Arthur Pendragon has a terrible job.

Well what he means, really, is that he has a wonderful job, because he loves it, and there's nowhere else he could see himself working, and it's the center of his universe. But there are definite downsides. For instance, he's been after this woman at the consulate, Alice, for ages, and she's finally agreed to go out a date with him, and then his Blackberry goes off. It's Merlin, his idiot assistant with a text that he's about not to take until he sees that it's marked urgent and the subject is "PM999!!!!" "G. WAS BIKING, CRASHED INTO TREE, DO NOT KNOW CONDITION" The text reads, and then at the bottom, "IF U R IGNORING ME TO SHAG ALICE WILL NEVER FORGIVE U." "Dreadfully sorry," he says in what Merlin calls his "posh and revolting" voice, "got to go, real emergency at work." "Work?" Alice purrs, leaning forward as he takes out his wallet and good God, she has a fantastic set on her, and Arthur hasn't gotten laid in ages. She swipes his phone. "PM emergency, I assume? A night emergency can wait until the AM, don't you think?" "PM as in Prime Minister," Arthur says shortly, throwing down a wad of cash that should more than cover it. "Oh, I work for him, we hadn't gotten to that part of the conversation." "Prime Minister Gaius?" Alice asks, arching a perfect eyebrow. "Crashed his bike into a tree," Arthur confirms. "You'll hear about it on the morning news. Ring me and we'll do this some other time, yeah?" He flags down a taxi when he leaves the restaurant. She's never going to ring him.

--"This is all a big fuss over nothing," Gaius says, squinting in the mirror as he dabs at his cut cheek with a cotton swab soaked in antiseptic. "I was taking a bit of a bike ride in St. James park and was attacked by a wayward branch. We really ought to do something about the upkeep there." "I'll be sure to add it to your political platform," Gwen says, pushing a curl out of her face. "Now, I have a press conference tomorrow and if I don't have a better

story than this, the press is going to run with it and next thing you know you'll sound like a bumbling old man." "I am a bumbling old man," Gaius snorts, slapping on a bandage. "And they elected me anyway, because I'm the best bumbling old man they've got." "That's a bit of a gross over-simplification of the British political system," Arthur mutters, and then tacks on, "...sir." "Gaius, shouldn't you get a physician to look at that?" Merlin asks from somewhere behind Arthur. He's wearing the same dreadful tie with coffee stains he was wearing earlier, so he clearly hasn't gone home for sleep the way Arthur ordered. He's also known Gaius since he was a little boy (something to do with Merlin's mother working for Gaius before he went into politics? Arthur had tuned him out), and continues to address him with absolutely no propriety. "I have a doctorate in medicine from King's College, Merlin," Gaius says. "And I feel comfortable diagnosing it as a scratch, not the plague. Now please, resume your normal lives. It's hardly a state emergency." "I don't even know what a normal life is anymore," Arthur mutters to Merlin as they dutifully file out of Gaius' office. "I think I had one, once," Gwen says wistfully. "It was nice." --Arthur met Merlin about two years ago when they first took office. He'd been managing fine without an assistant, thank you very much, Gwen, when some kid showed up at his door. "Hello," he'd said, waving nervously. His ears were (and still are) like jug handles, he had (and still has) the body mass of a twelve year old even though he looked to be about Arthur's height, blue eyes like a Kewpie doll, and that day was wearing the most hideous fucking tie Arthur had ever seen. "Gwen says I'm your new assistant." "What the fuck? I'm the Director of the Press Office, she's just the fucking Press Secretary, who the fuck put her in charge?" Arthur had asked, banging out of his office and past the kid (okay, he was probably like five years younger than Arthur? Not the point.) "Guinevere, I told you, I don't want a fucking assistant, take this street urchin and his horrid tie back to whatever Primark's you found him in!" "Hey," Merlin had looked offended. "My mum picked out this tie. It's silk."

"Congratulations on having a blind mum," Arthur said. "Get out of my office." "Wait," Merlin had caught his hand and Arthur remembers feeling suddenly breathless, which was weird. He's still not sure if it was rage, Merlin's sheer audacity, or the fact that he'd just been bellowing at Gwen. "I really need this job, okay? I'm a year out of uni, I can't find fucking any job, I'm behind on my loans so I can't start my graduate classes, and all I've got is an English degree, student loans, and the fact that my mum, who is not blind, thank you very much, used to work for the Prime bloody Minister before he went into politics and he's kind of adopted me, which is how I got here." Arthur gaped. "Those are the worst credentials I've ever heard." "I also took a Political Science course as a requirement?" Merlin said. "And I'm excellent at filing." Arthur had looked at the disaster that was his office and sighed. "If you buy some new ties, I won't fire you," he'd finally said reluctantly, beckoning Merlin inside. Merlin hadn't bought new ties. Over the years, Arthur has learned that Merlin has horrid taste in clothing, a filing system that somehow works so that he can find anything with the flick of a finger, but would bring most Oxford graduates (including and probably exclusively limited to Arthur) weeping and to their knees at the utter illogic of it, and that Merlin has a terrible addiction to really heinous fish and chips that will surely amount in artery-clogging and sudden, violent death. Merlin is also the only person Arthur listens to or laughs with besides Gaius, makes a hell of a cup of coffee, and somehow hasn't managed to get himself fired. Arthur's at a loss to explain it, himself. --Merlin's jobs include organizing Arthur's life, averting crises of national importance, and keeping Arthur properly caffeinated. But his main job (if you ask Merlin, since it's what he spends the most time doing) is to care for Arthur's goldfish, since it's Merlin's fault Arthur even has goldfish. He was the one who was stupid enough to let Morgana into his office. "You're not getting any special scoop just because you're the Director of the Press Office's good-as-sister," Arthur had said flatly, not looking up from his laptop. He hadn't thought he needed to. No one walked as purposefully in stilettos, and she hadn't knocked. Only two people don't knock, and Merlin clearly couldn't pull off heels. "Gwen already briefed you for the day. Leave me alone."

"Hello, Arthur," Morgana said airily, ignoring him as usual. "So nice to see you're alive. I'd heard rumors, but you know that as a reporter I have to verify all claims." "I'll make Merlin throw you out." Arthur threatened. "How do you think I got in?" Morgana scoffed. "He took one look at the tank and turned into a gibbering mess." "You resorted to heavy artillery?" Arthur asked, looking up at Morgana. "That's a bit much, even for you." "The fish tank," Morgana said pityingly. "The one sitting on your assistant's desk." "What?" Arthur had banged out of his office to find Merlin and Gwen bent over a large fish bowl, oohing and ahhing. "This one's Arthur," Merlin was saying to Gwen, "because he's got the flowiest tail and is a bit of a git, see? And this one's Merlin, because he's the prettiest. And this one's Kilgharrah, because I read a book with a character named that once, and I think he's kind of cool." "Merlin," Arthur barked, "what have I told you about naming things about to be flushed down the toilet?" Merlin's head popped up from behind the fish bowl. "I think I can safely say that's the one thing you've never told me anything about." "Oh, Arthur, I thought you'd like them," Morgana said pityingly. "I know you always wanted a cat when you were little but were allergic," Gwen and Merlin exchanged a delighted look and Arthur resolved to have them killed, "and lord knows you need to learn how to interact with another living creature. A fish is the most complicated thing I felt I could leave you with." Arthur had grumbled, but Merlin had pouted and promised to feed them and take care of them and clean their tank, and Arthur had finally relented. "Next time you feel the urge to get me goldfish, please make them the kind I can eat by the handful," He'd said pointedly to Morgana, kicking her out. "You can't eat your new pets!" Merlin shouted, clearly already enamored. Merlin, however, was destined to be heartbroken. Within 24 hours Kilgharrah had eaten Fish-Merlin, and Fish-Arthur committed suicide by jumping out of his bowl. "Aw, look," Merlin had said, wrapping Arthur's fishy corpse up in a Kleenex, "how symbolic. Even as a fish, you can't live without me." "You got eaten, how's that for symbolism," Arthur snapped, taking his first sip of

