Archive of Our Own

“I thought this was an office party?”

“It is!” Gwen has to shout to be heard over the loud music coming from Morgana’s ridiculous speakers and the general roar of laughter and conversation filling the room. Merlin jabs a finger in the direction of the built blonde guy talking to Leon by the kitchen in response, and Gwen’s confused expression clears.

“Oh! That’s Morgana’s brother.”

“Does he work for her, too?” Merlin frowns, thinking about the office space he shares with the twenty people of Morgana’s start-up company. They’d been in each other’s pockets for almost a year, working elbow-to-elbow in the sparse, open-plan office of LeFay-Smith Systems. He would have remembered someone like Morgana’s brother. “And if so, why haven’t we ever seen him before?”

“He doesn’t work for her, but is it so surprising he’s here? Morgana told us to bring whoever we want.”

She did, but Merlin is willing to bet the brother is the only person here who doesn’t work for their company. Half of the employees are dating each other, an incestuous little pool of like-minded maniacs willing to give up sleep or free time or the ability to live without a caffeine addiction to get the startup off the ground. It’s messy, sometimes dysfunctional, and Merlin has dealt with more TMI than he cares to remember - but it’s also his dream job, and if he thinks too hard about the joyful found-family made up of his coworkers he might start to cry into his cocktail.

That thought has him squinting into said cocktail. He couldn’t recall if it was the fifth or sixth one he’d had since arriving. “Don’t let me drink anymore.”

“That’s no fun,” Gwen pouts, but she obediently takes his cocktail and finishes it for him. 

“Is he, though? Fun?” Merlin gestures back at the brother, who is nodding along to whatever story Leon is telling. The brother looks a little bored, but Merlin gets that - Leon’s stories tend to meander even when he isn’t drunk. 

“Is he fun?” Gwen bites down on an ice cube, crunching thoughtfully. “No. Not fun. He can be nice, I think, but mostly he’s standoffish.”

Gwen would know. She’s known Morgana the longest: Gwen had been her university roommate, had been along for Morgana and Leon’s entire courtship, and was co-founder of their startup. Still, Merlin wishes she was wrong in this case; the brother is gorgeous . But even though Gwen is also drunk, Merlin figures she’s right - everything about the brother screams aloof and arrogant. 

“Shame, that,” Merlin says, and absently wanders off to get another cocktail, Gwen at his heels.  

They both forget to stop drinking.

—

The party winds down around three in the morning with the majority of Merlin’s coworkers calling for Ubers or sobering up enough to navigate the Underground stop half a block away. Merlin gets caught up in a discussion with Will about whether or not dinosaurs had feathers - Merlin pro, Will firmly against - until Will’s girlfriend calls to say she’s downstairs and ready to bring Will back home. The music got turned down a few hours ago, but Merlin is still somehow surprised at how quiet everything is.

In fact, the place appears to be empty. He vaguely recalls Morgana announcing to the room she’s going to bed and they can stay or sod off if they like, with a wobbly Leon following his fiancé down the hallway away from the party. 

The room starts a slow spin around him, and Merlin sharply regrets that he didn’t ask Will if his girlfriend could drop him off on their way home. “Well, shit.”

“You alright?”

Merlin turns around in time to see Morgana’s brother emerging from the hallway. He’s frowning, looking tired and annoyed and far too statuesque for Merlin’s level of sobriety. 

“Fine!” Merlin says. It comes out too loud, and he winces as the brother’s frown deepens. “Sorry. Bit smashed, actually.”

“You don’t say,” Morgana’s brother says. “I didn’t think anyone was still here. Have you called for a car or anything?”

His voice is posh like Morgana’s, but he lacks her cheerful warmth. Merlin stares at him for a moment before shaking his head. He regrets the motion immediately as the room lurches sickeningly around him. “Er, no. I only live three Tube stops away. Was gonna just -“ Merlin pumps his arms a few times to mime walking, but that doesn’t help with the nausea. 

“I don’t think that’s the best idea,” Morgana’s brother says. “Let me -“

“S’great idea,” Merlin argues. “I’m brilliant at the Tube. Every day!”

“I’m sure. I’m calling you a car.”

“You can’t,” Merlin says, feeling smug and also like he might need to vomit. “Don’t have my address, do you?”

“Here’s a thought,” Morgana’s brother pauses dramatically. “You could tell me where you live. You do remember that much, right?”

“I’m brilliant at remembering where I live,” Merlin confides. 

“Prove it,” Morgana’s brother says.

“Prove what?”

“Prove you’re brilliant at remembering where you live. Tell me your address.”

Merlin does, and then lurches over to the kitchen to throw up spectacularly. He grins triumphantly at Morgana’s brother after he manages to hit the sink. “M’brilliant at puking too.”

“Right,” Morgana’s brother says. He doesn’t say anything else as Merlin helps himself to a paper towel to wipe his face, or when he steals a bottle of Morgana’s fancy water from her fridge. He’s just leaning against the opposite wall like a posh, arrogant git until his phone chirps a few minutes later. “Your car’s here, sunbeam. Don’t break your neck getting into the elevator.”

It isn’t until the Uber driver has dropped him off in front of his flat that it occurs to Merlin he never asked for Morgana’s brother’s name. It bothers him for the span of time it takes to get inside and fall fully-clothed into bed, and then he forgets just about everything.

Of course, the pricks he works with don’t allow him to forget for long.

“Morning,” Morgana smirks at him over the top of his computer screen, looking far too chipper for a Monday morning after a party weekend. “Glad to see you’re still alive.”

“Was there a doubt?” Merlin asks. He’s still feeling a little groggy, even after doing absolutely nothing on Sunday except trying to recover from Saturday night.

Morgana leans against the corner of Merlin’s desk, holding a coffee mug between her manicured hands. “Arthur kept asking after you. He wondered whether you’d choked on your vomit and died, if you made it home at all.”

“Who’s Arthur, again?”

“My brother,” Morgana raises an eyebrow at him. “I thought you two met at the party.”

“Right,” Merlin says, feeling stupid. “We did. I - he never told me his name, so.”

“Well, you made an impression. And a mess,” Morgana’s face goes impish. “He kept bitching that you threw up in the sink.”

Merlin wishes the office were a little less open-plan, since Will and Gwen are already smirking at him and Freya is looking over at them with interest. “Sorry about that. Though I maintain it’s your fault, for providing so many deadly cocktails.”

“Oh, it doesn’t bother me!” Morgana laughs, her long ponytail slipping off of one shoulder. “I didn’t have to clean it up.”

Which means that Morgana’s brother - Arthur - did, and Merlin kind of wants to die. “Well, ta for that. If anyone needs me, I’ll be throwing myself off the roof.”

“Oh, don’t be dramatic.” Morgana pushes away from the desk with another wicked grin and starts back across the office to her own work station. “I’m just glad I can report back to Arthur that you did, in fact, survive.”

“Not for long!” Merlin calls after her. He throws a balled up Post It note at Will when he laughs.

—

It’s just on the side of too hot in the park, and Merlin jumps a little as his mobile starts buzzing with his one hour alarm. Freya looks up from her novel to shoot him an annoyed look.

“Every hour, Merlin?”

“I take my sun cream duties very seriously,” Merlin says. He knows it’s something of a joke to be a pasty Englishman and a pasty computer coder, but he can’t help it. There are only so many photos one can handle from Uncle-Doctor Gaius showing the ghastly dangers of melanoma before one becomes something of a stickler for sun cream. And, because he’s a shit, Merlin adds, “And when everyone else our age looks like an old boot, I’ll look like a goddamned teenager with my flawless skin and milky complexion, so …”

He holds out his trusty tube of SPF 70 and waggles it in her face. Freya rolls her eyes at him, but still takes the cream and applies it to her bare shoulders and cheekbones. “Happy?”

“I’m beside myself with joy,” Merlin says, and leans back onto their picnic blanket. “Any idea who’s winning?”

“No,” Freya has already returned to her book, eyes flicking across the lines of text with no interest whatsoever in the game of football Lance, Elena, Elyan, Gwen and Morgana are playing on the broad sweep of sundrenched lawn. Merlin squints at them, confused by the unfamiliar men who have joined while Merlin was distracted by his phone and glass of Pimms.

“Frey,” Merlin says. “Why are all the men in this park so bloody gorgeous?”

That gets her attention. “What - oh! Arthur and his mates are here.”

“Oh, shit, you’re right,” Merlin fights the urge to hunch down behind her, aware he is being absurd. 

“Oh,” Freya says knowingly. “Right. Arthur cleaned up your sick the last time you met?”

“Don’t be a cow,” Merlin advises. “And yes, he did. It’s been a month, at least, though. He’s probably forgotten all about me.”

“In year five, Lina Cavannaugh sicked up during a vocab quiz. She sat three rows away from me and I will never forget it,” Freya has gone so far as to put her book down, one finger marking her place as she digs into the new subject with apparent sadistic glee. “That is to say, you always remember when people vomit around you. I doubt Arthur’s forgotten anything.”

Merlin throws himself backwards on the blanket, folding his arms behind his head. “I remember when you first joined up, when you were still so sweet. It’s sad to see how being at LFSS corrupted you.”

“If you’re so bothered, then hang out with your other friends on weekends,” Freya says tartly, reopening her book. 

“Right. ‘Cept I don’t have any other friends because I don’t have a life and I’m stuck with you.”

“Aren’t you lucky,” Freya says.

Convinced that Arthur won’t notice him if he stays flat on his back - and, lulled by the sweet smelling honeysuckle, the soft schwip of Freya’s turning pages and the warm slosh of Pimms in his head - Merlin lets his eyes close. 

