bad," Merlin murmured.
Suddenly struck dumb by their proximity, Arthur studiously looked away from him. As Merlin continued to crane his head slight degrees left and right under the fluorescence overhead, Arthur thought he could smell the light scent of Merlin's laundry detergent, or maybe it was that body wash perched in the corner of the bathtub. His stomach coiled with an unreasonable anticipation at Merlin's touch, clinical as it was, and Arthur forced the tension out uncomfortably with a clearing of his throat.
"Hm, I'll get you some Dettol," said Merlin.
As Merlin ran to the bathroom, Arthur only nodded, all too aware of his unexpected, unwarranted reaction to having Merlin that close, which was, no matter how many ways you looked at it, absurd. He could blame it on the wine, and he would have done, except he'd drunk a lot more in company before, and none of those instances had included squishy feelings clamouring for his attentions.
Merlin returned with a small bottle of disinfectant and a plaster in hand. "It's not bad at all, but we can just cover it up; it'll be less discomfort, anyway," he said, diluting a bit of the Dettol, his mouth fighting a smile.
"Excuse me," said Arthur, "are you laughing at my misfortune?"
"As if I'd dare," Merlin said, turning a full-blown grin on him now.
To avoid the not wholly unpleasant furling feeling in his stomach, Arthur shifted his gaze to somewhere behind Merlin's left ear, one of the cupboard handles. Dastardly cupboards.
"Okay," said Arthur, grasping to salvage his reputation as Merlin gently daubed disinfectant on his forehead, "if anybody asks, I got this battle wound saving an old lady from being robbed on the street."
"Right, yeah, saw the whole thing. Really hard hoodlum," Merlin agreed, peeling the paper off the adhesive bits of the plaster. "Huge. Gargantuan."
"Neck as thick as a tree trunk," Arthur continued.
"Tattoos all over his face."
"To hide his sloping forehead."
Merlin laughed, the flutter of his breath grazing Arthur's skin, a soft light in his eyes as he patted the plaster in place. "All better," he said, his hands falling back to his sides. He took a step backwards.
Something in Arthur's chest tightened with an intensely sweet and sour quality that made him want to take the distance back. He pushed against it, impatient with himself, until it subsided.
"You still have the remote down your trousers," Arthur said for something to say.
"Yeah," Merlin said, retrieving it, a small smirk playing across his lips. "That means I won, doesn't it?"
Arthur regarded him with a cocked eyebrow. "Ahh, no, that means you cheated. And that the remote probably needs a good year at least in therapy from being shoved down your arse."
"I'll thank you not to impugn the quality of my arse," Merlin said archly. "I've never had any complaints about it."
Arthur made a show of looking. "I'll be the judge of that."
Merlin's brow lifted, and his grin dimmed slightly. "Don't start things you have no intention of following through on," he said, and his tone, though still cajoling, held a minute hint of uncertainty.
"Who says I don't follow through?" Arthur said airily, even as he knew he was treading dangerous waters.
It was a reckless move, more than likely a stupid one as well, fuelled by something entirely unrelated to rational thought. He hadn't had nearly enough wine for any of this to be faulted to an alcohol-impaired verbal filter, hadn't had enough to be able to tell himself this was anywhere near a good idea. But even as part of his brain rooted around frantically for its misplaced common sense, the rest of it was urging him forward, helpful and irritating as it zeroed his attention in on Merlin's lips, slightly parted and waiting for Arthur's next step.
Arthur took it, the inches between them vanishing in his wake.
Merlin's half-smile flickered and guttered out, though he made no attempts to move out of the way. "Arthur," he said, half a question. The other half sounded like an invitation.
In all honesty, Arthur had worked a lot harder before to steal a kiss or more from someone, often with charming, witty lies; all he'd done with Merlin so far was to remark upon his backside, but the soft gasp he snuffed from Merlin's mouth with his own felt so much more richly satisfying than a dozen other hard-won dalliances combined.
The seal of their first touch, deeply lush and fiery fierce, seemed to break a floodgate; the hesitation from just a moment ago evaporated in smoke, leaving only open, naked want, each kiss more desperate than the last, every touch fixed like a brand.
Somewhere in the fog of building lust, a tangle of thoughts surfaced for air. Maybe this careless physicality was just what they needed to slough off the remains of a difficult day; or maybe this was only the natural result of the two of them working and living together in such close quarters. Alongside, myriad other justifications began adding to the fold, and there was some part of Arthur trying to discard them all, to tell himself this was wrong, wrong, wrong, but then there was Merlin's hand sliding around the back of his neck and pulling him away from himself, and the resistance fell away to make room for just one thought: I want this.
Even that couldn't remain at the forefront of his mind for more than a split second, his focus in fragments, delirious over the heat of Merlin's fingers searing the skin at his back, the agony and the promise of the audible friction as they collided. He'd try to catch the taste of Merlin's mouth, to linger on the aftertaste of wine on his tongue, only to be distracted in the same moment by the rasping gasps from Merlin's throat and dive into the hollow at his collarbone to steal those sounds before they hit the air. It was too much all at once; already he was fully hard, and Arthur was dizzy with wanting more.
When he had his senses returned to him perhaps he would be able to recall someone else -- there had to be -- who'd made him feel this way, whose breath set him on fire, whose heated caress gave him new life, but for now, he could exist only in Merlin.
Arthur inched his hands up under Merlin's shirt, fingers chording the keys of his spine. "Off," he murmured, "off."
Their hands tangled in the collective effort to unclothe themselves and each other, a difficulty compounded by the need to keep touching one another as though the chance might be taken away from them at any minute. They managed it in the end, laughing with breath stolen from each other's mouths, fumbling with buttons that only heightened their urgency.
Chest pressed against chest, Arthur could feel the drumbeat of Merlin's heart pounding into his skin and his own pulse chasing it relentlessly, always just a step behind.
He palmed Merlin's arse, drawing him as close as the laws of physics would allow and wanting him closer yet, the curve of Merlin's cock grazing his through strained trousers both a torture and a taunt.
Impatient with desire, Arthur undid Merlin's trousers, leaving them slung low across his hips as Arthur reached for his cock. He wrapped a loose fist around it, marble-smooth and hard, thumbing the slit, and a guttural noise emanated from Merlin's throat, urging Arthur for more of the same.
Arthur slid down for a taste, but a touch of Merlin's hand to his shoulder stilled him momentarily.
"Wait, wait, wait," Merlin breathed.
Rocketing back up, simultaneously hoping Merlin would be the one clearheaded enough to stop this and wishing desperately against it, Arthur asked, "What?"
Slightly sheepish and pointing a shaky finger across the kitchen, Merlin nodded to an open window, blinds up, that looked out onto several other lit windows across the way. "People could see."