morning coffee. "Fish are imperfect psychic medium," Merlin had said grandly, and headed for the men's room. "This bodes so poorly," Arthur had complained to Gwen, who just laughed. Merlin apparently holds no grudge against Kilgharrah for eating his fish counterpart, because whenever Arthur comes out of his office Merlin's merrily chatting away as if the fish can understand him, usually on the subject of what a giant prat he thinks Arthur is. "You do realize that he can't understand you, he's a fish," Arthur always says when he throws more paperwork on Merlin's desk. It's always heinously messy, but Merlin, mysteriously, never loses a thing. "Don't listen to him, Kilgharrah," Merlin says cheerfully, picking up a post-it. "Oh, and you have a message from Alice from the consulate. She says 'there was nothing on the news except a little bike crash, and don't ever call me back'." "Ah well," Arthur shrugs. "She wouldn't have understood my, er, unique lifestyle." "Is that your latest euphemism for being an incurable grump and all-around bastard?" Merlin asks. "I'm firing you the second I find someone who can do filing as well as you can," Arthur warns, though the warning may have lost some of its power, because he makes it every day and Merlin doesn't even blink. He means it, though.

--Here is an example of why Merlin should be fired: It's not just that Merlin's an idiot with a terrible sense of humor, it's that he's fucking weird, and he seems to think everyone else is just as weird as him, and his craziness is causing problems around the office. The worst part of Arthur's job easily is dealing with the queen's people. Her people, mind you, not the queen. The queen he of course has nothing but the utmost respect for. She comes by 10 Downing every few months for tea and buscuits with Gaius, where they discuss the books they exchange with each other,

memories of the war, and their various aches and pains. Old people things. She's been very sweet every time Arthur's met her. But her publicity people, for all that they must have the easiest job ever, are terrible. The queen simply has to read the briefs Arthur's department sends her, continue to have no opinion, and wave at people from time to time. How difficult can that be? Apparently, the boredom of their job makes the queen's people anal beyond belief. Even though Arthur personally writes the daily briefs that are delivered to Buckingham Palace with the kind of scrupulous attention to detail he usually doesn't even have time to aspire to for Gaius, he still he gets at least two e-mails or calls a day, not to mention at least weekly visits where they (there are five of them with their panties in various degrees of twistedness, and they mix and match from week to week) sit in Arthur's office (which must be spotless, or they get sniffy) and go "Her majesty would appreciate it if you could add that level of detail the first time you send her briefs" or "perhaps next time, Mr. Pendragon, you could endeavor to clarify yourself before you sent things to us". "They're just being twats, " Merlin says confidently whenever Arthur complains, putting his feet up on the other visitor's chair even though Arthur had told him repeatedly that it made him look like he was raised in a barn. "They're being twats and you should tell them so." "Merlin," Arthur groans, "you can't call people who work for the queen twats." "Why not?" Merlin asks. "You and I work for her too, since Parliament and the PM technically serve at his behest, and I call you a twat all the time." "You can't call me a twat either." "What if I called you a clotpole?" Arthur blinks meaningfully at him a few times, but Merlin doesn't break. Apparently, in Merlin's head this qualifies as a serious question. "'Clotpole' isn't even a word," he finally manages. "I made it up just for you," Merlin says. "See, it sounds terrible, but it doesn't actually mean anything, so I thought..." "Ah, there's where our problem started," Arthur mutters. "You thought." Merlin just sniffs and glares at Arthur like he's thinking clotpole, clotpole, CLOTPOLE rather viciously, and damn, now he's got Arthur using it too. "Let's just refrain from name-calling," he finally suggests, and Merlin shrugs, like the whole thing doesn't matter to him in the slightest. "I could speak to the queen," he suggests. "You know, the next time she visits Gaius."

"Ah, yes, that little thing you've got going on," Arthur says acidly, flicking a paperclip at Merlin, who catches it mid-air. In one of his fits of paternal affection for his adoptive son/nephew/grandson/whatever Merlin was to Gaius that week, Gaius had once mentioned Merlin's degree in English to the Queen, naturally throwing in all the proud details on Merlin's great intellect (clearly vastly overstated), the fact that he graduated in the top fifteen percent at uni with fabulous marks (which weren't that much better than Arthur's, but Merlin went toDurham, though, so even though he said Durham was his first choice and rated better than Oxford, clearly he was a moron) his keen literary mind (yet to prove useful in any way whatsoever). Arthur didn't see why Merlin deserved such lavish praise - he'd done just as well at uni as Merlin had and his father had simply said "well done" at his graduation, patted him on the shoulder, and left it at that. For no reason Arthur could discern, however, the queen had gown rather enamored with Merlin, who now was in charge of serving her and Gaius their tea and biscuits whenever she visited, during which she and Gaius would engage Merlin in a brief discussion on whatever book they had just read. Arthur heartily disapproved of the entire business not, as Gwen and Morgana insisted, because he was seething with jealousy, but because it took valuable time away from Merlin being Arthur's assistant, which was his actual job, and because Merlin now seemed to think that threatening Arthur or anyone who displeased him with the queen was a perfectly acceptable practice. "I could!" Merlin insists. "She always tells me to pass along to you how much she appreciates your briefs and how much more detailed they are than the last person who had your job! And the people who work for her are clotpoles. Tosspots. Twats. Whatever." "Irrelevant," Arthur says. "What else is on for today?" "Right," Merlin looks down at the printed-out schedule on his lap. "Where were we... 2:00, meeting with the royal clotpoles, 2:30, telephone conference with the RMT leaders..." "Fuck," Arthur groans, tilting his head upwards so he can glare at the ceiling. That's the phone conference he's been looking forward to all week. "No way to schedule it later?" "Nope, already checked," Merlin says. "Sorry, know you wanted to chew them out for the transit worker's strike." "It's just pure idiocy that they're telling these unions they deserve a fucking pay raise when the economy's going down the drain and everyone's taking a cut, not to mention it means that faith in public transit's gone down so Gaius will have to push off that initiative to encourage people to use it more, and that's going to make the environmentalists mad, and I know everyone thinks they're a peaceful