“Merlin.”

“Mm?”

“Merlin, you’re a tomato. Wake up.”

It takes Merlin a few seconds to register that the voice is male. He struggles into a sitting position, feeling groggy, overly warm, and a little like his skin is too tight for his body. And then he spots Arthur. 

Arthur, who is sitting on the picnic blanket where Freya had been. Freya is nowhere to be found and when Merlin glances around the park, he doesn’t see anyone else he knows from LeFay-Smith Systems. For that matter, he doesn’t see any other the other strapping lads Arthur had turned up with, either.  “Where’d everyone go?”

“Home, I guess,” Arthur says. He’s holding a water bottle, and his thumb is tracing paths in the condensation that’s gathered on the cold metal. Merlin stares at the thumb for a little longer than he ought to, but grants himself a pass from feeling embarrassed. He just woke up. One should never be held accountable for what one does when one is confronted with a hot, prattish footballer with nice hands when one is just waking up.

“What a bunch of bags of dicks,” Merlin says. “What, they couldn’t wake me?”

“The girl you were with said you’d have a timer that’d wake you soon.” Arthur says, and Merlin frowns first at him, then down at his phone. He should have a timer, he always sets hour-long timers when he’s out in the sun for reapplying his -

But it’s definitely almost three hours later than he remembers, and with dawning horror Merlin registers the pink flush along his exposed arms and shins. “My sun cream!”

Arthur looks at him strangely. “Which you clearly forgot to pu-“

“That’s what the bloody timer is for!” Merlin wails. That explains the horrid too-tight sensation - he’s been properly sunburned for the first time in years. Lulled into a false sense of security, and distracted by attractive men chasing after a football like deranged puppies, Merlin must not have reset the timer.

“Why didn’t you wake me sooner?!” Merlin asks. He doesn’t wait for Arthur’s response, opening the camera on his phone to examine the horrible red flush on his face. He’s got white patches under his eyes from his sodding eyelashes, and he looks like a tit. “Forget that, why are you still here when everyone else I supposedly trust and care for swanned off to let me roast like a root vegetable in the bloody oven?”

“Morgana keeps complaining about pulling all nighters,” Arthur says, sounding snippy. “I figured you were, too, and that you could use the rest. And,” he adds, looking down his nose at Merlin, “would you rather get mugged in your sleep than have someone watching over you?”

But why was it you who stayed Merlin wanted to ask, but that wasn’t a question for Arthur. That was a question for Freya, the utter cow. She probably figured leaving Merlin in Arthur’s clutches would give Arthur time to berate Merlin for the vomit-in-the-sink incident.

“Well, thanks for saving me from a park-nap mugging. Unfortunately, all you’ve done is left me alive long enough to pass out and bloody die from heat stroke!”

“Has anyone ever told you you’re a bit of a drama queen?” Arthur asks mildly, and Merlin shoves his phone into his tote bag and turns to face Arthur squarely.

“Has anyone ever told you your bedside manner is a bit shit? Heat stroke is a real thing!”

Arthur has the audacity to roll his eyes. “I’m certain. But you only got a little burned, Merlin. You’ll be right as rain in a week, and probably back to pasty pale in no time.”

“And where did you get your doctorate on skin health -“

“Oh, don’t be a twat,” Arthur says.

“I’ll be a twat if I like,” Merlin insists. “Especially since I’m probably starting to exhibit all the symptoms of heat stroke -“

Arthur, the git , barks out a laugh. “I wasn’t aware being a twat was a symptom.” 

Merlin stands up and yanks hard on the picnic blanket. He’d hoped to catch Arthur unaware and send him sprawling, but Arthur simply looks at him, unmoving and unimpressed. The blanket jerking beneath him doesn’t so much as make him wobble. After a beat, Arthur rises to his feet and allows Merlin to pack the rest of the picnic things away. 

Merlin balls up the picnic blanket and shoves it into the tote bag, feeling awkward. “I’m off, then.”

“I believe you’ll make it, against all odds,” Arthur says, mock serious and utterly annoying. “You should give me your number so you can text me if you’re feeling woozy. Just in case.” 

“What, are you gonna rescue me or something?” Merlin scoffs.

“Hardly. I’ll simply call 999 for you.” 

“If I’m lucid enough to text you, wouldn’t I just call 999 myself?” Merlin points out, and Arthur lets out a haughty sort of sound. 

“I’m not sure of your judgment, Merlin. Since making your acquaintance I haven’t seen you exhibit the most stellar decision making.” 

Merlin thinks about being offended by this, but then considers the alcoholic overindulgence, the vomit in the sink, and now broiling himself to the color of a lobster on a hot June afternoon. “Right. I see how you would have gotten there, mate.”

Arthur holds out his mobile, the screen already showing a new contact card awaiting Merlin’s information. Merlin looks at it blankly for a moment. “Wait, you’re serious?”

“Why not?” Arthur gestures impatiently with the phone, looking irritated and sunkissed and handsomely sweaty - but mostly irritated. “This way, you can text me when you get home and I won’t wonder if your death is somehow, tangentially, on my hands.”

In the end, Merlin puts down his number to get Arthur to go away. He thinks about labeling himself as something like “The Victim of Arthur Pendragon’s Negligence, Likely About to Turn Up Dead from Sun Exposure” but decides that’s too much effort for whatever dumb joke Arthur’s playing at. Arthur thanks him when he gives the phone back, and walks with Merlin down to the nearest Tube stop where, blessedly, they part ways.

It’s nearly eight when Merlin’s phone buzzes, loud against the counter as he’s filling the sink to wash up after supper. The screen shows an unfamiliar string of numbers, and the text reads Are you alive, Merlin?

Merlin frowns at it. Who is this? he sends back, and when he checks the phone again after the dishes are finished some twenty minutes later, the screen has three texts.

It’s Arthur. 

Pendragon.

And I’ll take this as a proof of life message. Get some aloe vera and have a good night.

Merlin wonders if it’s possible to die of embarrassment. He saves the number anyway, and opens a new text to Doctor-Uncle Gaius requesting the grossest photos of skin cancer lesions the man can find. Obligingly, he receives three photos - and, good God, Merlin is never not setting his sun cream alarm again - and forwards them on to Arthur as punishment.

—

Another roll of thunder rattles through the empty office, making Merlin jump. He scowls at the rain lashing the windows before turning back to scowl at his computer, the progress bar on the monitor only reading 42% rendered. With a groan, Merlin stands up to stretch his legs before sinking back down into his office chair.

The storm has chased everyone else in the office home early, but Merlin didn’t want to leave without completing his checklist. The launch is only a few weeks away, and the longer Merlin delays his portion of the program, the worse his nerves get about the team meeting their testing deadline. Morgana and Gwen had both tried to make him go home, but he’d flapped his hand and assured them he’d leave as soon as his latest configuration was saved. 

That had been four bloody hours ago.

And now, Merlin thought, staring glumly over his monitor at the windows, he’d probably have to spend the bloody night to wait out the stupid bloody storm. No idiot in their right mind would be out in this weather - 

“Merlin?”

“Fuck!” Merlin shouts, half falling out of his chair in shock. He rights himself and sees Arthur, soaking wet in a sleek black raincoat and actual Wellington boots, looking at him with concern.

“Didn’t mean to startle you,” Arthur says. He shrugs off his raincoat and drapes it over the back of the chair at WIll’s workstation, revealing a tailored suit beneath. “Morgana said this place is usually empty by 9. What are you doing here?”

“I work here ,” Merlin says.

Arthur scoffs, pulling a slim digital camera out of his coat pocket. “Obviously. What are you doing here so late? And in this -”

A massive clap of thunder drowns out whatever he’s saying, and Merlin winces. 

“Listen, I have to finish this thing,” Merlin gestures to his monitor, which is now displaying 43% in the progress bar. “We’re on a deadline, and my evil flatmate refuses to wear headphones for his Call of Duty marathons and I can’t concentrate with his stupid game blasting all hours. Happy?”

“Ecstatic,” Arthur says. He’s toeing off the Wellington boots, exposing surprisingly bright green socks with a pattern of lions on them. His feet are well formed, and something about seeing Arthur Pendragon’s lion-sock-covered toes makes Merlin’s chest feel weird.

Must be the energy drinks, Merlin decides.

“Anyways, what are you doing here? And why’s it so important that everyone is gone?” Merlin squints at him. “Is this a robbery?”

“Don’t be stupid,” Arthur says idly. He’s looking at something on his phone, and moves across the open-plan space to the cupboard with the pipes in it. “Morgana requested special specifications for this building when she bought the office space.”

“So?” Merlin asks. He stands up to stretch his arms over his head and groans as his spine makes a sound like popcorn in the microwave. Opening his eyes, he catches Arthur staring at him. “What?”

“You’re going to be riddled with back problems when you’re forty,” Arthur informs him. His voice comes out a little strangled, and he clears his throat before busying himself with the digital camera. “So Morgana put loads of green tech into it, like - see? The insulation here is hemp wool - that’s what I’m looking to photograph - and she’s got bamboo flooring, photovoltaic solar panels outside -”

“So you’re here to take photos of the insulation?” Merlin interrupts.

“I’m a solicitor,” Arthur says. There’s a camera flash from inside the cupboard, and Arthur’s face is momentarily lit up in profile. “I need these for a case I’m working on, and Morgana wasn’t keen on my interrupting the work day, ergo, I’m here after 9.”

“Cool,” Merlin says, then rethinks himself. “I don’t care, actually. Of course you’re a solicitor.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Arthur asks, but the question comes out amused. 