Relief cluttered Arthur's chest, and if there was any abiding shame at being unable to resist carrying on, lust took care of it.
Arthur leaned in and nipped at his earlobe, his fingers skimming alongside Merlin's spine. "Let them. We look good like this," he murmured, earning another quiet, unintelligible noise from Merlin.
Even so, they began moving away from the kitchen by unspoken agreement, shucking the remainder of their clothing along the way until they both fell, naked, into Merlin's bed, wrapped up in each other.
Merlin was equally as demanding as he was yielding, his lips and his hands choreographing a strange, perfect dance across every inch of Arthur's skin that left Arthur reeling in a million directions, his body grounded with the solid weight of Merlin's pressing him into the mattress, but his senses soaring to the ether.
Merlin's hands were hot on his skin, and his mouth hotter still, sucking wet kisses down the cords of Arthur's neck, but it was the incendiary thrust of Merlin's cock alongside his own that wrenched a moan from his throat. He lifted his hips, rising and falling to Merlin's rhythm, their cocks sliding together, his chest full to bursting with pure, perfect agony.
He splayed his hands over Merlin's shoulder blades, stripping two parallel paths down the length of his back, and converging over Merlin's arse. Feather-light, one finger slid down the crease, and his fingertip kissed the opening at the end of the curve.
Merlin bucked. "Jesus Christ, Arthur," he groaned into Arthur's neck. "Give a guy some warning?"
"No," said Arthur, feeling the corners of his mouth lift, a bubble of laughter swimming up his throat, and turned their bodies so that Merlin was under him.
Arthur pulled up, straddling himself over Merlin's knees. Before him, Merlin stared with hungry eyes, eager for more but holding back with a clenched jaw, letting Arthur take the lead.
Leaning back down, Arthur kissed the insides of Merlin's thighs, the contours of his hips, everywhere but his straining cock, and Merlin emitted a little whine, his back arching, wanting Arthur's mouth on him. There was a light shine of pre-come on Merlin's stomach, and Arthur bent to lick it off, a spark of saltiness on his tongue that made his mouth water.
It spurred him like a shot, and at once Arthur closed one hand around the base of Merlin's cock and sucked the head into his mouth, lower and lower until it hit the back of his throat.
Merlin uttered something incoherent but decidedly filthy, his knuckles white, clawed into the bedspread.
His head moving steadily up and down, Arthur streaked Merlin's cock with his tongue, circling over the head, underneath the ridge, delving across the slit. Merlin arched up, his hips rolling to an erratic beat.
Coming up for air, Arthur let his hands take over for a moment, stripping Merlin's length lazily, and moved up Merlin's body. Merlin rose on his elbows, meeting Arthur halfway in a hard kiss.
"Like that, do you?" Arthur asked, and in return, Merlin gave him a breathy laugh.
Arthur kissed the light of his smile, and Merlin hauled him in for more, the length of their bodies flush, the tip of Arthur's cock nodding against Merlin's balls. Merlin pulled his knees up to let Arthur in closer, and the graze of Arthur's cock on Merlin's opening, unexpected and fiery, stilled them both. Arthur's teeth clenched with a sweet tingle and he pressed his mouth into Merlin's skin.
"Fuck," Merlin breathed when Arthur couldn't help but do it again, both of them already starting to build a rhythm together.
It was just the minutest of touches, only the very tip of his cock, but Arthur felt the flank of Merlin's thighs at his sides and the roll of Merlin's hips underneath his hands and he needed no other help imagining pushing himself all the way inside, to feel Merlin's legs clench him in and Merlin's hips judder on each thrust, and Arthur wanted, wanted, wanted.
Breathless from holding it in, Merlin's voice shuddered with the same want. "Fuck me," he whispered. "Fuck me, Arthur."
There should have been something pithy to say -- there was always something pithy to say -- but Merlin's words rang like a clarion call in Arthur's head, and Arthur could only gather enough wherewithal to nod and follow Merlin's gestures for locating the condoms and lube from the drawer of the bedside table.
With agitated hands, Arthur tore open the square packet and rolled the condom on, while Merlin, the hunger on his face more than evident, watched him, touching his own cock lightly, like a place-marker until Arthur could get back to it.
The minute away from touching Merlin a minute too long, Arthur surged forward to kiss him, and then, leaning back on his haunches, hooked Merlin's legs over his shoulders. He poured lube out onto his palm, spreading it over his fingers; there was a sharp intake of breath from Merlin as he smeared it over Merlin's opening.
Slowly, knuckle by knuckle, Arthur eased one finger inside him; Merlin groaned through gritted teeth.
"All right?" Arthur asked, his voice huskier than usual, far from calm himself as he slid his finger in and out, each move smoother than the last as Merlin's body warmed up to him.
Merlin gave him a half-smile, nodding, and Arthur crossed two fingers and pushed them inside him, stretching Merlin's walls, trying fervently not to think of the minutes from now when he'd have his cock sheathed in that heat, that tightness, when he'd make Merlin writhe beneath him.
A shuddery breath fanned past Merlin's lips. "Arthur," he said.
Arthur pulled his fingers away, daubed a palmful of lube over his own cock. He suspended himself on locked elbows over Merlin, the movement of his hips scant, the end of his cock barely skimming over Merlin's hole, drawing out the neediness on Merlin's face, the desperate pitch in his voice.
Finally, wearing on his own self-control, Arthur eased himself down and pressed forward, a barely suppressed groan escaping his lips as he entered Merlin, the heat nothing as he'd imagined and infinitely better, impossibly and deliciously close around his cock. Merlin's eyes screwed shut and his mouth gasped open but he was soundless, the tight clutch of his fist in the bed sheets as good as words, pain and pleasure written in his white-knuckled grip.
Arthur kept still for a moment, letting Merlin's body orient itself to the penetration, and when Merlin blinked his eyes open again, Arthur planted a light kiss to his lips.
Slowly, surely, Arthur began moving his hips, barely an inch out and then back in again, and Merlin followed, his eyes locked on Arthur's face until Arthur started quickening his pace, each thrust a little harder, a little deeper, a driving force that made Merlin throw his head back. Arthur watched his Adam's apple bob up and down, his mouth form noiseless words, his sinuous frame tauten on every thrust, and it only made him go faster, wanting Merlin to just shatter in his hands.
Arthur drove his cock deep, the heat of his arousal close to blistering, the slap of his balls against Merlin's sweaty and obscene, the look on Merlin's face and the arch of his back fuelling the fire. Harder, faster, Arthur rammed into Merlin, watching, always watching the fevered twist of Merlin's mouth as they chased each other closer to the edge.