lot, but..." "...look, do you want me to make up some sort of excuse?" Merlin sighs. "Get you out of it around 2:30?" Arthur tilts his head back downward and points at Merlin. "See, that is an actually useful suggestion. Why don't you make those more?" "Because I forgot I was being employed by a fourteen-year-old girl who doesn't want to go to the spring dance with the icky boy?" Merlin asks. "By the way, Morgana passed me a note in maths this morning, she wants to know if you like her and you're supposed to check a box..." "Out of my office," Arthur commands with an imperious hand-wave. "Out. I do not take defamation of character." At two o'clock on the nose, Arthur's office was flat-out invaded by Camilla Farrington-Smith and Felix Cavendash, the absolute swottiest of all the swots on the queen's public relations staff. "You can tell they're swotty," Merlin had once whispered to him during a late night they were stuck waiting for news of the American election with nothing better to do but sit around and get punchy from eating too much takeaway, "because they both have mustaches. You'd think that someone as posh as her would be able to afford an upper-lip wax." Arthur now had trouble containing his laughter whenever Mrs. Farrington-Smith was the one who came over to give him an earful. It was another reason Merlin was fired, fired, oh so very fired. "Please," Arthur said graciously, rising and gesturing to the chairs he'd made Merlin vacuum after he'd had his dirty feet all over them. "Take a seat. Can I have my assistant get you anything? Tea?" "No thank you," Mr. Cavendash says in his nasal, skin-crawlingly posh voice. "If you're quite sure," Arthur says politely, sitting down only after they do. "My assistant Merlin makes a wonderful cuppa." Per usual, Mr. Cavendash's nose wrinkles at Arthur's use of Merlin's first name. Arthur's overhead him mention as he leaves the office how he finds it improper that Arthur refers to his assistant by his first name, like he thinks Arthur should be in an old Jeeves and Wooster episode and call him Emrys. "To what do I owe this pleasure?" "Remembrance Sunday is approaching," Mrs. Farrington-Smith says smoothly, "and what with the current state of the... economy" (this is said as if the concerns of people who need to worry about money or the rise and fall of its supply are somehow distasteful) "we thought it would be best if the queen rode through the streets greeting the people in her carriage. To raise their spirits, you understand, by showing them the strength of our monarchy."

"Her carriage," Arthur says flatly. He feels a headache coming on. "The one encrusted in gold." "Well of course, my boy," Mr. Cavendash says as if Arthur's supremely dull-witted. "You don't think she's got another one, now do you?" It takes Arthur several long, deep breaths before he feels he can speak without stabbing someone in the eye with the pen in his hand. "I simply believe," he said finally, "that when the British people are struggling in this economic climate, it won't sit well with them to see a display of wealth from their queen." "Young man," Mr. Cavendash says, turning beet-red. "don't insult my intelligence. I'm an Oxford man - " "As am I," Arthur drawls, irritated but unsurprised that his degrees, which take up the place of honor in between the two windows behind him, have gone completely ignored. "Rhodes Scholar. Treasurer of the Oxford Union." (His father had been extremely displeased that Arthur had chosen to run for that, not President, but that was neither here nor there.) "I do believe I understand what we're discussing." "You were in your nappies while I was hobnobbing with the finest minds at the Bullingdon Club!" Mr. Cavendash snaps, which is when Arthur determines that, in order to get through this meeting without committing a crime, it's best if he nods, makes noises of agreement, and prays to God that what's being proposed either never happens or that he and Gwen can put their heads together and find a way to make it not reflect poorly upon them. Worst comes to worst, he may call upon Merlin to see if he really is as close to the queen as he claims, and if perhaps he and Gaius can gently suggest that perhaps she not gad about the streets of London in as ostentatious a manner as physically possible. That, or that 2:30 arrives faster than estimated. Arthur doesn't have a clock in his office, because he's found that when he does, he spends more time staring at it than he does attending to whoever is speaking. Instead, he has a very nice, very expensive watch he never leaves home without, and an assistant. Should his assistant fail (as he so often does), nothing makes Arthur's point better than making a real show of pushing back his sleeve and reading his watch with a very concerned expression. He'd try it right now, if only he weren't positive that Mr. Cavendash would actually have a seizure from rage and Mrs. Farrington-Smith would testify that yes, it was all his fault, and it could only lead to a lot of messy legal trouble. So Arthur waits. And waits. And he waits some more. Merlin's pokes in and out of his doorway constantly, making increasingly rude and violent gestures at the back of Mr. Cavendash's and Mrs. Farrington-Smith's heads, which, while amusing, is

making proper behavior on Arthur's part rather difficult. He isn't sure if being in the same room with these people means he's entered a strange space-time continuum, because time doesn't seem to be moving at all, and he spends more time wondering when Merlin's going to appear in the door than he does making sure he's nodding along properly. The one time Merlin doesn't seem to be standing in the doorway just to be annoying, he's got this oddly determined look on his face and he's making a gesture Arthur hasn't seen before. His fists are out, parallel to the floor, and he's levering his forearms up and down like they're beating down on something, but instead of keeping them still he's moving them back and forth. You are a very strange man Arthur conveys through his eyebrows to Merlin. Stop that immediately. He knows Merlin speaks fluent eyebrow, but instead of heeding him (of course), Merlin shakes his head violently and repeats the motion, conveying through his eyebrows (never as eloquent as Arthur's) No, I think I'm going to continue being a giant prat and banging around like a bloody moron. It's imperative that I continue to do so. Stop it or fuck off. URGENT. Merlin's eyebrows scream. PLEASE PAY ATTENTION TO MY INCREASINGLY SPASTIC MOTIONS. Arthur decides it's best, at this point, to ignore Merlin, which earns him a disgusted huff and Merlin stomping away in a tiff. He doesn't come back for the entire meeting. It's a very, very long meeting. It's so long that when Arthur finally manages to escort Mr. Cavendash and Mrs. Farrington-Smith out and looks at his watch, it's 3:30, and instead of looking cowed that he forgot to get Arthur out of the worst meeting of his life, Merlin is sitting ramrod-straight at his desk and typing away with great purpose in away that suggests that Merlin feels very righteous about himself, and is still mad at Arthur for ignoring his eyebrows. "Merlin," Arthur grits out. "Do you or do you not know how to read a clock?" "It's one of my many skills listed on my CV," Merlin replies, his eyes fixed steadily on replying to business e-mails. As far as Arthur's concerned, Merlin actually doing his job (probably in order to suck up to Arthur) is the surest sign of guilt yet. "So then you are aware that I told you to take me out of my meeting at 2:30 and yet an hour later, I was still in that meeting?" "It's not my fault you ignored my signals and told me to leave you alone," Merlin

says righteously. "I tried my best. I just figured discussing the queen's carriage was very important to you." "The queen's - of course it's not, you moron," Arthur yells, loud enough that Gwen pokes her head out of her office to see what the fuss is, rolls her eyes at the pair of them, and then shuts the door with a disapproving slam. "And what on earth do you mean, a signal?" Merlin sighs the sigh of the long-suffering (ironic, Arthur thinks) and turns around in his chair, and then repeats the strange forearm-fist-up-down motion. "The signal," he says, as if it's patently obvious. "I thought that was another one of your rude gestures." "No," Merlin says, like he thinks Arthur's the one being stupid here. "How is this a rude gesture? It's a signal." "Does it signal that you're trying to get back circulation in your arms?" "It's like," Merlin repeats the signal and hums a tune Arthur doesn't recognize. "See? Play them off, Keyboard Cat." Arthur feels like he's fallen down the rabbit hole to a foreign country where it sounds like people are speaking English, but the words they're saying don't make actual sense. "Play him off... Keyboard Cat." "Yeah, like the Youtube video?" Merlin flags a little at Arthur's blank look. "You know, the video with the cat in the blue shirt?" Nothing. "Have you been living under a rock?" He finally asks. "You know, the video! Play him off, Keyboard Cat!" Arthur shrugs. "I'm pretty sure right now you're just making things up." "I am not!" Merlin says hotly, and furiously types in a search to bring up the video, which he shows to Arthur by tilting the screen at him. "See! Play them off, Keyboard Cat!" "Let me get this straight," Arthur says after watching the clip, which actually clears up nothing at all. "I'm a cat. And I am supposed to... play them off." "Exactly." "Okay, we need a new signal," Arthur sighs. "Why?" Merlin asks. "I like this one. It works, now that you know what it means." "Uh, because it's ridiculous?" Arthur suggests.