Merlin waves a hand at him. “Look at you. Of course you suck the blood of virgins at night under a full moon.”

“I think you have a very strange idea of what goes on in a courtroom, Merlin.”

“I mean, solicitors are generally rather despicable as a species,” Merlin snaps.

Arthur snorts, the sound muffled by the cupboard - and probably the hemp wool insulation he’s so keen on. “I’m wounded. How ever shall I recover without your good opinion?”

“Probably by rolling around in piles of money like Scrooge McDuck,” Merlin suggests. He sits back down at his desk, clicking through a few dialogue boxes to confirm the next step in the program as it continues its slow march through the rendering process. 

Arthur continues to nose around the office, poking his head into odd spaces and snapping photos. He stands on Leon’s desk at one point to gingerly push one of the ceiling tiles free, consulting his phone for just the right spot. Merlin keeps finding himself watching Arthur as he moves from place to place. At one point Arthur shrugs out of his suit coat and rolls his sleeves up to his elbows; Merlin follows the movements of his hands over the top of his monitor.

It occurs to him that the last time they were alone together, Merlin was waking up with a bad sunburn in the middle of park like a massive idiot. He’s seen Arthur maybe a dozen times since but they had always had the buffer of coworkers around them. For all the good they were as buffers, Merlin thinks sourly. He scowls at the back of Arthur’s head as he fiddles with the sensor Morgana has hooked up to their solar array on the roof; at almost every gathering, Arthur has found some way to single Merlin out and bother him. It’s strange that now, alone in the unexpected intimacy of the office in a thunderstorm, Arthur seems content to go about his own business without constantly badgering Merlin.

The progress bar is at 84% by the time Arthur is satisfied with the world’s least exciting photo safari of a modern eco-friendly office. Merlin is gently twirling his office chair around, bored out of his mind.

“Looks like the storm isn’t going to let up anytime soon,” Arthur says. “Please tell me you’re heading out.” He’s busy rolling his sleeves back down; Merlin breaks his gaze away and shrugs. 

“It might be as long as another half hour before this is done,” Merlin says. Arthur shoots him a sharp look, then back out the window.

“It’s nearly midnight already.” 

Apparently, the ‘minding one’s own business’ streak is over: Arthur is back to his usual, bothersome self. Merlin rolls his eyes. “So it’ll be half midnight before this is done.” He can’t quite stop the massive yawn that distorts the end of his words. It’s as if Arthur reminded his body that it’s stupidly late, and clicking his rendering along is incredibly dull.

Arthur sighs and turns to Will’s workstation. Instead of gathering up his raincoat from the back of the chair like Merlin expects, he sinks down into it instead.

“What are you doing?”

“You’ll need a ride home, it’s shit outside.” Arthur says.

Merlin squints at him. “What?”

Arthur sighs again, as if Merlin is the greatest indignity the world has ever forced upon him. “Listen, it’s late, it’s coming down in buckets, and I’m assuming you’re planning to take the bloody Tube home -”

“For a man who’s had his head in our ceiling panels to take cheeky photos of our insulation, you sure are a judgemental elitist. Why do you have such a grudge against our perfectly respectable public transport?”

“Yes, I’m so elite for not wanting you to get struck by lightning or stabbed on a deserted platform in the dead of night,” Arthur says flatly. “I’m parked in the garage below the building. I’ll take you home.”

“No, you certainly will not!” Merlin says.

“Just -” Arthur starts, then visibly stops himself to take in a deep breath. Merlin has seen Morgana do the same thing when they’re arguing the finer points of Merlin’s brilliant code, and for the first time he can see the family resemblance between them. It’s off-putting to see a small piece of his beloved boss superimposed on the prattish face of his arch nemesis.

Well, arch annoyer. Arch mildly obnoxious … guy? Merlin frowns at himself. He’s more tired than he thought, apparently.

Arthur is massaging one temple, looking weary. “It’s late. Can we not argue just this once and let me take you home? For my own peace of mind."

And then, as if his computer and the rendering software and possibly the entire universe has it out for him, a soft chime sounds. On his monitor Merlin sees the status bar at 100% and sighs himself.

“What?”

“Ugh, fine,” Merlin mutters. Louder, he says “Program’s finished rendering. Get your bloody coat.”

Blessedly the drive isn’t all that far; in the span of fifteen minutes, Arthur’s posh car is pulling up in front of Merlin’s building. To add insult to injury, the rain had dissolved into a misty drizzle almost as soon as they had left the garage, but Merlin had been too tired to insist on being released to try his luck on the Tube. Instead, he flapped a hand in Arthur’s direction and got out of the car. “Thanks for badgering me into a ride home.”

“You’re welcome,” Arthur said. 

Merlin is halfway up the steps to the front door when he hears Arthur’s voice again. “Merlin!”

“What?”

He’s rolled the window down, leaning across the passenger seat to peer up at him in the low light from the street lamps. Merlin watches his mouth ease into a smile.

“Text me when you get to your flat. For some reason, I don’t trust you to safely navigate stairs this late at night, sunbeam.”

Merlin tosses him two fingers and lets himself inside the building.

The text he sends from just inside the door to his flat says Sod off.

Arthur just responds with a thumbs’ up.

–

The Tesco near Merlin’s flat is, unforgivably, closed early. Merlin stares at the sign taped hastily to the door, proclaiming that the floor replacement will be finished on Tuesday, and how sorry the Tesco is for the inconvenience. 

In the grand scheme of things it is only an inconvenience, and a minor one at that. But in the moment, Merlin feels like he could cry - the launch is only eight days away, he’s out of energy drinks and tea bags and paracetamol and bread for Christ’s sake, and if this Tesco is closed it means Merlin has to go to fucking Waitrose, or lug groceries on the Tube. The universe is clearly conspiring against him, and Merlin sends a mental apology to his bank account and walks the block and a half to the Waitrose in his neighborhood.

Waitrose is offensively shiny. 

Merlin grabs a basket and grimly makes his way among the nannies with their charges and the upper middle class people with their handbags and cologne. He forgoes anything he can live without until Tuesday, and winces at the price of his usual brand of biscuits. He considers popping the container of paracetamol open right there in the pharmacy aisle, but Hunith’s warnings about shoplifting and how he’ll go to jail forever ring in his mind along with the headache that’s been building from the lack of sleep, and clearly today is the worst day of all time - 

“Oh, hello Merlin.”

Merlin spins around and knocks a display of rash creams with his elbow, sending a handful of tubes careening to the floor. “Fucking - fudgeknuckles!”

Of course, it’s Arthur. 

More accurately, it’s the top of Arthur’s head, because he’s kneeling and gathering the innocent rash cream victims of his surprise attack. He stands and reshelves them, grinning at Merlin like he hadn’t just startled him half to death.

“Tell me,” Arthur says conversationally, that grin still revealing a crooked row of white teeth. “Is saying ‘fudgeknuckles’ an attempt to negate the fact you just swore, or are you implying that the fudgeknuckles are engaged in some sort of conjugal activity?”

“I don’t - you surprised me,” Merlin says, and Arthur’s grin somehow broadens even further.

“Sorry."

“Likely story,” Merlin mutters, and, fuck it , fumbles open the paracetamol canister. “I’m planning to pay for this,” he announces, as if Hunith’s disapproval could reach him from Ealdor. 

“Good. Now I don’t need to make a citizen’s arrest. I find them incredibly tiresome,” Arthur says. “Do you need a drink for those? I’ve got -”

“Nah,” Merlin says. He sucks as much spit into his mouth as he can and pops two tablets, swallowing past the uncomfortable lump of dry pills. He looks up to see Arthur has lost his grin and is staring at him with a weirdly blank look. “What?”

Arthur shakes his head and steps back, wrapping his hands around the handle of a buggy just behind them down the aisle. “Nothing. Are you not well?”

“Headache,” Merlin says. “Lots of late nights. Too much staring at screens, and there’s no food in the flat but my Tesco was bloody closed for floors , until Tuesday!”

“Ah,” Arthur says. There’s an awkward moment of silence where Merlin recaps his medicine canister and Arthur just shuffles his feet.

“Anyways, I -”

“I know Morgana’s been -” 

They stop speaking at the same time, and Merlin’s headache intensifies. He gestures for Arthur to continue, resisting the urge to dig his knuckles against his aching eyeballs.

“Morgana’s been a bit frantic,” Arthur says. “I know you’re all working really hard. I just wanted to say, erm, that I hope everything goes well.”

“Oh,” Merlin says. Is Arthur being … nice?

“And you should get home,” Arthur straightens up and waves an imperial hand at Merlin’s person, like a king greeting his loyal servant. “You’re clearly in no state to be out and menacing the London public.”

Aaaaand there it is.

“Listen,” Merlin says, “just because I work for your sister doesn’t mean you have the right to boss me around.”

“Am I bossing you?” Arthur says. 

“Yes!”

“I don’t think so,” Arthur tilts his head, considering Merlin with that infuriating grin. “This is simply me looking out for your health. Funny, isn’t it?” he adds, looking thoughtful. “It seems like I’m always having to look out for your wellbeing, aren’t I?”

Merlin grits his teeth, but regrets it when the pressure makes pain spike in his skull. The headache is now almost as unbearable as Arthur. “I didn’t ask you to, so don’t expect -“

“Of course,” Arthur cuts him off and spins him around, a hand on Merlin’s bloody elbow. “Come on. Tills are this way. And for God’s sake, text me when you get home so I know you haven’t collapsed in the street.”