Blindly fumbling for the lube, Arthur squeezed some out into the vicinity of his hand -- getting it everywhere, he didn't care -- and slid it between their bodies, finding Merlin's lately neglected cock, and instantly drawing out a garbled profanity as his fingers closed in on it.
On the downbeat of each thrust, Arthur pumped his fist around Merlin's length, sliding in and out, up and down, every movement dedicated to nothing but making Merlin come for him. He could feel Merlin trying to hold him off, felt the sweet constriction around his own cock, Merlin's fingers digging into his skin.
"Arthur-- fuck," Merlin stuttered, a hitch in his breath as Arthur drove hard into him.
"Come on, Merlin," Arthur said, his own breath unsteady, and maybe there were more words he'd intended to say, but Merlin's eyes found his, and something in them pushed Merlin off the brink.
He dragged Arthur down with him into the deep. Sheathed still inside him, Arthur felt every single shudder and tremor of Merlin's climax, and he stroked Merlin's cock until Merlin spent everything he had, and then there was nothing for Arthur to do but let go, let the stars burst into light behind his eyes, let Merlin's aftershocks ride him down, let Merlin hold him close, sweaty and sticky and high and wild, until he felt like he could breathe again.
Continue to Chapter Eight
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: ~7,400
Notes: Heaping piles of gratitude to
venivincere for her beta work, and to accordingtomel for checking to make sure the porny bits were suitably porny. Previous chapters: Prologue + One | Two | Three | Four | Five | Six
"I don't like the looks of this," Arthur said, grim as he stared down the streaming surveillance videos that lined one wall. Huddled inside their unmarked van parked in an undisclosed location, Arthur and Merlin followed the funereal proceedings from several angles on as many screens, and on them now were shots of Arthur's wake, in and around the funeral home supposedly containing Arthur's body. Inside, rows of empty folding chairs faced the closed casket, save for the handful occupied by Uther, Morgana and Morgana's personal assistant.
Merlin leaned over to see what he was looking at. "What is it now?" he asked, with what Arthur considered unwarranted exasperation.
Just because Arthur had remarked that the wreaths were ugly and the photo display on top of the casket -- a magnified version of his staff ID badge from years ago when he had still been new and trying out an ill-advised hairstyle -- was a far cry from what he'd have chosen, didn't mean Merlin had the right to sound so long-suffering.
"Are the minister's robes too white?" Merlin asked flatly. "Is the stained glass window not up to your standards?"
"No, shut up, Merlin; have some respect for the dead." Before Merlin could bleat at him about only being fake dead, Arthur added, rather sulkily, even though he had no real reason to expect otherwise, "Only three people have turned up for my funeral."
"Arthur, you were just complaining that you didn't want your father here."
"That's different," he clipped. "He's the head of the best intelligence agency in the world; do you know how many people want him dead? It isn't for larks that he practically lives in his office, you know. And here he is, gadding about in broad daylight."
"Well, without him there'd be only two, and that would just be sad," Merlin said. Deflecting Arthur's glare, he handed Arthur a headset, along with an encouraging look. "You know, I heard from Morgana that your father being here was his idea."
Arthur only blinked at him, uncomprehending.
"Well, you just said yourself that he's putting himself at risk for you just by showing his face in public. But what father wouldn't attend his own son's funeral?" Merlin explained, patient now, and if he was trying to be patronising it wasn't coming off. "It may only be for show, all this, but the fact that he's here probably means he cares about you. A lot."
"It's only to try to move the case along," Arthur said, as his father's presence here did make it a little more believable that he'd been offed, should anyone be watching, though he still wasn't at all convinced that any of this was a good idea.
"Well, that, too, but they're not mutually exclusive, you know," Merlin pointed out, and put his own headset on, fiddling with the sound controls. He flicked a small smile at Arthur. "And if this were your real funeral, I'd have come, if that helps."
It probably shouldn't have, but it did. His job came first, always, and Arthur never made a habit of lamenting his lack of friends; it was a necessary sacrifice to do his work well, and he was proud of his achievements, was fulfilled by the good he was doing for the country's safety, but once every blue moon, something would make him stop and think: for all the difference he was making in the world, who would really, truly miss him if he was gone?
But it was a useless question. Agents weren't conditioned to be social; they could fake it, absolutely, could charm their way into any number of hearts, pants, or parties, as circumstances required -- but they were never out to make friends. Even among peers, they were taught and expected to slot people into scaled categories, by usefulness or reliability or trustworthiness. A minute shift in any direction elicited immediate reassessment as to whether the person in front of them could be relegated to background noise or needed a bullet in the head; with the practice drilled deep enough it became a default setting, and it was no surprise if it leached into an agent's personal life as well, what little existed.
For Arthur, who, by necessity and added expectations, embodied all the values of what it meant to be a good agent, applying the mechanics of the agency's rulebook to everyday interactions wasn't just a matter of best practice but a way of life. He'd made sure that he'd risen to the top on his own merits, but so long as his father controlled the agency, he would always have that something extra to prove.
As such, he could not afford to waste time mourning the state of his own existence. He knew how it was all supposed to work, and he was happy to be a part of it, one of a special breed. Agents like him always worked alone; even if partners or teams were required for particularly big jobs, the handlers never kept them intact after cases closed. Other than the confounded few whose hearts tricked them into taking a trip down the altar, agents always lived alone. And in the best interests of keeping inquiries to a minimum, agents always tried to die alone.
Maybe he should count himself lucky to have as many as three people at his funeral. Four, if he included Merlin, which he was inclined not to, because just the thought of it made him question all the rules and standards he was meant to uphold, and made everything he'd just told himself about what a good agent was supposed to be seem like a silly lie. Maybe the truth was that as much as the rules were there to guide him, what he used them for were more like places to hide.
Arthur shook the thoughts off and drew his attention away from the monitors for a moment to rest on Merlin, who was checking in with the other surveillance teams on his headset, alternately relaying to them the visuals they couldn't get from their stake-out spots and taking in reciprocal information. Arthur adjusted his own earpiece to listen in more closely. Onscreen, the paltry crowd of funeral attendees was moving outside, while hired hands moved the casket.
"...getting loaded onto the hearse now," narrated an agent from one of the other teams. "Route to crematorium is cle-- No, no, shit; something's scrambled my signal. Shadow Two to all units; I've lost eyes on sector four."
Merlin swore. "I'm on it," he said, his fingers a furious blur over his keyboard.
Arthur looked at the screens, trying to locate Morgana. "Morgana, are you getting this?"
Her head tilted just slightly, speaking into the tiny microphone at her lapel, as she and the others walked round to the carpark. "Yes. I'm not seeing anything out of the ordinary here, though," she said, getting into her car to wait for the hearse to come around and head the procession. "Proceed as planned."