"Ridiculously awesome," Merlin insists., "Merlin," Arthur says in his best authoritative voice. "Make up a new signal or you're fired." Merlin's mouth thins mutinously, in a way that tells Arthur that he should look forward to more Keyboard Cat impressions in the future, but not after Merlin's lulled Arthur into a false sense of security by obeying him for a too-short amount of time. "Wait," Merlin bites out before Arthur can turn to go back into his office, grabbing his wrist in that way he does that always makes Arthur feel flustered by the casual, almost inappropriate intimacy of the gesture. He keeps meaning to tell Merlin to stop it, but he hasn't yet thought up a good way to say I'm uptight and uncomfortable with people touching me, especially when 'people' means 'you'. "Take this." He slaps a tape recorder into Arthur's hand. "What?" Arthur says, hoping Merlin didn't hear his voice crack. He clears his throat and tries again. "Did Morgana leave hers here on record hoping to get something? Because I'm not retuning it if she did." "No," Merlin rolls his eyes and drops Arthur's wrist. "I put the RMT conference on speaker phone and recorded the whole thing. Now you can play it back and send scathing e-mails, or whatever you do." "That was unexpectedly intelligent of you," Arthur says wonderingly. "Good job. You're only 75% fired now." "Oh, thank God," Merlin replies in a voice so laden with impertinent sarcasm Arthur automatically adjusts it to 80% fired. "That 25% has been a real burden on my well-being." "Yes, well," Arthur says awkwardly before fleeing to his office, to the soothing familiarity of yelling at utterly idiotic people, "you know how I like to look out for you." --"Here," Merlin says two weeks later before he leaves for the night, shoving a wrapped package at Arthur, who pushes away his laptop and looks up at him through his reading glasses. "It isn't my birthday until Tuesday," he says, taking it. "Yes, but tomorrow you have a visit from the royal contingency. I thought I should give you this before your visit tomorrow from Messrs. Cavendash and Pawley-Stewart."

Arthur groans. Cavendash is probably still enraged over the whole Oxford debacle, and Mr. Pawley-Stewart is one of those people who pauses in between every word so that getting a sentence out takes roughly an hour. "Please tell me it's a handgun," he says. "Or a dagger." "Nothing quite so illegal," Merlin says. "Go on, then." It's a framed picture, Arthur discovers when he tears off the paper. In the frame is a picture of a disgruntled cat, with Merlin's scribble underneath. "One day," Arthur swore the caption read, "one day I will kill them all." "If you tilt it towards you, everyone will think it's a family photo or something," Merlin explains eagerly. "You can stare at it and it'll motivate you not to commit homicide on a regular basis." "What is it with you and cats?" Arthur asks, setting up the frame as instructed. "Is this a motif I should know about?" Merlin shrugs. "Morgana said you liked them, right?" Arthur looks up, surprised. He hadn't expected Merlin to remember that after so many months. "I do," he says softly. "Like them, I mean. Thank you. It's an oddly thoughtful gift." "You're welcome," Merlin says cheerfully, beaming like Arthur's just knighted him. "See you tomorrow, then." "Merlin? Arthur calls before Merlin can get out of the office, and Merlin's head pokes back in his doorway. "I may need you to play me out, tomorrow. Just in case." If he thought Merlin was beaming before, he had no idea. "Really?" "I think all my visitors are under the impression that you suffer from some sort of grave mental affliction," Arthur shrugs. "It can't hurt any." He's uncomfortably aware that make Merlin happy and allowing him to do ridiculous things, especially when it's people from Buckingham palace and he shouldn't, is thrilling enough to constitute an early birthday present to himself. "Of course," Merlin nods, humming the Keyboard Cat theme loudly as he leaves. It gets stuck in Arthur's head so badly he has to put the Youtube clip on loop in the background, just to get work done. The things he puts up with for Merlin's sake, honestly. He should really get around to firing him.

--But after a year and half, Arthur never has fired Merlin, no matter how much he threatens. Because whenever he decides he's going to, Merlin does something like fix the malfunctioning xerox machine with a well-placed kick and a paper clip just in time to print off 100 copies for the next Very Important Meeting, or he covers for Arthur like a champion when his Uni mates get him wasted and he has a terrible hangover the next morning, or he always knows what Arthur wants for lunch and if he wants it delivered before Arthur even knows himself. ("It's not magic," Merlin would always snort. "It's your moods. You're really horribly predictable when it comes to your eating habits, you know. Even Gwen can tell when it's a kebab sort of day.") Also, Arthur isn't lying when he says that Merlin really does make the best damn coffee and tea he's had in his entire life. Plus, as loathe as he is to admit it, he sort of likes all of Merlin's idiosyncrasies. Sometimes the horrifically twee music he blasts until Arthur yells out of his office for Merlin to put on his headphones isn't so bad. Merlin's certainly amusing. And much smarter than he lets on. And his utter lack of tact and charm is, in its own way, very useful and politically savvy. Merlin's wide eyes and heart-melting honesty have gotten Arthur through situations that before would have fucked him over before he even saw them coming. About twice a week, though, Arthur means to fire Merlin, he really does, because there's no way that anything can make up for the fact that he spilled food on Arthur three times in one day, or shredded a ream of papers that was actually important, or called Arthur a twat again. He'll go out for lunch, build up a head of steam, and be ready to call Merlin into his office and read him the riot act, and then he'll take a look over at Merlin's desk. Merlin loves to read. He loves the written word with the same intensity most men reserve for their favorite sports team, or their wives. He'll walk in in the morning sometimes having read the entire walk from the tube station without looking up once (Arthur saw him do it once, it was impressive), and won't even greet Arthur or check the messages until he finishes the chapter. He'll read anything - dense Russian novels that Arthur bought the Cliffs Notes of for some class at some point in his life on one day, The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy the next. He spent a week before Gaius took a trip to the Middle East reading the Koran and volumes of Islamic poetry. "You do know that being able to recite..." Arthur had waited for Merlin to lift the

cover of the book so he could read it "... the collected works of Rumi is not going to make Islamic extremists decide that you're less of a candidate to bomb." "This is magical," Merlin had breathed, enraptured. "This man is a genius. Listen - the minute I heard my first love story I started looking for you, not knowing how blind that was. Lovers don't finally meet somewhere -they're in each other all along.' That's... that's amazing. Isn't it amazing?" Arthur had coughed, shifted his weight on his feet. "It's neither here nor there," he said finally. "Now is it?" "If people could only really read and understand words like this, there'd be no war," Merlin had sighed, putting his chin in his hand and gazing into nothingness, infatuated with the universe at large. "Well, there is," Arthur had said gruffly. "So put that down and start faxing." Whenever Arthur goes to fire Merlin, there he is at his desk, sitting with his tuna sandwich frozen untouched on the way to his mouth, which is hanging open for a bite he has yet to take. Instead he'll be avidly devouring The Little Prince or The Divine Comedy, mouthing along with the parts he thinks are really good, and something inside Arthur will just well up with suchfondness he finds that he can't go through with whatever plan for firing Merlin he's thought up that day. Instead he'll clear his throat purposefully and glare until Merlin goes back to work, and threaten him a little more with words both of them know Arthur will never follow through with even though perhaps he should. But some days, slow days like Mondays where nothing happens and Arthur's probably going to go home early, he'll quietly tiptoe into his office and let Merlin read.