Merlin wants to protest - no, he wants to kick Arthur in the shins, he should protest - but before he’s worked up the energy to yank his arm away there’s a smiling cashier scanning his meager pile of emergency tide-over items and asking for half his life savings in payment. Merlin hands over his pin card in a sulk, and when he turns to tell Arthur thanks for nothing, the man is gone.

Gone, but unfortunately not forgotten. Merlin stews all the way back to his flat, grateful only that the medicine has kicked in and the pounding in his head has diminished. 

There’s a buzz on the intercom almost two hours later that Gilly answers. Merlin ignores him, hoping desperately it’s not one of Gilly’s horrible gaming friends, and jumps when Gilly pokes his head into Merlin’s room.

“When did you get so fancy, Merls?”

“I told you, the bloody Tesco’s was closed,” Merlin says irritably, thinking Gilly saw the Waitrose’s bag Merlin left on their kitchen counter.

“So you order in groceries instead?” Gilly scoffs. “Whatever. Hope you’re not too posh now to put them away yourself.”

Merlin yanks his headphones off fully and follows his horrible roommate out into the kitchen. “Order in - Gilly, I told you, I went to Waitrose and -“ 

There’s two full bags of stuff sitting on the table. Peering inside, Merlin spots apples and cheese, a jar of Nutella and a loaf of bread. The other bag has a 24 pack of Merlin’s favorite energy drink.

“I didn’t order these,” Merlin says dumbly, and Gilly snorts.

“Maybe you did in a delirious haze,” he suggests, and Merlin is just tired enough to worry he might be right. He digs his phone out and sees a text up on his screen.

Merlin. Are you home or are you lying in a gutter somewhere?

Merlin looks between the bags of groceries and his phone, a horrible thought taking shape in his head. He groans aloud; Gilly cackles. “You did order them?”

“No,” Merlin opens the text and starts tapping out a response. “It’s worse than that.”

WTF did you send me?

He’s halfway through putting the food away when his phone vibrates with an incoming text.

He’s alive! And I would hope you recognize food when you see it.

Ur suc h a prat! How did you kno my address?

The little dots appear while Merlin watches, scowling down at his phone. He can almost imagine the other man smirking while he types, using all that smug prattish punctuation in his smug prattish texts.

You told me the very first night we met. You’re brilliant at remembering where you live, remember?

As a point of fact, Merlin doesn’t fully remember that conversation, but he did remember Arthur calling him a car. He groans again.

I didnt ask for this, but thanks fr being an interfering presumptuous prat

Arthur doesn’t respond, so Merlin puts his phone away and almost reluctantly makes himself a dinner of cheese toasties and apple slices. It’s the most nutritious thing he’s eaten in days, and he hates how he feels loads better with actual food in his stomach. Instead of dwelling on it, Merlin takes his energy and applies himself to one of the more pesky coding snags he has on his to-do list.

It isn’t until almost midnight that he notices his phone buzzing again; because of course, Arthur had to have the last word.

You’re welcome. Good luck with the launch.

—

The launch went well. No, the launch went perfectly.

Merlin is still buzzing with joy when the team descends on the Rose & Crown public house. It’s more posh than their usual, but Gwen insists they can all now afford to live more glamorously. They were launched, the numbers rolling in were brilliant, and Merlin finds himself buzzing with more than just joy a few hours into the party.

The Rose & Crown also attracts a wider range of clientele than their usual, including a slew of very fit men that, magically, seem to appreciate Merlin approaching for a bit of a flirt. One in particular is eyeing him up without a trace of subtlety, an inviting look in his dark eyes, so Merlin goes over to him and says hello.

The conversation goes nearly as brilliantly as the launch, Merlin thinks. The guy is hot, with thick red curls and high cheekbones sprinkled with freckles, and he laughs at Merlin’s jokes. The possibility of pulling for the first time in an embarrassingly long time is looking better and better, so Merlin presses a hand around the guy’s waist just to watch his eyes go sharp with interest.

“Merlin,” the guy practically purrs, “I think …”

Merlin doesn’t learn what it is he thinks, because the guy trails off with a bemused expression. Merlin releases his embrace - which is a crying shame, the muscles under his hand were lovely - and twists to see what caught his attention.

Arthur bloody Pendragon, scowling and standing just a little too close.

He’s a mix of angry headmaster and disappointed saint carved on the side of a cathedral, lovely and sculpted and somehow hotter for his disapproval. Merlin doesn’t bother to hide his groan of dismay, and the guy - Greg? - looks between them curiously.

“Merlin,” Arthur says, and - yes, definitely giving off the aura of headmaster, with his smart suit and tightened jaw. Merlin resists the urge to glare down at his penis, which twitches a little in his tight trousers at the thought. 

“Fancy seeing you here, Arthur,” Merlin says. “How is it that you’re now suddenly invited to all our company parties?”

Arthur sends him a sour look. “Morgana.”

“You don’t have to accept the invitations,” Merlin points out. “I can’t imagine a hotshot solicitor gets too much satisfaction from hanging about with a bunch of computer nerds.”

“Who’s your friend?” Arthur turns to Greg, turning on a megawatt smile that is both dazzling and also a display of far too many teeth to really be friendly. “I’m Arthur Pendragon. We haven’t been introduced, Mr. …?”

“It’s Greg,” Merlin interrupts, annoyed to be reminded he doesn’t yet know Greg’s last name. All the same, he spares a thought to pretend Greg is his boyfriend just to make Arthur go away. Wouldn’t that be the start of a grand love story, being fake boyfriends in a pub to save Merlin from an annoying interaction? As quickly as the thought comes Merlin dismisses it; he’s too aware of his own shortcomings when it comes to charisma, and doesn’t think he could pull it off. Instead, he turns away from Arthur to smile at Greg, nodding towards the bar. “And I would love to buy you a drink, if you like?”

Greg smiles, looking ill at ease. “Well -”

“Don’t let me interrupt,” Arthur interrupts. “It was so nice to make your acquaintance, Greg. Merlin.” He nods once, like the imperial git he is, and sweeps off through the crowd. Merlin glares after him, noting how people naturally part ways for him as if choreographed.

He turns back to Greg. “Listen, sorry about him - my boss’ brother, he’s a bit of a -”

“I get it,” Greg says. He laughs, and it’s a nice laugh. “But I think I’m okay on the drink.”

Merlin deflates. “Oh.”

“You’re lovely, but …” Greg shrugs, looking rueful. “Have a good night, Merlin.”

Shit. Shit fuck fuckity shit. “Ah, well. You too, Greg.”

Greg hesitates, looking like he’s going to regret speaking up, but says “It’s Grant, actually.”

“Shit,” Merlin says aloud. “I’m sorry, Grant, it’s so loud in here -”

“Don’t worry about it,” Greg - shit - Grant assures him, and disappears into the chattering patrons while Merlin decides how best to brain himself on the bar top without anyone noticing. Instead, he flags down the bartender and orders himself another gin and ginger.

“Where’d Greg go?”

Merlin turns to see Arthur standing behind him, looking smug. “Oh, sod off.”

“What?” Arthur spreads his hands, blue eyes wide and innocent and so full of shit Merlin’s surprised they aren’t turning brown. “I didn’t do anything.”

“That’s rich. You’re the only person I know who can be so annoying with so few words. You’re always doing something -”

“Like what, sunbeam?” Arthur is properly grinning now. “Like cleaning up after you, getting you home safely, rescuing you from death by heat stroke via ill-advised naps in parks?”

“Like cockblocking me while I’m trying to pull!” Merlin says, louder than he meant. He realizes he’s already downed half the gin and ginger and winces. “What I mean to say, what is it about me, hm? Morgana has a whole office of people for you to pester.”

“Maybe I pester you because you’re easy to rile,” Arthur suggests. “And if that was you on the pull, mate, I’m here to tell you that your technique needs a little work.”

Merlin’s jaw drops. “Of all the - you have no right to judge what works or not!”

Arthur shrugs, entirely unconcerned. “I wasn’t aware I needed to give you my qualifications.”

“Listen, my technique -” and ugh, Merlin hates himself for using that word, makes him feel horrifically laddish - “works on plenty of men of my persuasion. Not plenty plenty, but um, an appropriate amount.”

“Your … persuasion.”

“That’s right.” Merlin bristles as Arthur lets out a disbelieving chuckle.

“No matter what persuasion that guy had, all I saw you doing was going in for a bit of a cuddle. Like he was a great aunt you hadn’t seen in awhile. Don’t tell me that actually works for you.”

Merlin glares at him and then, abruptly and potentially without his conscious mind’s input, makes a decision. He sets down the gin and ginger and steps forward, bringing his arms up as if to slide them around Arthur’s waist in a hug. “Yeah, I’m really -” Arthur starts, amused.

Merlin lets his hands drift at the last minute. 

He skates his fingertips lightly down Arthur’s sides, painfully aware of the heat radiating through the fine material of his shirt. Merlin lets his hands stop at the smooth leather line of his belt, traces it around towards Arthur’s stomach, as if he’s about to tug the belt loose and thumb his flies open. 

Arthur goes still, jaw dropping - the thought that Merlin might undo his trousers right there in the middle of the crowded pub broadcasting so clearly across his face - just as Merlin hooks his index fingers into the loops bracketing the belt buckle. He uses them like tiny handles, jerking their bodies together and Arthur stumbles forwards. He braces his hands on Merlin’s chest, narrowly avoiding crashing into him.

They’re so fucking close. Merlin can feel Arthur practically panting against his neck.

The alcohol is buzzing in Merlin’s blood, making him brave enough to lean in and exhale, slow and hot, right at Arthur’s ear, “This a good enough cuddle for you, Pendragon?”