Merlin looked up, his fingers stilling. "Revenant to Shadow Two; how's the picture?"
"It's good; it's back," came the agent's voice in their earpieces. "The hearse driver is-- that isn't our driver. Fuck, is that--? I think-- I think it's Agent Alvarr."
Merlin's head snapped towards the screen, a tight fist of alarm clenching in his chest. Like Arthur, he'd had his doubts about this whole plan drawing anyone out at all, much less a turncoat agent who'd last tried to blow up the Pendragon heir, and by all outward accounts, had succeeded. That Alvarr was showing his face now -- out of desperation or insanity, it didn't really matter -- could only spell no end of trouble, and the running commentary from Shadow Two affirmed the complications coming their way as Alvarr commandeered the hearse.
With a swift glance to his left, Merlin shot an arm out, an unyielding bollard to Arthur's attempts to get out of his seat and run off in hot pursuit.
"Sit down," Merlin ordered, his free hand on the gun at his hip, "and stay in the van; you'll throw this whole thing if anyone sees you."
Arthur pushed hard at his arm, glaring at the insubordination, but said, "Go."
Merlin nodded curtly and slipped out of the van, the gun free of its holster now and gripped snugly in his hands. On swift, silent feet, Merlin ran from cover to cover; the area was thick with flora, and as much as it provided him relative obscurity as he sprinted towards the funeral home, it was a visual hindrance as well, affording him only occasional glimpses of the carpark.
A violent scream of distraught tyres tore into the air, and giving up stealth now, Merlin raced forwards, hurdling a brambly hedge. He landed on the solid tarmac down the street from the carpark, loose pebbles biting at his fingers as he braced himself from tipping over, catching from afar the sight of the funeral party nearly at Morgana's car, and the tight expression on Morgana's face and the pistol in her hand.
She motioned for Uther and her assistant to go back inside, but before they could do so, the black hearse whipped around the back of the building and came barrelling towards them.
With a cry that Merlin couldn't quite hear, Morgana pulled the others with her behind the car, its long chassis the only protection out in the open lot.
Exhaust roaring like a beast, the hearse's tyres threw up sprays of gravel as it screeched to a halt, and a dark sub-machine gun extended from the driver's window.
"Get down!" Merlin shouted, too far away to do anything else, but his voice barely registered in his own ears over the deafening rattle of battered metal as the machine gun spat its rounds into the side of Morgana's car.
Sprinting on, closing in over the thirty yards that stood between him and Alvarr's one-man firing squad, Merlin saw Morgana flatten herself against the ground, just hidden in the shadow of the underside of her car; barely flinching at the machine gun's indiscriminate discharge, she blasted the hearse's tyres, puncturing, at the very least, Alvarr's hopes at a clean getaway.
Simultaneously, Merlin sent two bullets flying through the hearse's windscreen, glass cobwebbing and shattering everywhere. The machine gun jerked upwards, suddenly silenced, and in the absence of the windscreen's shield, Merlin could see that he'd hit Alvarr square in the left upper arm. It wouldn't incapacitate him entirely, but Merlin wasn't shooting to kill; as much as he might deserve it, they needed him alive for interrogation.
In the pause of gunfire afforded her, Morgana bobbed up from behind the armour of her riddled car to finish the job. She raised her gun, and with one crisp pull of the trigger, lodged a bullet in Alvarr's extended forearm.
The machine gun clattered to the ground, and as both Merlin and Morgana bore down on the hearse, Alvarr, his face ashen with pain and panic, tumbled out the door in a last ditch effort at escape, even as dark blood overspread his clothing.
Her footfalls rang with fury as Morgana stalked towards a stumbling Alvarr from behind, and when he dove for the spent machine gun, she tackled him to the ground. Straddling his back as he struggled in futility, she ground her knee against his shoulder blade, the muzzle of her pistol a cold kiss against the base of his skull.
"Just try it," she said through gritted teeth. "Just you try it."
His face pressed into the hard macadam and the fight pointless, the tension in Alvarr's body visibly ebbed away, and with Merlin's assistance, Morgana drew Alvarr's arms behind his back, crossing the wrists to cuff them together. Merlin expelled a huff of breath as the locks clicked into place and several other agents arrived on the scene.
"I need a medical team. Now," Morgana said sharply into her lapel.
"You all right?" Merlin asked, his eyes raking over her for evidence of injury.
Morgana nodded shortly, but lifted her chin towards the slight shuffling movement behind the mangled car. "Uther was shot, not badly, but--"
"What?"
Merlin and Morgana whipped their heads towards the new voice, and Merlin got to his feet angrily. "I thought I told you to stay inside," he said, prodding Arthur's chest.
"You were all being shot at," Arthur protested, and flung a wide gesture towards the car, "and now I hear my father's got hurt? How can you expect me to--"
A wheezy laugh emanated from the ground. "Alive," Alvarr rasped, flicking a glazed gaze over at Arthur. A laboured puff of harsh laughter wobbled past his lips again, inimical even in its patheity.
In the distance, a car gunned its engine and hared off down the road, and with a sinking heart, Merlin realised what Alvarr meant. Arthur had been seen.
Morgana shut her eyes and took a deep breath, a picture of pure calm on her face, which never boded well for anybody, and even out of the corner of his eye Merlin could see Arthur shrink back half an inch. Handing off the job of keeping watch over their detainee to Merlin, Morgana rose, taking a seething, measured step towards Arthur, her eyes bright with anger.
"The next time you decide to play rogue agent and compromise my team and my operation, Agent Pendragon," she said in a low, steady voice that sharpened the edges of her words more severely than any amount of yelling would have done, "I will personally oversee your disciplinary trial and make sure you get burned from the agency."
Not deigning to wait for a response, Morgana turned on her heel and strode over to check on Uther, leaving Merlin and Arthur to look everywhere but at each other, and Alvarr prostrate between them.
The shrill sirens of the agency's medical squad soon filled the tense silence draped all over the funeral home, and in short order Uther's flesh wound was patched up, and Alvarr carted off to receive medical attention in his handcuffs.
Left with little other choice, Merlin and Arthur trudged back towards their surveillance van, turned off all the equipment and climbed into the cab in a perfect silence that reigned all the way back to the agency.
Merlin didn't have to look at Arthur to know how his mouth would be twisting, his jaw clenching with frustration. As aggravated as he was that Arthur had paid no heed to direct orders and blown the whole operation by exposing himself, Merlin fully understood why he'd done it, and under the same circumstances, Merlin couldn't be sure he wouldn't have done the exact same thing.