Keep Calm and Carry On - R - Part 2

Arthur Pendragon was born to be the Prime Minister. His father, MP Uther Pendragon, had always wanted the title for himself. From his earliest days Arthur remembers being taught not to make a fuss, not to do anything out of line, for fear it might ruin Daddy's political career, the same career that caused Arthur to be raised by various nannies, that made his father someone he mostly only saw through the telly giving passionate speeches. Unfortunately for Arthur's father, he was born quite without the natural charm or tact it took to be elected by his party to 10 Downing. He could bully his way off the back bench and use his audacity and force of will to bring the damn Labour party to their knees, but could get no further. "You have what I do not, Arthur," his father would muse once Arthur was older, studying for his A-Levels or in uni, "you have a good heart - your mother's heart. The kind of heart that wins you allies. Not like mine." Arthur had just nodded along at the time, horribly aware of

how cold his father's heart could be, and secretly desperate for it to be any other way. Arthur has already disappointed his father twice over - first, he joined the Labour party, not Uther's beloved Conservatives. Second, he is just over thirty and has never made a bid for a seat in Parliament, nor does he have any designs to. He'd rather be behind the scenes, effecting some actual change instead of just talking loudly about it. "You have more daddy issues than a back-alley hooker," Merlin likes to say whenever he's starching and ironing Arthur out for dinner with his father. "You know, that wasn't funny the first time you said it, and it's still not funny now," Arthur says as Merlin makes sure the cuffs on his trousers are perfectly even. "You love my sense of humor, it's delightful," Merlin says absently, straightening up to fuss with Arthur's cufflinks. "I'm serious, though, this isn't healthy." "Yeah, well," Arthur shrugs lightly, trying not to wrinkle his coat. It's his father's birthday, which means Morgana will join them for dinner, and that will inevitably lead to a screamed political match with his father on one end, Morgana on the other, and Arthur uncomfortably swallowing his roast in the middle. Sometimes Arthur wonders if Morgana has Green and Socialist sympathies and his father really does have violent reactions to separatist independence movements in places like Ireland and Scotland and the middle/lower classes, or if they've developed them just to irritate each other. "You know, it takes a hell of a lot to make me actually feel thankful my dad died in a car crash," Merlin says, moving to focus on Arthur's tie. "You might just have done it." Arthur quiets, letting Merlin fuss over the knot and making the dimple perfect. Arthur's so unused to human contact that it always leaves him feeling flushed and short of breath when Merlin does this. But while Merlin's examining Arthur, sometimes Arthur examines Merlin. He wonders what it would be like if he'd had a mother he remembered. The strong, quietly understanding kind like Merlin's, who'd have soft nurse's hands and make bits of pottery on the weekends too. Would he be standing here in this government office, sweaty-palmed and so devoid of simple touch that Merlin of all people makes him maudlin and flustered just by adjusting his tie? "Perfect," Merlin says finally. His long, tapered fingers skate down one of Arthur's lapels, smoothing it lovingly, and for a foolish second Arthur thinks Merlin's going to lean in and kiss him. For an even more foolish second, he's disappointed that Merlin doesn't. He needs to get out more. "I think you're ready for the firing

squad." "Just promise me that you won't let anyone sing Amazing Grace at my funeral," Arthur says crisply, wrapping his scarf around his neck. "You know I hate that bloody song." "Sir, yes sir," Merlin grins, saluting him out of his office. Arthur goes to dinner with a smile. It lasts all of five seconds and melts when father opens the door, gloomy and foreboding, but at least he starts with a smile. It's something. --Arthur considers himself to be very calm and contained, because he waits until after he's stomped out of Gaius' office and into Press headquarters to shout, "BLOODY BUGGERING FUCK," and slam the door. "Arthur," Merlin says, rapping smartly at the door ten seconds later, which proves he clearly has no survival instinct, "C'mon, open up." Arthur ignores him. "I have sustenance," Merlin wheedles. Arthur harrumphs loudly. "I've got jaffa cakes," Merlin says, and Arthur hears a box shake. "Keep talking," Arthur grumbles. "Jaffa cakes and lemon tea," Merlin says. "Fresh brewed PG Tips, not that swill from the vending machine." "Enter," Arthur barks. "Rough talk with Gaius?" Merlin asks sympathetically, coming through the door and setting the tray with two mugs and a new box of jaffa cakes down before stuffing one in his mouth. "Fucking Labour party and the fucking EU," Arthur grumbles. "Gaius won't bloody do anything about it even though he knows we'd never join if it were put up to a proper vote, he's just going to bend over like the rest of Parliament and fucking take it." Merlin turns pink, probably at the imagery of Gaius bending over at all. "I don't get the problem," Merlin says, resolutely carrying on in spite of what Arthur would bet is a petrifying mental image he's just provided. "Everyone in England's all 'oh no, look at what the EU did to the Irish,' but they bloody love the

EU over there. Poll some of the highest approval ratings, you know. You had me do that report." "But we're English," Arthur splutters. "We... we know tea shouldn't come with flavors and that left is the only proper side to drive on. We ran an empire, we've got a highly valued currency I'll be damned if we're switching from, and, and, and we're fucking England, okay? We're England." "Yeah, that's the part that escaped my understanding, working here," Merlin says, rolling his eyes. "Because I was all turned around, I've been expected to report to the Javanese center of government for ages..." "Sorry," Arthur sighs, and takes a long, steady sip of tea. "It's just... days like this, quitting and taking up with UKIP sounds like a great idea." "You'd hate it," Merlin says cheerfully, beginning to compulsively arrange the paper on Arthur's desk. "Your job would be boring, your office would be terrible, and you'd never have had the luck to end up with me as your assistant." The idea makes Arthur feel queasy, but he blames it on the third jaffa cake. "Besides, it's not so bad. The EU's done a lot of good human rights and environmental work! Plus it's good for trade. And we're in favor of trade nowadays, right?" "Merlin, will you have the decency to at least pretend to be on my side for once?" Arthur whines. "It's terrible. Think of the bureaucracy. Think of having to take it from fucking France and Germany. Think of the pound. I'm already in mourning." "I'm always on your side in the end, Arthur," Merlin says with exasperated patience. "I just happen to additionally be in favor of whatever side is kicking your arse. It's good for you. Builds moral character." "I thought that's what you're for," Arthur says, turning on his laptop. "On a cosmic and existential level." "No, I'm here to keep you from sulking and bring you tea and jaffa cakes," Merlin says, stealing the last one and leaving the office with a pile of papers Arthur's pretty sure he's going to need later but will be irreversibly lost in Merlin's filing chasm of doom. Bugger.