Arthur’s hands flex against his pectorals, and Merlin can’t miss his sharp intake of breath. It’s not fair for Arthur to be so pretty and smell so good, Merlin thinks absently. His cologne is something spicy and warm, and Merlin realizes in horror that he’s nosing at the skin just below Arthur’s jaw to chase the scent.

Merlin pulls away so fast that he jams his hip against the bar, but Arthur - for once - doesn’t mock him, or, as Merlin was expecting, go all macho straight guy and shove at him. He looks … well, shit! Arthur looks dazed, leaning forward like he’s being pulled after Merlin’s warmth. His eyes are dark and hooded and the last time someone looked at Merlin like that, he was on his knees with a cock down his throat.

“See?” Merlin blusters. He picks up his drink and finishes it. “My bloody technique works on all persuasions. So there.”

There’s a terrifying moment where Arthur’s eyes snap to his mouth, just as Merlin licks his lips to chase a stray droplet of his drink. Merlin half chokes - he hadn’t meant to be coquettish, good God - but he sets the empty glass down on the bar and, horrifyingly, salutes Arthur.

“Well, thanks ever so for a lovely and humiliating night. If you see Morgana, tell her I’m off.”

Arthur seems to remember his prattish personality enough to salute Merlin back, a grin breaking out across his face. “You alright to get home? Don’t need a chaperone?”

Merlin scoffs and brushes past him. It would have been a wonderful exit, walking away while not deigning to give Arthur a response, but the crowd refuses to part for him like it does for Arthur. Scowling, Merlin tries to wedge himself between two chattering groups and gets glared at for his trouble. He has to turn around to find a route out, so of course, that means squaring back off with Arthur. “Well, as you so charmingly chased away my opportunity to get Greg’s number, I no longer require a chaperone. I’ll be going home as I came - alone.”

Arthur’s brows lift, and the haughtiness that usually takes up residence in his face gives way to something mischievous. “You must come alone often.”

Merlin frowns at him, and then splutters when the double meaning hits. “Now see here -”

Thankfully Arthur cuts him off, because Merlin has absolutely nothing by way of a comeback for Arthur’s shocking and depressingly accurate slight. “I’m serious, though. You’re good to get home safely?”

“Yes,” Merlin says. There’s a break in the crowd and he starts towards it, only to be stopped by Arthur taking his shoulder in a gentle grip.

“Hey, text me when you get in. Okay?”

And his voice is soft, almost too soft to hear among the chatter of the bar patrons around them. And his face is genuine, even with his eyes still crinkled up in amusement at Merlin’s expense. And Merlin might be well and truly fucked, because his chest feels strange and he doesn’t try to pull out of Arthur’s grip.

“Fine,” he manages, and Arthur’s fingers squeeze briefly before letting him go.

Merlin doesn’t remember much about getting home. He’s lost in his thoughts, replaying the night from different angles, and goes through the familiar motions of going down to the Tube platform, waiting for the right train, and getting off at his stop. It isn’t until he’s already climbed into bed that he picks up his phone again, tapping out a quick home safe.  

Arthur texts back almost immediately. Good. Sleep well, Merlin.  

The speed of the text feels vulnerable, somehow, like Arthur had his phone in hand waiting to hear from him. Merlin isn’t quite sure what to think.

—

Merlin waits to ask the question until after the waiter leaves with their drink order. “Your brother is straight, right?”

Morgana turns to him with a disbelieving expression. “Excuse me?”

“Arthur,” Merlin says. “He’s straight?”

Morgana’s eyebrows are climbing towards her hairline. “Please don’t tell me this is why you wanted to get lunch. I thought you wanted to talk about the code extensions!”

“I do!”

“But first you want to know if Arthur - the man who has been flirting with you for the last five months - is straight?”

Merlin opens his mouth, and shuts it again.

“You’re a coding genius, Merlin, but by God are you thick,” Morgana says.

“He hasn’t been flirting with me!” Merlin manages. “I would have noticed!”

“Clearly not,” Morgana says. She leans forward in her seat. “You know, I’ve always invited Arthur to company events, and the only time he ever accepted was when I had that thing at my place last spring, and I’m pretty sure that was only because he was staying with me while his flat was getting the floors redone.”

“Why are you -”

“And then after that night, for some reason,” Morgana steamrollers on, “not only does Arthur accept all of my invitations, he starts asking me when we’re all getting together next. See what I’m saying?”

“No,” Merlin says, because he’s lost control of the situation, and possibly his entire life.

“Don’t be stupid.”

“Morgana!”

“Merlin!” Morgana says back. She’s lost the look of incredulity, but now she’s grinning at him in a highly unsettling way. “I know Arthur isn’t the best at talking about his feelings, poor emotionally constipated bastard that he is, but he was so obvious with you. Everyone at the office knows!”

“What?”

“We all thought you were trying to let him down gently, or something.”

“What?”

“But really, all this time, you just didn’t realize,” Morgana said. She started to giggle. “Oh God, this is hysterical.”

“What?!” Merlin repeated. His voice had gone rather shrill.

“Whatever made you finally cotton on?” Morgana asked.

The waiter came back with a tray of tea and glasses of water, giving Merlin a moment to try and regain his composure. He tries to think of a way to tell Morgana that he basically groped her brother as a joke/to get him to back off with heteronormative panic and got Arthur’s bedroom eyes instead.

“Er,” he says, and fiddles with his napkin. “I might have - well, I,” he clears his throat, painfully aware of Morgana’s smirk, “he was being an ass at the launch party, so I tried to scare him away with my homosexuality?”

“He’s bi,” Morgana says. “And he’s very, very into you.”

“I,” Merlin starts, but nothing else comes out. Morgana must see some of his dismay in his expression because her face goes annoyingly soft.

“We were playing pool, you know,” she says, and no, Merlin doesn’t know . “When you started talking to that handsome ginger man at the bar. It was Arthur’s turn, and he just handed his cue off to Will and walked over. Didn’t even say anything, just made a beeline for you.”

Merlin stares at her.

“Why else would Arthur want to interrupt you and a very fit man?” Morgana asks patiently. “Why else would he want to try and spend time with you?”

“You’re saying all this like it’s so obvious,” Merlin says.

Morgana sighs. “It is obvious. He asks you to text him when you get home, for god’s sake.”

“I thought he was being obnoxious!” Merlin bursts out. “Or like, paranoid or something that comes from being a solicitor and seeing the scum of the world get off from like, murder trials or something, and he assumes everyone is moments away from getting stabbed or -”

“He’s not that kind of solicitor,” Morgana says.

“ - and he just wanted to make sure no one’s death goes unreported to the police, or he’d lose his little wig and robes and whatever sort of stupid thing solicitors have!” Merlin finishes. “Wait, what kind of solicitor is he?”

Morgana ignores him. “You are so dumb, and Arthur, bless him, is a repressed little bean.”

“I’m sorry, a repressed little bean?! ”

“It’s like that film, with the farm boy and the princess,” Morgana says, apparently in an entirely separate conversation than the one Merlin is having. “You know, wherever the farm boy says ‘as you wish’ he’s really saying ‘I love you,’ but the princess doesn’t get it because she’s an idiot. That’s just like you and Arthur’s ‘text me when you’re home’ routine!”

“Hang on,” Merlin says. “Are you fucking calling me Buttercup?”

Morgana breaks into laughter, a bright, pealing sound that draws the attention of half the cafe. Merlin fights the urge to sink into his chair.

“Yes! You’re Buttercup, oh Christ. Arthur, aka Farm Boy Westley, has been trying to tell you he loves you and you’re too dumb to notice!”

“I’m not Buttercup, for fuck’s sake,” Merlin mutters.

Morgana finally stops laughing, and regards him with a smile that is both fond and wry. “You so fucking are. Now, do we need to have the big sister conversation where I tell you if you break my brother’s heart I’ll kill you in creative ways the justice system hasn’t even heard of yet? Or,” and she looks a little uncertain, an expression Merlin has never seen her wear, “do you really not like him back?”

Merlin swallows hard. His mind is drawn, inexplicably, to the hot look in Arthur’s eyes and the feel of his hands on Merlin’s chest.

Morgana starts to cackle again. 

“Shut up!” Merlin hisses, and she grins at him.

“Break my brother’s heart and I’ll kill you in creative ways the justice system hasn’t even heard of yet,” she says, and reaches over to ruffle his hair. “You’ll be good together, I think.”

Later, tucked away in his room with the door shut against the sounds of Gilly’s Call of Duty session, Merlin takes out his phone to examine the text string with Arthur. There’s maybe thirty back and forths, all told; aside from a wry sense of humor in some of Arthur’s responses to Merlin’s overwhelming grumpiness, they’re straightforward. Little touches of concern and relief shared in turn as Merlin continued to exist in both safety and, apparently, Arthur’s regard.

He thinks about the ruddy flush of color on Arthur’s cheeks in the pub and the spice-warm scent of his skin. He thinks about Arthur sitting on a picnic blanket, haloed by the sun and keeping watch as Merlin slept (and burned) in the park. He thinks about Arthur’s pinched expression as he insisted on driving Merlin safely home through a storm. He thinks about all the times he spotted Arthur joining Morgana’s company gatherings, the instinctual kick of something in his stomach that he’d been stupid enough to misdiagnose as annoyed dislike.

For the first time since Arthur gave him his number, Merlin texts him unprompted. 

—

All Merlin’s text said was I’ll be at the Dragon and Chalice off Victoria 6ish tmrw.