For as much as Arthur liked to advertise himself, or even think of himself as a model agent -- callous, ruthless, indifferent -- Merlin knew that at his core, Arthur was none of those things. Arthur hadn't rushed out of the van in order to prove himself superior in some way or flout the rules or play a hero; he'd done it -- probably without thinking -- because the people he loved were in danger, and his protective instinct had gone into overdrive and self-preservation out the window.
Love was a weakness, if you believed what the agency instructors said, ad nauseam, but Merlin rather thought it made Arthur stronger. There were some days when agents were nothing more than carefully trained mercenaries, but what elevated Arthur above that was his need to protect and to serve others, no matter the dangers to himself. And if that love was what kept him from becoming a truly great agent, perhaps he might find comfort in being a great man instead.
As they walked into the agency side by side, Merlin reached over to squeeze Arthur's shoulder briefly. He wouldn't say what he was thinking, but he could at least give Arthur a little support, if in presence alone.
Arthur chose not to acknowledge the gesture, but he didn't fling Merlin's hand off either, so Merlin chalked up a little victory to himself.
They strode up to Morgana's office, loitering outside the half-open door as they waited for another employee to finish wasting her time. Blood stains and grime clung to her suit, and loose waves of hair had broken free from their usual tight plait, wisping around her drawn face.
"She looks like she hasn't slept in a week," Merlin murmured.
Arthur glanced at him, as though surprised, and then peered back into the office, just as the other agent came out looking sufficiently cowed.
Catching sight of them hovering outside her door, Morgana beckoned them in, her mouth downturned at the corners in disapproval or annoyance, or more likely, both. She knotted her arms over her chest, indicating with a nod that they should sit; her clothing, uncomfortably starched from dried blood, puckered in several spots with a mild scraping sound.
"Uther's fine," she announced, as soon as Merlin and Arthur had sat down. "The bullet only grazed him. In fact, he's back in his lair, toiling away as we speak."
At Merlin's side, Arthur released a short puff of breath.
"Agent Alvarr," Morgana continued tersely, "is still in surgery, but he's expected to make a full recovery, and we should be able to have him in for questioning tomorrow morning. I'll expect both of you to be here at seven sharp."
"Yes, ma'am," they mumbled.
Her frosty gaze rested on Arthur, and for a moment, it looked as though she might start castigating him again about his misconduct in the field, but Morgana only pinched the bridge of her nose, making a small noise of exasperation when she pulled her fingers away to discover that they were still dirty from her brief rendezvous with the floor of the parking lot. Her shoulders sagged slightly, and she shut her eyes, inhaling a deep breath that juddered down her throat. When she opened them again, all the fight was gone.
"Dismissed. Go home," she said wearily, turning away from them. "And for god's sake, be careful."
Obediently, Merlin and Arthur stood.
"Wait for me in the car for a second, will you, Merlin?" Arthur said quietly.
Nodding, Merlin slipped out of the office, catching, in the little chink of space as he turned to close the door behind him, a view of Arthur pulling Morgana into a tight hug. Merlin smiled into his chest, and clicked the door shut.
Sometimes it was easy to forget that Morgana, in her infinite capacity for efficiency, was human. She was too quick sometimes, too cold, too good at her job, and it was a rarity on par with total solar eclipses to see her break. Of course, she preferred it that way, but the odd reminder here and there -- that underneath the chitinous formidability she could be as fragile as anybody else -- was mostly welcome. Arthur only wished it hadn't been because of him that it had surfaced this time.
She hadn't asked him to apologise because they both knew it was useless; even if Arthur did recognise the fact that his actions were bound to throw further complications their way, he wouldn't mean it and Morgana wouldn't accept it. Sometimes decisions just went awry, and there was no point in regret or recriminations, only in picking up the pieces and moving forward.
Still, casting off regret was often easier said than done, and the thought that both Morgana and Uther might have been killed earlier because of him sat like a lead weight in his stomach. Revealing himself to enemy eyes was of miniscule concern in comparison to the danger his family had been put in for his sake; if people wanted to come after him, that was fine and that was on him alone, but Morgana and Uther were supposed to be off limits. He was the one who was supposed to get shot at. Had things actually gone south, Arthur wasn't sure if he could live with himself after the fact.
Arthur scrubbed his face hard with one palm to distract himself from the dull ache taking up an adjoining residence to the lead weight.
"All right?" Merlin asked, puncturing the bubble of silence Arthur had been glad to wallow in ever since leaving the agency. Merlin's eyes darted off the road momentarily to glance over at his passenger side as though to make sure Arthur had heard him.
"What do you think?" Arthur intoned flatly through his fingers.
"Chipper as always."
Arthur shifted in his seat, irritated. "My father was shot, Morgana could have died, and rumours of my death have now been thoroughly quashed -- and don't you dare say that's my own fault. What have I got to be chipper about, exactly?"
"Well," said Merlin, steering carefully into his usual parking spot at the flat, "nobody died, and now we have Alvarr in custody. Evens things out a little bit."
"Your relentless optimism is noted," Arthur said dryly, "but not actually all that helpful."
Merlin shrugged, throwing a little smile over his shoulder as Arthur followed him up the stairs. Arthur hovered a few feet away from the door until Merlin had dealt with the variety of whines emitted by the assorted, self-installed security measures. When everything went quiet, Arthur inched his way inside and sank into the squashy two-seater sofa, his exhaustion trickling away into the soft comfort of the cushions at his back.
It's good to be home, he thought.
Arthur leaned forward and rubbed his face again. Clearly, fatigue had overthrown the higher functions of his brain and everything that passed through his mind now was not to be trusted.
There was a dull sound of dishware being moved about the kitchen, and Merlin approached a moment later with two bright blue tumblers in one hand and a bottle of red wine in the other. "Need a drink?"
"God, yes," said Arthur, feeling a rush of grateful affection at Merlin so adroitly anticipating his needs.
Case in point, he told his deposed brain firmly. He shoved the feelings off to one side where they could titter like schoolgirls on their own time and not get in his face while he was just trying to sit in a chair and forget the chaos of the day for a few minutes. There would be plenty of opportunities later -- tomorrow -- to pull wayward thoughts into line and ask questions and generate righteous anger and maybe slam his fists onto a table if Morgana let him; right now, though, he just wanted some semblance of mental white noise, to let his mind wander somewhere unpopulated by anything of importance.
"Good job I talked you out of the cheap stuff," Arthur said, taking an appreciative sip of his wine as Merlin flopped onto the seat beside him.
"You know," Merlin said, his hands tunnelling between cushions in search of the remote control, "wine snobbery doesn't work that well when you're drinking it out of a melamine cup. Budge up; I think you're sitting on it."
Arthur let Merlin swat at him before shifting over and discovering the tail of the remote control peeking out from a crevice in the back of the sofa. Merlin snatched it up and pushed the power button.