--Merlin has the worst dress sense of anyone Arthur's ever met. It's so bad he almost wonders if it's supposed to be some sort of ironic statement, or maybe he's just fucking with Arthur. Merlin has ties that look like the vomit of an

impressionist painting, novelty ties, and ties in colors that should never be on any clothing, ever. Arthur's tried everything he can think of to get those ties to go away, but Merlin's strangely attached to them. "They spruce up an outfit," he'll say, stroking it fondly. "We're English," Arthur says despairingly. "We don't spruce up outfits." "You're English," Merlin corrects. "I'm Welsh." "Merlin, I know for a fact you grew up in London." Merlin looks at Arthur like he's a particular sort of moron. "I've told you a million times my parents are from Wales, Arthur," he says. "You've met my mother." Arthur waves his dismissal. "Wales doesn't count, it's part of England." "Oh really," Merlin smiles in that evil way that makes Arthur's heart speed in up what must be fear, because that smile never bodes well, "I guess I'll just be nipping over to Plaid Cymru headquarters and telling them your stance, then, I'm sure they'll be happy to vote against Labour the next time you want to push something through..." "Shut up and get me some tea," Arthur says quickly, and it's clear from the smug way Merlin exits Arthur's office that he thinks he's won this one. When Merlin isn't sporting ties, he has plenty of heinous other clothing in the wings. He seems to have mastered trousers in the sense that they're all normal colors, but he can't seem to make them fit. Arthur's given him the name of his tailor a million times, but Merlin always rolls his eyes and asks Arthur when Arthur expects he'll have time to go stand in for a fitting, or where he'll come up with the money since Arthur refuses to give him a raise, so Arthur keeps his mouth shut on that subject. He's learned that with Merlin, much like in a marriage, he has to pick his battles, and ties can be removed or swapped out. Arthur has emergency ties that he'll use for just such occasions, like when the American President comes for a state visit. Merlin never seems to understand that Americans are important, always mumbling that they're a country just like everyone else, and getting dressed up for them just puffs up their selfimportance, which Arthur ignores as he makes sure the Oxford knot is perfectly even, fussing and fussing longer than may be strictly necessary, because it amuses him when Merlin rants about someone, especially if it involves taking the Americans down a peg. ("I don't understand their obsession with the letter z! It's the very last letter in the alphabet for a reason, for goodness sakes, and u is a perfectly fine vowel, thank you very much. Would it pain them so terribly to use it? Would it really?") But ties and trousers are not nearly as concerning as argyle sweater vests or

tweed coats with elbow patches, both of which Merlin owns and wears on a frequent basis, sometimes at the same time. "It's like you're a forty year old Oxford professor who's decided he simply doesn't want to have sex anymore," Arthur says. He's made sure to have this argument in front of Gwen so he has backup should he need it. "I have sex," Merlin says indignantly. "Not often, but I have it. I'd have it more if you didn't keep me here nights and weekends." Arthur refuses to feel a vindictive, hot rush of what's somewhere between satisfaction and something darker over whoever's having sex (or not) with Merlin. Really, he pities them. He does. He absolutely, completely does, because he has first-hand experience of Merlin's minimal coordination skills and tendency to accidentally elbow or knee people, and in the bedroom that can't bode well. His keeping Merlin from dating more is actually beneficial to society, and he deserves some sort of medal. Perhaps knighthood. He's always fancied that he'd make an excellent knight of the realm. Sir Arthur has a certain ring to it. "Besides," Merlin goes on, interrupting Arthur's favorite long-held fantasy, "who wears their work clothes when they're going out with someone?" "Arthur does," Gwen pipes up. In retrospect, having someone who he used to sleep with around for this conversation was a terrible idea. "He's starched and ironed permanently." Arthur glares at her. "Except his boxers," she hurries to add diplomatically. "He doesn't iron his boxers." "Does he own t-shirts or is that a myth?" Merlin asks avidly. "Does he have a smoking jacket that he wears instead of pajamas? I've got a Word document full of questions I've been begging to ask for the longest time." He does, is the thing, neatly titled "Questions About Arthur Pendragon" with gems such as "When Arthur has a wank, does he moan his own name?". Arthur had logged into the list and started under it "Questions About Merlin Emrys", the first one being "Was Merlin dropped on his head as a child and thus cannot remember that when he saves a Word document everyone on the Prime Minister's Server can see it?" and "Are Merlin's ears naturally that way, or are they able to be pruned, like shrubbery?" to which Merlin replied by adding to the list "Was Arthur ever hugged as a child?" and "Did Arthur's father surgically remove Arthur's heart on his fifth birthday?" Their war is currently at a mutually declared impasse. "He sleeps in -" Gwen begins, but Arthur makes an executive decision that that's enough of that. "Enough!" Arthur says, cutting Gwen off. She makes eyebrows at Merlin which means she'll talk to him later, and Arthur wonders, not for the first time, if he

actually has any power over these people at all or if his job is entirely ceremonial. He wonders if the queen wakes up every morning and feels like this. "Maybe, Merlin," Gwen says after a few moments of silence, "you should dress for your job with the care you would for a date, is what Arthur's suggesting. What about that nice, navy jumper you own? That over a button-down?" "I could," Merlin says, and Arthur coughs. Merlin's had one serious relationship the entire time he's worked for Arthur, a girl named Freya he'd met few months into working at 10 Downing that lasted about three months. Arthur could always tell when it was Merlin's date night, because he'd change into clothes that looked like they didn't belong to Arthur's grandfather - soft cashmere sweaters, shirts and trousers that fit properly, like there was a whole life Merlin led outside of the office that Arthur wasn't allowed to know about, a world where he had a great fondness for scarves and thick jumpers, where he laughed more openly and looked more touchable. On second though, perhaps Arthur preferred Merlin the way he was. "If you're quite done with fashion advice, we have jobs," he says crisply. "Merlin, the report on the NHS, I want it on my desk first thing tomorrow." "But you said I had a week!" Merlin cries out. "And you started this conversation!" "Well I changed my mind and need it tomorrow!" Arthur snaps. "And Gwen, please, be less helpful." "You're a prat, Arthur," she says cheerfully, and Arthur scowls at her smug Cheshire-cat smile. That was the problem with exes - they always thought they knew you a little too well. --Arthur doesn't understand why Prime Ministers must do things like tour car factories. Well, he supposes he understands the sentiment of a Prime Minister showing support for the common working man and appreciates that Gaius takes great delight in exploring and praising the nation's technological and scientific achievements. It's good for national pride and much better than if Gaius, say, had a fixation on which nation in the Middle East he felt like bombing that week. No, what Arthur doesn't understand is why so many people have to trail along after him. First of all, Gaius may be the Prime Minister, but he doesn't like working alone, and so he'll bring MP's from multiple parties, and they always bring at least one aide or handler each. Then, there are always at least two photographers, one for 10 Downing specifically and at least one for press at all times, and that's assuming it's not a big event where newspapers are competing with each other