It seems that was all he had to say, because Arthur is ducking inside the shabby pub at ten minutes to six. It’s raining outside, so Arthur is kitted out in his long black raincoat and Wellington boots; he’s hanging the former on the little rack near the door and stamping the latter courteously on the aged mat just past the lintel. 

Merlin watches him from the booth he’d commandeered a half hour ago, his nerves too tightly wound to finish out his normal work day. He thought seeing Arthur would make the pitchy feeling in his guts worse, but it’s the opposite: everything settles in this moment of uninterrupted observation. Arthur’s face is hopelessly transparent - at least, now that Merlin knows what to look for. Arthur takes a moment to draw in a deep breath, wetting his lips. He searches the pub with an expression tense with nerves and brittle with hope, and Merlin stands to wave. 

The moment Arthur spots him, his posture relaxes into casual confidence. He’s the Arthur from the parties and late-night, eco-office scavenger hunts, but now Merlin knows he’s also a hopeful, beautiful idiot that couldn’t just say what he wanted, couldn’t simply ask for it. So when Arthur comes up to the table, drawing a breath for whatever opening volley of wit he’s got planned, Merlin beats him to it with the first thing that comes to mind.

“What kind of law do you practice, anyway?”

The question is clearly so unexpected it takes Arthur a moment to respond. He blinks at Merlin, then narrows his eyes. “Are you in some kind of trouble?”

“Very likely,” Merlin says, and when Arthur’s eyebrows shoot up he hastens to add “not that kind of trouble. The criminal kind, that is, I’m not in that. Er, just, what kind of solicitor are you?”

“I work in environmental law,” Arthur says. He sinks into the booth opposite from Merlin, and Merlin settles back into his own seat.

“What does an environmental law person do?” 

Arthur is still staring at him in cautious confusion. “I’m mostly focused on protecting, erm, British source waters, but the nonprofit I’m with handles a number of ecological cases. I’m the lead legal counsel for the Waters of Albion Source Protection Service.”

Merlin takes a moment to think about this, and then turns a broad smile on Arthur. “Listen, do you identify as a Protestant?”

Clearly, the joke is an old one; Arthur’s confusion melts into what Merlin could generously call a disgruntled frown, if it weren’t so clearly a pout. “ I didn’t pick the acronym. And we do important work, Merlin.”

“I’ll bet,” Merlin says sincerely. “So you taking photos of our hippy insulation -”

“There were builders - I won’t bore you with the details, but they wanted Waters of Albion to certify a skyscraper plan as a green building blueprint. You get all kinds of tax breaks for that sort of thing, but half their materials weren’t going to come from sustainable sources so we didn’t certify. They wanted to bring us to the city council to push for an appeal, they were arguing that - anyway,” Arthur cuts himself off, a hint of a smile tugging the corners of his mouth. “I had a good example of a real green building, and thought the photos would sway the conversation.”

“And did they?”

“They did,” Arthur says. He shifts a little. “Merlin, why did you call me here? Certainly you aren’t just interested in hearing my CV.”

“Technically, I didn’t call you here,” Merlin points out. “I merely said that I’d be here and when.”

“A true technicality. The invitation was clearly implied.” Arthur fixes him with the ‘disappointed headmaster’ look Merlin can now fully appreciate as wildly arousing. It makes him want to sit up straight and beg, for Christ’s sake. “Answer the question.”

“It’s just -” Merlin hesitates. “You’re not what I expected when you said you’re a solicitor.” 

“Oh, you don’t think I - what was it you said? Suck the blood of virgins?”

Merlin winces. “Listen, I know that was maybe a little much, but it turns out you’re actually … noble? I need a minute to readjust my worldview.”

That surprises a laugh from Arthur, and Merlin can’t help his own grin. The calm feeling that descended on him with Arthur’s arrival has ebbed, leaving him with nervous, excited anticipation and a hint of incredulity at his own daring. He’s a pasty coding nerd; he doesn’t make grand declarations and sweeping gestures, and he certainly isn’t meant to be rewarded with noble, insufferable, blonde prats with lovely eyes and dry humor.

“Did you really think so poorly of me?” Arthur asks.

“Not to go all Mr. Darcy and my good opinion once lost is gone for fucking ever, or whatever he says, but you didn’t make a terribly wonderful first impression,” Merlin says. He holds up a hand to forestall whatever entirely justifiable response Arthur may have to that statement. “Yeah, I know, I have no room to talk given the whole throwing-up-in-the-sink thing. But I will fully admit to thinking you were just getting your kicks out of pestering me.”

Arthur seems to deflate, just a little. “Oh. Let me assure you, it wasn’t my intent -” he stops himself, and takes a deep breath. “I”m sorry that’s how I made you feel.”

Repressed little bean, Merlin thinks, a touch bewildered at the fondness he feels. 

“I’ll also say that maybe I didn’t like the first impression I made on you ,” Merlin admits. “I feel like all I’ve done is be embarrassing every time we’ve met, and I might have taken that out a bit on you. Sorry,” he adds. “But you have been overbearing and pushy and posh and exasperating, so it’s not all on me being embarrassing.” 

“If that’s what you thought, Merlin … I’ll ask again. Why did you call me here?”

“Well. Morgana has this theory that you’re -” Merlin pulls in a deep breath of his own, “maybe, just a little, into me.”

He expects bluster and denial. Instead, Arthur folds his hands on the tabletop and says “Didn’t you know?”

Merlin stares at him. “What?”

“I was being obvious,” Arthur says. His voice is courtroom neutral, but the skin around his eyes is pinched and his hands fidget where they’re pressed together in front of him. “Embarrassingly so, I’d say.”

“Embarrass - you’ve got to be kidding me!” Merlin says. “You couldn’t have been more - more Jane Austen-nonsense, undercover-agent, courtly-mannered bullshit subtle if you’d tried!”

 “I -”

“Actually, no,” Merlin interrupts. “Calling it courtly manners is too nice - you were pulling my bloody pigtails on the playground, weren’t you?!”

“Okay, there’s no need -“

“I’ll give you an example of ‘embarrassingly obvious,’ Arthur,” Merlin says. As soon as the words are out of his mouth, he wishes he could snatch them back but the damage is done. He’s moving too quickly now, the incredulous amusement is building into something like euphoric hysteria inside his chest, and only his unconscious mind can be held responsible for what he says next. “How about I’d like to pin you to the nearest wall and kiss you ‘til my lips are numb, get a double handful of that glorious, infuriatingly noble arse to hold you there until you’re desperate and, and aching -”

“Jesus, Merlin,” Arthur mutters. That ruddy flush is back on his cheekbones, and there’s a hectic look in his eyes that isn’t necessarily saying stop, you’re making a scene so much as stop, I’m already halfway to desperate and aching, you bloody perverted prick but Merlin could be projecting.

“Do you see the difference between that and whatever it was you were doing?” Merlin asks. He’s trying to regain his composure, but catching his breath is oddly difficult. “I haven’t had a clue for months!"

Arthur watches him steadily despite the blush, despite the somewhat wild look on his face. “Do you mean that?”

“Oh, about the pinning to the wall, and - “ Christ , Merlin’s unconscious is a bloody tart, he can’t believe he said what he just said out loud. He certainly absolutely cannot say it again. “I mean … yes. I mean it.”

Arthur is rising out of his side of the booth before Merlin finishes speaking. His gaze pins Merlin in place, and all he can do is watch as Arthur moves around the table and slides in next to him. All Merlin can do is stay absolutely still as Arthur’s hands slide across his cheeks and into his hair, cupping the back of his head with a gentleness that’s completely at odds with the way Arthur is crowding him in. All Merlin can do is push helplessly forward into Arthur’s mouth with his own, gasping into the heat and soft and yes of lips and tongue and cheeky scrape of teeth.

They part, Arthur drawing back enough to stare Merlin in the face. He’s the loveliest he’s ever looked, and Merlin doesn’t think before surging back into a kiss. The muffled sound Arthur makes is ridiculous and it drives Merlin wild.

Arthur is a hot line of hard body pressing Merlin into the wall of the booth, and he’s systematically blowing Merlin’s brain apart with the way he licks into Merlin’s mouth. His thumbs caress the sides of Merlin’s face, and the motion spurs Merlin into remembering he also has hands. It’s the work of a moment to get one palm around his bicep and the other around the back of his neck, where the hair curling along his collar is damp from the rain and still so soft beneath his fingers.

“Ahem.”

The worst part about breaking their kiss isn’t the fact that Arthur’s no longer kissing him. It isn’t even the mortification of the bartender at Merlin’s local being the one to interrupt them. No, it’s the thin thread of saliva that stretches for a half second between their bottom lips - which shouldn’t be so hot - before disconnecting and splatting a spitline down Merlin’s chin. 

That part is less hot, and more incredibly humiliating.

Elena beams down at them. “Merlin, mate, glad you’re getting some, but it’s Monday and the sun hasn’t even set yet. You’ll scare my after-work regulars.”

“It’s raining,” Merlin says inanely. He wipes at his chin, painfully aware of her amused gaze following the motion. “And I’m a regular.”

“You don’t regularly get the daylights snogged out of you, though,” Elena points out. “Which, congrats, by the way. Morgana’s brother. Nice.”

“Excuse me, I’m right here!” Arthur says. 

“Yeah you are,” Elena says with an appreciative eyebrow wiggle, and Merlin has to choke back a laugh. Arthur slides out of the booth and stands.

“My apologies,” he says, as formal as you like. “Merlin, let me buy you a drink?”

Merlin goggles at him for a moment. “Are you - are we on a date, now?”

Elena actually laughs at him, and Arthur raises one eyebrow. “Please don’t tell me this is too subtle for you. Yes, Merlin, we’re now on a bloody date!”