"What are we watching?" Arthur asked, settling himself down again.
Merlin grinned. "New MasterChef tonight," he said, as though this was somehow supposed to be construed as good news.
Arthur pinned him with a narrowed glare. "Why do you have the worst taste in everything?"
"What? What's not to like? You're lucky I'm not making you watch 16 and Pregnant."
The glare deepened. "You do not actually watch that."
Merlin shrugged. "May have accidentally caught it a few times."
"Oh my god, who are you?"
"Well, competitive cooking doesn't seem so bad now, does it?" Merlin said happily, burrowing himself into the corner of the sofa and crossing his ankles on top of the coffee table.
Faintly amused and not bothered enough to argue, Arthur topped up their drinks and leaned back for the ensuing hour of TV cookery, getting up once partway through for another bottle of wine and a packet of biscuits when they both got peckish from watching the programme.
By the time it was over, Arthur was feeling warm and sleepy, nestled in his end of the sofa and hugging a cushion at his side, not even minding Merlin's nattering on about why so-and-so shouldn't have got kicked off since her something-or-other had been so much better than whatshisface's dessert thing.
Merlin picked up the remote again, his face screwing up in concentration as he tried to work out what he wanted to watch next.
"There's the news," Arthur suggested helpfully.
"Nngh," Merlin said, flipping through the channels, eyes a little glazed, "'m not in the mood for it. That's what the morning papers are for. Anyway, it's always 'Good evening; I'm Jon Snow. Shit things happened locally and internationally today.'"
Arthur took another swig of wine, its quality of less and less consequence now that he'd been downing it steadily for the past hour, noting with a smidgen of surprise that there were two empty bottles on the coffee table and a half-drunk lager.
He raised an eyebrow when Merlin darted a swift, slightly embarrassed glance at him, his remote-clicking finger temporarily stilled while a documentary on the royal wedding played onscreen.
"No," said Arthur.
"Why?" Merlin whined. Shiftily, he added, "It was an important event in our country's history."
"The Battle of Hastings was an important event in our country's history. William of Orange overthrowing the crown was an important event in our country's history. On a scale of national relevance, Prince William's nuptials rate somewhere between that cat getting tossed in the wheelie bin and Andy Murray losing a Grand Slam again."
Merlin gawped at him. "What about the romance of it all? She gets to be a real-life princess."
"Yeah, and the rest of us just get pictures in the news of one more person parading around in increasingly bizarre hats."
"One would think, Arthur, that as a defender of the realm, you'd take more of an interest in your royal family," Merlin said, slinking off the sofa in a thoroughly conspicuous manner.
Arthur's eyes followed him suspiciously. "What are you doing?" he asked, as Merlin pattered towards the kitchen and, in the background, the documentary narrator wittered on about sapphires. "Are you hiding the remote from me?"
"No-o," Merlin insisted, and tucked the remote into the back waistband of his jeans.
Standing, Arthur took a second to steady himself as blood rushed from his head. "I'm surprised at you, Agent Emrys," he said, moving towards the kitchen, where Merlin had hiked himself up onto the counter. "This childish behaviour -- it doesn't become you."
"Mm," Merlin agreed, inching away along the countertop at a torpid rate that didn't exactly augur success at escape. After a blind rummage behind him, he whipped out a whisk to fight off an advancing Arthur, making jabbing motions in the air. "I'm not afraid to use this. Have at thee, knave."
Arthur shook his head like a mildly nonplussed parent. "Seriously, Merlin, you're just being ridiculous now, and--"
He lunged for the remote, and caught his forehead on the edge of a kitchen cupboard.
"Oh, shit," Merlin exhaled on the tail end of a laugh. He slid off the counter, tugging Arthur's hand away from his forehead. "You okay?"
"Jesus," Arthur complained, dabbing a few fingers in turn at the minute point of drawn blood. Further curse words fell away to nothing as Merlin crowded in close; he lifted Arthur's chin and brushed away his fringe to inspect the wound in better light.
"It's not too bad," Merlin murmured.
Suddenly struck dumb by their proximity, Arthur studiously looked away from him. As Merlin continued to crane his head slight degrees left and right under the fluorescence overhead, Arthur thought he could smell the light scent of Merlin's laundry detergent, or maybe it was that body wash perched in the corner of the bathtub. His stomach coiled with an unreasonable anticipation at Merlin's touch, clinical as it was, and Arthur forced the tension out uncomfortably with a clearing of his throat.
"Hm, I'll get you some Dettol," said Merlin.
As Merlin ran to the bathroom, Arthur only nodded, all too aware of his unexpected, unwarranted reaction to having Merlin that close, which was, no matter how many ways you looked at it, absurd. He could blame it on the wine, and he would have done, except he'd drunk a lot more in company before, and none of those instances had included squishy feelings clamouring for his attentions.
Merlin returned with a small bottle of disinfectant and a plaster in hand. "It's not bad at all, but we can just cover it up; it'll be less discomfort, anyway," he said, diluting a bit of the Dettol, his mouth fighting a smile.
"Excuse me," said Arthur, "are you laughing at my misfortune?"
"As if I'd dare," Merlin said, turning a full-blown grin on him now.
To avoid the not wholly unpleasant furling feeling in his stomach, Arthur shifted his gaze to somewhere behind Merlin's left ear, one of the cupboard handles. Dastardly cupboards.
"Okay," said Arthur, grasping to salvage his reputation as Merlin gently daubed disinfectant on his forehead, "if anybody asks, I got this battle wound saving an old lady from being robbed on the street."
"Right, yeah, saw the whole thing. Really hard hoodlum," Merlin agreed, peeling the paper off the adhesive bits of the plaster. "Huge. Gargantuan."
"Neck as thick as a tree trunk," Arthur continued.
"Tattoos all over his face."
"To hide his sloping forehead."
Merlin laughed, the flutter of his breath grazing Arthur's skin, a soft light in his eyes as he patted the plaster in place. "All better," he said, his hands falling back to his sides. He took a step backwards.
Something in Arthur's chest tightened with an intensely sweet and sour quality that made him want to take the distance back. He pushed against it, impatient with himself, until it subsided.
"You still have the remote down your trousers," Arthur said for something to say.
"Yeah," Merlin said, retrieving it, a small smirk playing across his lips. "That means I won, doesn't it?"
Arthur regarded him with a cocked eyebrow. "Ahh, no, that means you cheated. And that the remote probably needs a good year at least in therapy from being shoved down your arse."
"I'll thank you not to impugn the quality of my arse," Merlin said archly. "I've never had any complaints about it."
Arthur made a show of looking. "I'll be the judge of that."