and jostling elbows, bulbs flashing everywhere. Then, of course, Gwen has to go along, for PR reasons, and then there's security, looking bored and antsy to shoot someone (and wouldn't that be fun), and then there's Arthur and Merlin, who really have no need to come along except that Gaius regards the entire thing as a giant treat or field trip, and if he doesn't have someone like Merlin to discuss combustion engines with, he's more likely to wander off and try and join the assembly lines himself. (It happened once, and Arthur had a headache dealing with that for a week.) And since Merlin and Gaius can't be trusted and Gwen's usually too harried and security is useless and the MPs are just trying to make it through and nod politely, someone has to make sure the whole circus gets through with as little damage to whatever place they're visiting. And that person is Arthur. "We'd be just fine without you, you know," Merlin says, putting his bright yellow hard hat on as instructed. It makes his ears stick out worse than ever, and is rather funny-looking with his favorite elbow-patched tweed coat. (Though he is wearing his navy date jumper underneath his coat, damn Gwen.) "You can't even put your hat on properly," Arthur chides him, reaching up and adjusting it so it isn't sitting at a rakish angle. "Did you know that the most rudimentary of motors were created in prehistoric times?" Gaius is saying to MP Bayard, who looks like he'd rather be anywhere else. "But the first combustion engine like these are was created by an Englishman named Sir Samuel Moreland using gunpowder. Ingenious, really, and a point of national pride for you, right there..." "Also, the chances of MP Bayard not causing an incident due to snoring... Want to wager five pounds?" Merlin asks. "Merlin, I never bet money on my job," Arthur snaps. "And he doesn't snore, you have to look out for MP Monmouth for that. He's the snorer. Bayard will sneer." "Will he?" Merlin asks vaguely, and then grabs Arthur's wrist like he's a little boy trying to catch Arthur's attention, "ooh, Arthur, look at that massive robot arm! Do you think they have extras, and then they'd make a robot octopus that would take over London?" "Hush, Merlin," Gwen says severely. "They have welding tools. You'll give them ideas." Merlin just grins, big and dimpled, and lets go of Arthur's wrist to mime zipping his mouth shut. His silence only lasts as long as it takes for sparks to fly from the welding station (about five seconds) and he's off again, worse than Gaius in the front, because at least Gaius talks facts, not magical doomsday scenarios that Arthur's pretty sure are melded with the last Transformers movie.

Still, he thinks as he watches Merlin's eager, beaming face, he's had worse factory tours. --"Arthur," Merlin says, barging into Arthur's office without knocking (per usual, they'll have to have another conversation on that) "I would like a word with you about postage stamps." Arthur blinks at Merlin a few times, slowly, trying to make sure he really heard what he thought he heard. "...postage stamps," he says finally, looking up from the memo he's reading on who has to sit next to whom at the upcoming conference with East Asian nations. "Yes," Merlin says. "I found an article online about postage stamps." "You do know that postage stamps are under the purview of the Secretary of State for Business, Innovation, and Skills," Arthur says. "That's why I gave you that big red binder on your first day, so you can look up anything, including 'postage stamps', and go 'oh, should I be bothering Arthur about this?'. I am distinctly sure that next to postage stamps it does not say 'yes, I think he'd find that terribly interesting.'" "The Secretary works for Gaius, who has delegated to you the task of press and communications, and postage stamps are a form of communication," Merlin goes on with the air of someone who has clearly been entrenched in a bureaucracy for far too long to be dissuaded, "so really, I'm just going up the ladder. Also, my problem is with him." "About postage stamps?" "About postage stamps," Merlin nods. Arthur sighs and takes off his reading glasses, scrubbing at his eyes until they adjust. "You're not going to stop bothering me until I listen to you rabbit on about postage stamps, are you?" He asks. "Did you know that fifteen sets of commemorative stamps are issued a year?" Merlin plows onward with savage determination. "Did you know that there's a newfangled system called e-mail that makes the postage system near obsolete, and therefore the purchase rate of stamps declines every year?" Arthur asks. "And did you know that they've announced the commemorative stamps for next

year, and in June will be issuing a set honoring children's literature?" "Ah," Arthur nods, "I can see the problem. An homage to childhood literacy is positively subversive." "The original proposal was to honor famous British authors," Merlin goes on, "among those was Oscar Wilde. The British Library was then asked to change their proposal because Oscar Wilde was considered too controversial since he was Irish and a criminal." "Merlin, five minutes on Wikipedia will tell you that he was Irish and a criminal." Arthur drums his fingers. "One, Ireland was part of England at the time -" "Oh, good, bring that up, I'm sure that's not a sore spot," Arthur mutters. "Two, he was imprisoned in London, for being gay. That's homophobia, Arthur! Their proposal was rejected on the grounds of homophobia so they went with children's books. Plus, " Merlin raises his finger in the extremely swotty way he has, "the next month they're doing a set of stamps honoring musicals in London! Tell me that's not gay." "The West End is extremely prestigious and well known. It's a credit to England." "And Oscar Wilde isn't?" Merlin crosses his arms and raises one eyebrow in a way Arthur is pretty sure he learned from Gaius. Only when Merlin does it, it's irritating, not intimidating. "Merlin," Arthur sighs, exhibiting truly saintly patience for not hauling off and punching Merlin on his very puffy, very punchable mouth. "Plenty of other authors have been on stamps," Merlin goes on. "Keats, the Bront sisters, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, and he was Scottish. The real problem isn't that he's Irish, it's that he's bisexual -" "- I thought he was gay," Arthur interrupts. He feels terribly lost. "He had a childhood sweetheart he proposed to but she declined. She went on to marry the author of Dracula, actually..." "Merlin," Arthur interrupts pointedly. "Why on earth do you care so much about Oscar Wilde?" "Because you have no idea what it means to see him on a stamp!" Merlin shouts. "Yes, it's stupid, and yes, it's just a stamp, but you don't know what it's like to finally look at a stamp and realize that there's someone like you on it!"

Arthur furrows his brow. "And by like you, you mean..." "...not straight," Merlin blurts out, and then promptly turns bright red. Arthur, for his part, is paralyzed. Dating and sexual preferences, he knows, are A Line That Must Not Be Crossed when it comes to co-workers or employees. He's been very religious about not crossing it with Merlin (consciously, at any rate), but now images are flashing in his head faster than he can squash them. Merlin dancing with a faceless man in a club. Merlin deeply kissing a strange man in a grubby alley. An inexplicable flash of jealousy, and then - Arthur being that strange man. The way Merlin looks at him maybe not being what he thought it was. Merlin looking at him like that in that dark alley, looming over him and tilting his face upwards, Merlin's groans, Merlin waking up next to him in the morning, sunlight on bare skin... "Arthur?" Merlin interrupts. "Arthur, you look like you're about to have an stroke." "What?" Arthur blinks, clearing his head. "No, no, sorry, I just haven't had lunch yet and I'm feeling a bit peckish." "Oh." Merlin looks down at his feet. "I could go get you something, if you like." "Yes, right," Arthur says, reaching for his wallet. "I think I feel like Nando's half chicken, medium hot, with chips and coleslaw. And two Naughty Natas for us to have later with tea, if it's not too much trouble?" "No, no, of course not," Merlin says, taking the notes from Arthur, their fingers brushing. Arthur has to work very hard not to close his eyes and swallow when they do. "Look, I'm sorry if I made you uncomfortable." "It's really nothing." Arthur's voice sounds stuffy to his ears and god, like his father. "But I don't pay for a pastry for tea with someone I'm uncomfortable with, so let's call that that and not discuss it again, hm?" "Right," Merlin nods. "Oh, and Merlin?" Arthur calls while Merlin's shrugging on his coat. "If you write a letter to the Secretary, I'll add a personal note and pass it on." "Really?" Merlin's eyes brighten, and it's reward enough for Arthur to have the sudden, crazy desire to perhaps let Merlin get his way more often. Besides, Arthur would bet any amount of money Merlin's already got something truly scathing up his sleeve, half-typed on his computer. "You'd do that?" "Well I don't think it will make a difference, but I'll do anything to get you not to nag at me like a fishwife," Arthur shrugs. "Now hurry along. I wasn't kidding

about being peckish." But not peckish for a bit of chicken, an insidious little voice in the back of his mind says, flashing through the images of Merlin pressed against him, bricks rough at his back, how warm Merlin's body would be, the way Merlin smells in the morning, still sleepy and grumpy looking when he first comes in, and Arthur has to grind the heels of his hand in his eyes before he can go back to the arrangements for the East Asia conference.