“Weren’t you already?” This question is called over by an older woman sitting alone with a vodka soda near the bar, and Merlin thinks about crawling under the table. She’s not done, adding “Why’d you make them stop, Elena dear? They’re ever so lovely a pair.”

Arthur flushes a bright red, and Merlin scrabbles out of the booth and seizes his hand, towing him back to the door. “Okay, now we’re on a date but going elsewhere. Ta, Elena, see you later!”

—

The first time Merlin gets Arthur into bed, he manages not to ask Arthur to use the disappointed headmaster voice on him. It’s a near thing - Arthur had stepped out of the kitchen for a work call as they’d prepped for a stay-at-home dinner date, and the dulcet tones of his pissed off and plummy accent did things to Merlin’s insides - but Merlin distracts himself by sucking Arthur’s bottom lip into his mouth and teasing it with his teeth.

They’d been on exactly two and a half dates. He’s counting this as at least one half of a date even though the dinner is certainly spoiling on the counter now, the plate of marinating chicken forgotten the moment Arthur ended his call. Merlin wonders if having sex after two and a half dates makes him easy, breaking the kiss so he can focus on unbuttoning Arthur’s shirt. As Arthur tugs it off before yanking Merlin’s polo over his head, Merlin decides he doesn’t care.

After all, there’s been five months of foreplay he didn’t know about already laying the foundation.

“Please tell me you have a rubber somewhere,” Merlin gasps into Arthur’s mouth. Arthur pauses, pulling back just a little to grin at him. 

“I do. Why, are you saying we’re going to need one tonight?”

Just for that, Merlin tweaks one of Arthur’s nipples. Arthur swats at his hand with a laugh, hooking his fingers in the waistband of Merlin’s trousers and using his grip to haul him back in.

“Hey, not fair,” Merlin manages in between smacking kisses, “that’s - ” another kiss, this time with Arthur licking the corner of his mouth in a way that shouldn’t be so arousing, “- my move!”

Arthur grins against his lips, fingers fumbling at Merlin’s flies. “I know. Just thought that I ought to borrow a technique that’s guaranteed to work on all persuasions.”

“God, you’re such a twat,” Merlin complains - or tries to, because his voice goes breathy and high at the end as Arthur succeeds in opening his trousers and presses the heel of his palm against Merlin’s erection. 

“You’re fucking gorgeous,” Arthur replies, as if trading a compliment for an insult is a regular way to conduct business. Thinking back on the history of his relationship with Arthur, Merlin thinks he might be onto something. “A fucking gorgeous handful, look at you.”

His hand is squeezing now, exploratory movements that make Merlin’s stomach pulse with heat. He all but rips Arthur’s jeans open, feeling clumsy and slow as his brain offlines with every increase of pressure from Arthur’s hand, but he’s rewarded for his efforts with a wet patch at the front of Arthur’s pants - which are tented in a most impressive way. Merlin feels a thrill of delighted satisfaction. “Bit eager, my lad.”

Arthur pulls back from where he’s been sucking kisses into Merlin’s bare shoulder. He’s flushed and his lips are wet and he’s sweating - gorgeously, Merlin thinks - and he’s wearing such an affronted expression Merlin laughs. “I’m eager? We’re supposed to be pan-searing a bloody chicken breast right now. We still would be if you hadn’t just jumped me!”

That makes Merlin laugh again. Arthur chuckles too, and now they’re laughing into each other’s faces with their hands pressed against each other’s pricks. Is it normal to laugh this much during sex? Merlin doesn’t know, but can’t imagine they’re breaking some kind of seduction rule because the laughter feels nearly as good as the friction of Arthur’s palm.

Merlin manages to calm down just as Arthur pushes his trousers and pants down his hips. Then, Merlin’s left trouser leg gets stuck on his foot and Arthur has to catch him before he falls flat on his face, setting them both off again.

“You’re hopeless,” Arthur says.

There’s a moment where Merlin feels compelled to respond hopelessly gone on you , but he stops himself before he does anything that embarrassing. Instead, he gets his feet clear of his clothes and stands in front of Arthur, naked and astonishingly unselfconscious about it. It’s probably because Arthur catches his breath and fixes him in a look so hot Merlin feels his gaze like a physical touch on his skin.

“You’re gorgeous,” Arthur repeats softly. He shucks the rest of his clothes too and Merlin feels the giddiness of their earlier laughter shift and sharpen into an aching fondness and keen desire. “Sunbeam. Come here.”

Merlin goes. It’s an odd mix, their lips meeting in a chaste press while their pricks brush together, but neither of them try to increase the contact between their bodies while they kiss. It’s a moment of sweetness that Merlin doesn’t want to leave, even as arousal makes his balls ache and his belly tighten.

Arthur pulls back, just enough so they can look at each other without their eyes crossing. “Bed?”

“Bed,” Merlin agrees.

And Arthur’s bed is a thing of beauty - giant, and covered in a blanket that’s even softer against Merlin’s back than it looks. Arthur covers him, mouthing at his jaw and running one hand down the length of Merlin’s chest. “D’you -” Arthur starts. He stops, and presses a kiss to Merlin’s earlobe. “What do you like?”

“I like both pretty equally,” Merlin says. “And I’m not just saying that so you have to say what you like and then I get out of saying what could be the wrong thing to avoid conflict, but then I secretly resent whatever you say because I probably wanted the other thing, because that’s a dick move. I’m being serious when -”

Arthur is laughing again, the shake of it making his body move against Merlin’s in a way that’s highly distracting. “I’m serious!” Merlin repeats, shoving a little at Arthur’s shoulder. 

“I know,” Arthur grins at him. He rolls his hips once, like he can’t help himself and Merlin can’t hold back a whimper. “You’re just - you know, you’re absolutely ridiculous and I sometimes wonder why I like you.”

Merlin knows that he’d be well within his rights to ask - why does Arthur, patron god of looking sinful in business suits and also apparently the entire British ecosystem, like someone like Merlin? But after five months of bad flirting and two and a half dates, it’s clear that Arthur’s dry, teasing humor only really comes out when he does like something - or, someone , as is underlined by the way Arthur follows his statement by kissing Merlin so deeply his head spins. If Merlin hadn’t been so caught up in feeling embarrassed about looking as absolutely ridiculous as Arthur claims over the last five months, maybe he would have seen Arthur’s truly abysmal attempts at flirting for what they were, instead of seeing a prat getting his kicks by tormenting hapless, pasty computer nerds.

He pulls back from their kiss, and shoves at Arthur gently until he gets the hint to let Merlin switch their positions, reclining back on the blanket and allowing Merlin to brace over him. “And what do you like?”

“You,” Arthur says, smiling a crooked little smile at him. “I like both too, though usually I top. That said, I have a feeling I won’t rest until I get you every way I can have you.”

Merlin blinks down at him. “Well shit,” he says. “That was so smooth.”

“Not on purpose,” Arthur assures him. He’s running his palms up and down Merlin’s arms, the pressure just enough to stop it from tickling. 

“Still,” Merlin says. He ducks his head down and kisses Arthur’s chin. “It does feel like you’ve spent our entire relationship taking care of me whether I needed it or not, so …” he loses his bravado, feeling awkward about his own attempt to be suave. 

Arthur leans up and kisses him. “So, what?”

“Let me? Take care of you, I mean. Can I?”

“Mm,” Arthur says. His eyes close for a moment, and his hands flex against Merlin’s forearms. “Yes. In whatever way you mean that. And, erm, condoms and lube are in the drawer.”

Merlin had been thinking about giving Arthur a blowjob, but with that comment his plans fall to dust in his mind. “You’d be ready for me, to, to -“

“It’s a miracle to see you at a loss for words,” Arthur says. “But yes. I -“ and he goes from pleasantly flushed with arousal to brick red, meeting Merlin’s eyes with an obvious effort at bravery, “I might have hoped, a little, and been … thorough, in the shower before you arrived.”

Lust stabs Merlin in the guts. Only the sheer force of panicked willpower stops him from grinding down on Arthur’s hip and finishing right there. The vision of Arthur preparing himself before a casual dinner-in date night ignites in his brain, and he’s burning to flip Arthur over and slide his fingers in to admire Arthur’s hopeful planning. 

But it’s taken them this long to understand each other, and there’s a part of him that’s terrified to go back to when he didn’t really get what Arthur was saying. Merlin allows himself a moment to seek assurance. “You’re certain it’s not too fast?” 

“It’s not for me,” Arthur says. He runs his fingers through Merlin’s fringe and along one cheekbone.  “If it is for you, we don’t -“

“Not too fast for me either. Though in all fairness,” Merlin says, feeling the urge to lighten the mood and see Arthur smile again, “something about you turns me into a tart, apparently.”

It works. Arthur chuckles at him and his hand curls around the back of Merlin’s neck. “Lucky me.”

“Indeed,” Merlin agrees, just to be a cheeky little shit, and he stretches to reach the bedside table drawer.

Prepared though Arthur may be he’s still breathtakingly tight. Merlin watches the lovely play of muscles across Arthur’s back as he slowly works him open, taking his sweet time until he’s up to three fingers. He crooks them, massaging and searching for the right angle to reach Arthur’s prostate. Arthur shouts into the crook of one elbow and Merlin grins in triumph, moving his fingers mercilessly until Arthur is writhing and working his free hand furiously over his erection.

“For God’s sake,” Arthur hisses. “I’m ready, come on, Merlin -“

“Fine, fine,” Merlin says. “You are bossy, aren’t you?”