Merlin's brow lifted, and his grin dimmed slightly. "Don't start things you have no intention of following through on," he said, and his tone, though still cajoling, held a minute hint of uncertainty.
"Who says I don't follow through?" Arthur said airily, even as he knew he was treading dangerous waters.
It was a reckless move, more than likely a stupid one as well, fuelled by something entirely unrelated to rational thought. He hadn't had nearly enough wine for any of this to be faulted to an alcohol-impaired verbal filter, hadn't had enough to be able to tell himself this was anywhere near a good idea. But even as part of his brain rooted around frantically for its misplaced common sense, the rest of it was urging him forward, helpful and irritating as it zeroed his attention in on Merlin's lips, slightly parted and waiting for Arthur's next step.
Arthur took it, the inches between them vanishing in his wake.
Merlin's half-smile flickered and guttered out, though he made no attempts to move out of the way. "Arthur," he said, half a question. The other half sounded like an invitation.
In all honesty, Arthur had worked a lot harder before to steal a kiss or more from someone, often with charming, witty lies; all he'd done with Merlin so far was to remark upon his backside, but the soft gasp he snuffed from Merlin's mouth with his own felt so much more richly satisfying than a dozen other hard-won dalliances combined.
The seal of their first touch, deeply lush and fiery fierce, seemed to break a floodgate; the hesitation from just a moment ago evaporated in smoke, leaving only open, naked want, each kiss more desperate than the last, every touch fixed like a brand.
Somewhere in the fog of building lust, a tangle of thoughts surfaced for air. Maybe this careless physicality was just what they needed to slough off the remains of a difficult day; or maybe this was only the natural result of the two of them working and living together in such close quarters. Alongside, myriad other justifications began adding to the fold, and there was some part of Arthur trying to discard them all, to tell himself this was wrong, wrong, wrong, but then there was Merlin's hand sliding around the back of his neck and pulling him away from himself, and the resistance fell away to make room for just one thought: I want this.
Even that couldn't remain at the forefront of his mind for more than a split second, his focus in fragments, delirious over the heat of Merlin's fingers searing the skin at his back, the agony and the promise of the audible friction as they collided. He'd try to catch the taste of Merlin's mouth, to linger on the aftertaste of wine on his tongue, only to be distracted in the same moment by the rasping gasps from Merlin's throat and dive into the hollow at his collarbone to steal those sounds before they hit the air. It was too much all at once; already he was fully hard, and Arthur was dizzy with wanting more.
When he had his senses returned to him perhaps he would be able to recall someone else -- there had to be -- who'd made him feel this way, whose breath set him on fire, whose heated caress gave him new life, but for now, he could exist only in Merlin.
Arthur inched his hands up under Merlin's shirt, fingers chording the keys of his spine. "Off," he murmured, "off."
Their hands tangled in the collective effort to unclothe themselves and each other, a difficulty compounded by the need to keep touching one another as though the chance might be taken away from them at any minute. They managed it in the end, laughing with breath stolen from each other's mouths, fumbling with buttons that only heightened their urgency.
Chest pressed against chest, Arthur could feel the drumbeat of Merlin's heart pounding into his skin and his own pulse chasing it relentlessly, always just a step behind.
He palmed Merlin's arse, drawing him as close as the laws of physics would allow and wanting him closer yet, the curve of Merlin's cock grazing his through strained trousers both a torture and a taunt.
Impatient with desire, Arthur undid Merlin's trousers, leaving them slung low across his hips as Arthur reached for his cock. He wrapped a loose fist around it, marble-smooth and hard, thumbing the slit, and a guttural noise emanated from Merlin's throat, urging Arthur for more of the same.
Arthur slid down for a taste, but a touch of Merlin's hand to his shoulder stilled him momentarily.
"Wait, wait, wait," Merlin breathed.
Rocketing back up, simultaneously hoping Merlin would be the one clearheaded enough to stop this and wishing desperately against it, Arthur asked, "What?"
Slightly sheepish and pointing a shaky finger across the kitchen, Merlin nodded to an open window, blinds up, that looked out onto several other lit windows across the way. "People could see."
Relief cluttered Arthur's chest, and if there was any abiding shame at being unable to resist carrying on, lust took care of it.
Arthur leaned in and nipped at his earlobe, his fingers skimming alongside Merlin's spine. "Let them. We look good like this," he murmured, earning another quiet, unintelligible noise from Merlin.
Even so, they began moving away from the kitchen by unspoken agreement, shucking the remainder of their clothing along the way until they both fell, naked, into Merlin's bed, wrapped up in each other.
Merlin was equally as demanding as he was yielding, his lips and his hands choreographing a strange, perfect dance across every inch of Arthur's skin that left Arthur reeling in a million directions, his body grounded with the solid weight of Merlin's pressing him into the mattress, but his senses soaring to the ether.
Merlin's hands were hot on his skin, and his mouth hotter still, sucking wet kisses down the cords of Arthur's neck, but it was the incendiary thrust of Merlin's cock alongside his own that wrenched a moan from his throat. He lifted his hips, rising and falling to Merlin's rhythm, their cocks sliding together, his chest full to bursting with pure, perfect agony.
He splayed his hands over Merlin's shoulder blades, stripping two parallel paths down the length of his back, and converging over Merlin's arse. Feather-light, one finger slid down the crease, and his fingertip kissed the opening at the end of the curve.
Merlin bucked. "Jesus Christ, Arthur," he groaned into Arthur's neck. "Give a guy some warning?"
"No," said Arthur, feeling the corners of his mouth lift, a bubble of laughter swimming up his throat, and turned their bodies so that Merlin was under him.
Arthur pulled up, straddling himself over Merlin's knees. Before him, Merlin stared with hungry eyes, eager for more but holding back with a clenched jaw, letting Arthur take the lead.
Leaning back down, Arthur kissed the insides of Merlin's thighs, the contours of his hips, everywhere but his straining cock, and Merlin emitted a little whine, his back arching, wanting Arthur's mouth on him. There was a light shine of pre-come on Merlin's stomach, and Arthur bent to lick it off, a spark of saltiness on his tongue that made his mouth water.
It spurred him like a shot, and at once Arthur closed one hand around the base of Merlin's cock and sucked the head into his mouth, lower and lower until it hit the back of his throat.
Merlin uttered something incoherent but decidedly filthy, his knuckles white, clawed into the bedspread.
His head moving steadily up and down, Arthur streaked Merlin's cock with his tongue, circling over the head, underneath the ridge, delving across the slit. Merlin arched up, his hips rolling to an erratic beat.
Coming up for air, Arthur let his hands take over for a moment, stripping Merlin's length lazily, and moved up Merlin's body. Merlin rose on his elbows, meeting Arthur halfway in a hard kiss.
"Like that, do you?" Arthur asked, and in return, Merlin gave him a breathy laugh.
Arthur kissed the light of his smile, and Merlin hauled him in for more, the length of their bodies flush, the tip of Arthur's cock nodding against Merlin's balls. Merlin pulled his knees up to let Arthur in closer, and the graze of Arthur's cock on Merlin's opening, unexpected and fiery, stilled them both. Arthur's teeth clenched with a sweet tingle and he pressed his mouth into Merlin's skin.
"Fuck," Merlin breathed when Arthur couldn't help but do it again, both of them already starting to build a rhythm together.
It was just the minutest of touches, only the very tip of his cock, but Arthur felt the flank of Merlin's thighs at his sides and the roll of Merlin's hips underneath his hands and he needed no other help imagining pushing himself all the way inside, to feel Merlin's legs clench him in and Merlin's hips judder on each thrust, and Arthur wanted, wanted, wanted.
Breathless from holding it in, Merlin's voice shuddered with the same want. "Fuck me," he whispered. "Fuck me, Arthur."
There should have been something pithy to say -- there was always something pithy to say -- but Merlin's words rang like a clarion call in Arthur's head, and Arthur could only gather enough wherewithal to nod and follow Merlin's gestures for locating the condoms and lube from the drawer of the bedside table.
With agitated hands, Arthur tore open the square packet and rolled the condom on, while Merlin, the hunger on his face more than evident, watched him, touching his own cock lightly, like a place-marker until Arthur could get back to it.
The minute away from touching Merlin a minute too long, Arthur surged forward to kiss him, and then, leaning back on his haunches, hooked Merlin's legs over his shoulders. He poured lube out onto his palm, spreading it over his fingers; there was a sharp intake of breath from Merlin as he smeared it over Merlin's opening.
Slowly, knuckle by knuckle, Arthur eased one finger inside him; Merlin groaned through gritted teeth.
"All right?" Arthur asked, his voice huskier than usual, far from calm himself as he slid his finger in and out, each move smoother than the last as Merlin's body warmed up to him.
Merlin gave him a half-smile, nodding, and Arthur crossed two fingers and pushed them inside him, stretching Merlin's walls, trying fervently not to think of the minutes from now when he'd have his cock sheathed in that heat, that tightness, when he'd make Merlin writhe beneath him.
A shuddery breath fanned past Merlin's lips. "Arthur," he said.
Arthur pulled his fingers away, daubed a palmful of lube over his own cock. He suspended himself on locked elbows over Merlin, the movement of his hips scant, the end of his cock barely skimming over Merlin's hole, drawing out the neediness on Merlin's face, the desperate pitch in his voice.
Finally, wearing on his own self-control, Arthur eased himself down and pressed forward, a barely suppressed groan escaping his lips as he entered Merlin, the heat nothing as he'd imagined and infinitely better, impossibly and deliciously close around his cock. Merlin's eyes screwed shut and his mouth gasped open but he was soundless, the tight clutch of his fist in the bed sheets as good as words, pain and pleasure written in his white-knuckled grip.
Arthur kept still for a moment, letting Merlin's body orient itself to the penetration, and when Merlin blinked his eyes open again, Arthur planted a light kiss to his lips.
Slowly, surely, Arthur began moving his hips, barely an inch out and then back in again, and Merlin followed, his eyes locked on Arthur's face until Arthur started quickening his pace, each thrust a little harder, a little deeper, a driving force that made Merlin throw his head back. Arthur watched his Adam's apple bob up and down, his mouth form noiseless words, his sinuous frame tauten on every thrust, and it only made him go faster, wanting Merlin to just shatter in his hands.
Arthur drove his cock deep, the heat of his arousal close to blistering, the slap of his balls against Merlin's sweaty and obscene, the look on Merlin's face and the arch of his back fuelling the fire. Harder, faster, Arthur rammed into Merlin, watching, always watching the fevered twist of Merlin's mouth as they chased each other closer to the edge.
Blindly fumbling for the lube, Arthur squeezed some out into the vicinity of his hand -- getting it everywhere, he didn't care -- and slid it between their bodies, finding Merlin's lately neglected cock, and instantly drawing out a garbled profanity as his fingers closed in on it.
On the downbeat of each thrust, Arthur pumped his fist around Merlin's length, sliding in and out, up and down, every movement dedicated to nothing but making Merlin come for him. He could feel Merlin trying to hold him off, felt the sweet constriction around his own cock, Merlin's fingers digging into his skin.
"Arthur-- fuck," Merlin stuttered, a hitch in his breath as Arthur drove hard into him.
"Come on, Merlin," Arthur said, his own breath unsteady, and maybe there were more words he'd intended to say, but Merlin's eyes found his, and something in them pushed Merlin off the brink.
He dragged Arthur down with him into the deep. Sheathed still inside him, Arthur felt every single shudder and tremor of Merlin's climax, and he stroked Merlin's cock until Merlin spent everything he had, and then there was nothing for Arthur to do but let go, let the stars burst into light behind his eyes, let Merlin's aftershocks ride him down, let Merlin hold him close, sweaty and sticky and high and wild, until he felt like he could breathe again.
Continue to Chapter Eight
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♥ ♥ ♥
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So good.
Dude, I love youuuuuuuuuuuuuuu for writing this. Every single line. I wait for it to update, like a five year old waits for the ice cream truck.
Loved all of it. Sorry so incoherent, all your fault.
♥
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♥
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This fic is just so wonderful. All of it. Love the story and the shmexy scene. :p Cannot wait for the next bit! I'm very interested to see what happens. It's just so much fun and sooo good!
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FINALLY! *tears*
And oh, I wanted to hit Arthur when he dashed out like that. ARTHUR!!! :(
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Ah, poor little Arthur, damned if he does, damned if he doesn't.
Thank you for reading!
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Oh, we'll seeee...
Morgana knows and sees all! :)
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And also, love the image of Arthur with a bad haircut on his Office ID.
And Morgana rules all.
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It's a rule of all forms of ID, I think, that the day you have to take your photo is the day you look like the painting-in-the-attic version of yourself.
Morgana thanks you for noticing. :)
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I will be stalking you ;u;
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Lovely hot scene BTW. I was called away before I could finish it the first time, but it's definitely one to savor.
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Thank you for your comments re: the porn. Porn is always really difficult for me to write, so I'm really glad you enjoyed it!
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This prolonged contact with Merlin has allowed friendship and more and the alcohol and the threat of losing everyone and this connection with Merlin pooled together to bring about this erotic encounter. I hope Arthur doesn't try to talk himself out of this in the morning. Merlin probably has him firmly slotted in the Future Husband slot. If he lets himself, I think Arthur would love to be there.
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