Arthur swears at him, still pulling at his prick. Merlin removes his fingers and carefully doesn’t stare too long at Arthur’s puffy rim in an attempt to control his own arousal. Instead, Merlin focuses on rolling the condom down his erection before squeezing the base of his cock. “Arthur, I don’t think I’m going to be able to last long.”

“I honestly don’t care,” Arthur pants back. “Let me feel you, please .”

Apparently, begging and desperate Arthur works just as well for Merlin’s libido as disappointed headmaster Arthur. He grips his cock again as hard as he can to stave off orgasm, and guides himself inside. “Oh, hell, Arthur!”

Merlin stays as still as he can to let them both adjust, gripping Arthur’s hips in sweat-slick hands. Once he feels some of the tension leave Arthur’s muscles, Merlin reaches up to stroke the broad plain of Arthur’s back. “You good?”

“Yes. Go slow.”

Merlin does, pausing on the outstroke to add more lube. The slick, slow glide back into Arthur’s body is good to the point of pain, and Merlin trembles with the effort to keep his movements smooth. After a few minutes of careful stretching Arthur shifts beneath him, pushing back into his thrust with an encouraging shift of his hips. Merlin increases his pace and watches the side of Arthur’s face for any hint of discomfort.

What he gets instead are glimpses of utter debauchment. Arthur’s mouth hangs open, his face is flushed and slack in contented bliss, and when Merlin tries a hard, short thrust, Arthur throws his head back with a deep groan. Merlin reaches forward to grip Arthur’s shoulder, drawing him up and back into the cradle of Merlin’s hips and the change in angle makes Arthur buck against him and resume his grip on his own erection.

In an effort to not completely embarrass himself, Merlin slows down, staying deeply seated inside Arthur and rolling his hips in a slow, dirty grind. Arthur’s breaths are coming fast, each exhalation pitching into a moan, and Merlin hooks his chin over Arthur’s shoulder to watch him as he fists his cock.

“Can you come like this?” Merlin murmurs, and Arthur shudders.

“Not usually, no. Doesn’t mean it doesn’t feel fucking heavenly, having you - “ Arthur breaks off with a gasp as Merlin shifts again, his head falling back. Merlin nips at the length of neck on display. 

“Tell you what, then,” Merlin says. “I’m going to come inside of you, and then I’m going to suck you off until you forget your own name. Sound good?”

“Well, aren’t you cocky,” Arthur says, and Merlin can hear the smile in his voice.

“Obviously,” Merlin rolls his hips again. “Fucking hell, Arthur, you feel so good.”

He doesn’t last more than another minute at most. His orgasm has been close to peaking ever since Arthur had first put his hand on him, and once Merlin allows himself to let go it overcomes him like a burning wave. He buries his cock inside Arthur’s tight heat as deep as he can go and cries out as he fills the condom. 

Merlin comes back to himself with Arthur’s pert and glorious arse still sat in his lap. Arthur works himself slowly in one hand, the other stroking Merlin’s thigh. Merlin mouths his shoulder in a sloppy kiss. 

With hands still trembling from the strength of his orgasm, Merlin urges Arthur off of his softening cock and lays him out on his back. He takes care of the condom as quickly as he can, and knee-walks across the bed to reach Arthur. 

Gloriously naked Arthur, limned in sweat, chest heaving and sweet God , how did Merlin ever see him as anything other than precious? Even his sharp edges are dear to Merlin now. He leans over Arthur’s body and without preamble or an attempt to tease takes the head of Arthur’s prick into his mouth.

“Fuck!” 

Arthur’s abdominals bunch in a crazily appealing way as he curls around Merlin’s head, his hands coming to hover over Merlin’s hair and cheek. Merlin pauses long enough to push his head back into Arthur’s hand and say “show me how you like it” - because yes, everything about Arthur makes Merlin just a little slutty, sue him - and dives back down to his task. The pressure on the back of his head encourages Merlin to take in more, faster, sloppier, and Arthur is groaning above him. 

It turns out that Arthur is as much on a hair trigger as Merlin had been, because half a minute doesn’t go by before Arthur is tugging on his hair hard enough that Merlin pulls off, eyes watering from his efforts to take Arthur’s lovely prick as deep into his throat as he can. Arthur keeps on hand clenched in Merlin’s hair and squeezes himself just below the head, pinching with thumb and forefinger; that’s all it takes before Arthur is coming over his knuckles and across his stomach with a chest-deep moan.

It’s the hottest thing Merlin has ever seen.

“All right,” Arthur pants after a minute. Merlin, who has been resting his head on Arthur’s thigh and tracing the lines of his hip bone, looks up.

“Hmm?”

“I can’t quite remember my name at the moment. I think you broke me.”

Merlin grins against Arthur’s skin. “Told you.”

By the time they’re mostly clean and dressed again, the chicken is beyond saving. They visit the chippy down the street Arthur swears does the best gravy in London, and Merlin tries and fails not to find Arthur’s fussy way of spearing each chip individually on his plastic fork endearing. The October air has chilled considerably by the time they walk back to the flat and Arthur slings an arm around Merlin’s shoulders to share his blissful warmth.

Merlin considers asking to stay the night - surely, that’s not more intimate than everything else they just did? - but decides against it. If he stays now, Merlin might never leave to go back into the office, and there’s still a considerable amount of work to do after the launch. “Hey,” he says, “I should probably get going.”

Arthur kisses him, a chaste press of mouths that taste like the best gravy in London. “Must you?”

“I really, really should,” Merlin says.

“How about a nightcap before you leave?” Arthur suggests. “I’ve got just about everything. Well, except tequila. Or, the weird fancy stuff. Okay, basically, I have whiskey, vodka and maybe some gin.” He’s already sunk down into the sofa cushions, and Merlin joins him before he really thinks about what he’s doing. The sofa is soft and Arthur is still so warm, especially as Merlin curls up next to him.

“I’d have thought you’d be put off seeing me drinking forever after the first night we met,” Merlin says. He pauses, looking up at Arthur. “I’ve been meaning to ask. How did the horrible first impression I made on you lead to us shagging each other’s brains out?”

“I’ll admit,” Arthur says, “the finale of the evening wasn’t all that alluring, but,” and Merlin is fascinated by the blush pinking over the rise of Arthur’s cheekbones, “I’d been watching you, that night. You’re - you have your own kind of, I don’t know, magnetism. Your smile … I just, I can’t put my finger on it, exactly, but I wanted to know you.”

“Why didn’t you say anything that night? Before I got smashed and sicked up all over the sink, that is,” Merlin adds. “I get why you didn’t bring it up then.”

“Yes, I’m a real gentleman,” Arthur deadpans, then sighs. “Honestly, it’s always been a little hard to break into the LeFay-Smith Systems bubble. I think Morgana actually assigned Leon to keep me company all night, knowing you all would have your inside jokes and a whole world I’m not a part of. And I appreciated it, until it seemed like Leon wasn’t going to leave me to my own devices long enough to tell the man with the gorgeous smile how gorgeous his smile was.”

Now Merlin is blushing.

“And vomit aside, I did rather enjoy coming to your rescue to help you get home. I kind of just wanted to keep being your knight in shining armor every time we met after that,” Arthur says, “though it sounds like I might not have really come across that way”

“I thought you were asking me to text you when I was safely home for litigation purposes,” Merlin says truthfully. 

Arthur’s face goes completely blank for a moment before crumpling into laughter. “What?!”

“I don’t know!” Merlin says. He’s smiling, privately relieved Arthur is finding this funny. “It’s been well documented that I had no idea what kind of solicitor you are, and that I also am perhaps a little stupid from time to time!”

“I wanted you to text me so that you’d text me!” Arthur says. “I wanted to date you, not sue you! I was - I was trying to say I liked you.”

Something about that phrasing rings like a familiar bell in Merlin’s mind. He drops his head into his hands and groans.

“What?”

“It’s just,” Merlin breaks off with something that’s not quite another groan; it’s more like the cousin of a hysterical bark of laughter. “It’s something Morgana said -”

“Oh, Christ,” Arthur sinks down a little on the sofa, wincing. “What did that harpy say?”

Merlin looks up at him. “She said that the ‘text me when you get home’ thing was like - oh hell, it’s so bloody embarrassing - she said it was like when Westly was saying ‘as you wish’ to fucking Buttercup -”

“Like from The Princess Bride?” Arthur says. 

“Yes, like The Princess fucking Bride!”

Arthur opens his mouth, looking for all the world like the solicitor he is, about to launch into a counter argument. Then, his expression turns considering.

Merlin points at him. “No. No fucking way am I the Buttercup in this scenario.”

“But you kind of are,” Arthur says, and now he’s got a smirk all over his stupid beautiful face and Merlin simply cannot stand for this kind of slander.

“But that means I’m not even the cool Buttercup who’s like, down to stab herself rather than betray her one true love! That makes me pre-Humperdink Buttercup . The shitty, snotty little farmer’s daughter who got her rocks off by making poor Westley do all those unnecessary chores!”

“Well, if the bright red gown fits?”

“I hate you,” Merlin informs him. 

Arthur’s smirk has slid sideways into something kind of soppy. Merlin knows in an instant that no, he isn’t actually going to leave Arthur’s flat tonight. He’s probably going to fall asleep in the man’s stupidly toned arms, and the thought makes something bloom warm and satisfied in his chest.

“You don’t hate me,” Arthur says.

Merlin sighs. “No, I really, really don’t. Though, if anyone ever calls me Buttercup again - even just a little! - you’re going to have to grovel really, really hard.”

Arthur leans forward and kisses the corner of his mouth. “As -”

“Don’t even think about it -”

“- you wish,” Arthur finishes.