--In theory, the Press Office at Number 10 is a completely neutral entity, devoid of any politicking, favor, or disfavor, especially not towards foreign dignitaries. This is, of course, completely untrue. There are plenty of journalists who will be turned away faster for comment than others, and plenty of dignitaries that will be avoided at all costs except, perhaps, if avoiding them would cause an international incident. For instance, Arthur and Merlin have spent many a lunch break coming up with quite a few ways that they'd like to dispose of the Ambassador from Trinidad and Tobago, who has a bit of a fixation with Gwen's breasts. "He was just staring at them," Merlin had hissed angrily, dapper if not elegant in the tuxedo Arthur had bullied him into for the last annual opening of the Royal Opera House's season, brilliant in his anger. "His wife was on his arm and he had no right, no right at all..." "Merlin, please," Gwen said softly. She was absolutely breathtaking, Arthur didn't exactly blame the Ambassador. Her white-gold sheath dress hugged every curve and her curls were pulled back softly instead of the usual severe bun. Arthur had spent a lot of the earlier part of the evening dividing his distracted attention between how nice Merlin looked in a tux and how he'd really have to force him to dress better, and Gwen's gold dangling earrings against the long line of her neck. It almost made a part of him miss dating her. Almost. She was still Gwen, after all. Gwen, who was clutching her shawl around herself uncomfortably. "Arthur, do something," Merlin insisted, turning toward Arthur with huge, imploring eyes. Arthur remembers fleetingly thinking that if Merlin had breasts that an ambassador was ogling, there may have been some fisticuffs that night. Then again, he was a bit giddy on white wine. "Merlin, as much as I would like to, I can't punch him out and cause an international incident over Gwen's - admittedly spectacular tonight - breasts."

Merlin had made a face like a wounded bear that made it perfectly clear what he thought of that situation. Arthur sighed. "As much as I would like to" he went on patiently, "I cannot mention this, casually, within the general vicinity of the ambassador's wife, though she is notoriously terribly jealous, and apparently with good reason. It's beneath my position. But if someone with, say large ears and a large mouth were to do so, I couldn't do much to stop them." He glanced at Gwen. "No offense meant to you, of course." The change in Merlin's face was remarkable. He beamed at Arthur rather like the sun and moon revolved around him, as if he were a knight in shining armor upon a pure white steed who had vanquished a dragon and run through several ogres. "I think I'll go get a drink," he'd chirped happily, skipping off to engage one of his many little friends Arthur no longer kept track of in a strategically located gossip session. Arthur snorted into his wine. Gwen had smiled after Merlin rolling her shoulders and loosening her shawl, confident again. "Thank you Arthur," she said sincerely, leaning over to brush a kiss against his cheek. Arthur had blushed. "I didn't do anything," Arthur shrugged, but later when he glanced around the room and saw the ambassador being uncomfortably and loudly trapped in a corner to receive a very public dressing-down from his wife, he caught Merlin's eye from where he was standing by a server, he gave Arthur a near-blinding grin and a wink before stuffing his face with even more shrimp cocktails, and it was as good - no, even better - than if Arthur really had ridden in on a steed and slain ogres. Still and all, it never does to start fights with ambassadors, especially if they can be linked back to you, which Arthur has to forcefully remind himself every time Alexander, Communications Director at the Swedish Embassy, comes over to drop anything off. He's extremely taken with Merlin, and had Arthur any delusions that Merlin had some sort of honor to protect, he'd have thrown down the gauntlet years ago. What really baffles Arthur is that Merlin seems to have no problem with the increasing lengths Alexander will go to to see and shamelessly proposition him. It's not really necessary that he come over with print-outs of the finer points of the new Baltic Sea drilling contract just for the edification of the Press department, and yet here he is, all blond and Viking-like, perched on Merlin's desk and leering at him. "You know, your talents are wasted terribly here, Merlin," he all but purrs as Arthur resolutely does not spy on them through the gap in his door. "I could definitely find you a better... hm. Position, shall we say." "Oh, well," Merlin sounds flustered, like he might be blushing. "That's really not

necessary." "Because I can see you in several positions," Alexander purrs. And really, that's just taking it too far. Arthur gets up to go tell Alexander off when he catches sight of Merlin's face. He doesn't exactly look displeased. "You're quite flexible, am I right?" "Oh," Merlin laughs. "I don't know about that one. Not according to Arthur, anyway." "Arthur," Alexander scoffs, and Arthur instinctively stiffens behind the door. "He doesn't he appreciate you like you deserve, does he?" Of all the comments Alexander's made, that one's probably the least suggestive, but it's the one that irritates Arthur the most. Of course he appreciates Merlin! He thanks Merlin for bringing him things, doesn't he? He's spent many years studying all of Merlin's quirks and habits and being indulgent of them, far more than anyone else, Alexander especially, ever would. Would Alexander ever make sure that Merlin's favorite brand of ballpoints are on the order form for office supplies even though they're a pound more expensive than the generic kind everyone else gets? And for the first time Arthur sees genuine upset in Merlin's eyes, and he spares Arthur standing behind Alexander and half-hidden by the door a nervous glance. "Ah, Alexander," Arthur says crisply, opening the door completely. "Are those the latest drafts of the Baltic Sea drilling bill? Excellent. Merlin, could you go make copies so Gaius and Gwen both have one? Please?" He adds the 'please' for Alexander's sake, and it's clear from Merlin's eyebrows he's figured it out. That'll teach both of them to think Arthur doesn't appreciate Merlin. Just because he doesn't say please and simper over him doesn't mean he doesn't appreciate him. "You know, Merlin," he says later that night while Merlin's filing something-orother. "If anyone ever... makes untoward advances towards you, you can always come to me. I'd take care of them and, well, protect you, I suppose." Merlin snorts softly. "Are you still mad about Alexander?" He asks. "Positions," Arthur says darkly. "Talents. Flexibility." "You know," Merlin says, "as difficult as this may be for you to understand, I don't find a tall, handsome, Swedish man coming on to me a terrible hardship." "His smile is crooked," Arthur says automatically. "And his forehead's too big. There's something about him I don't like. I can't quite name what it is." "Of course you can't," Merlin says, but instead of the hint of fondness Arthur usually hears, like he's biting back an idiot, Merlin sounds almost... sad. "Is there

anything else you need me for, sir?" Arthur winces. Merlin hasn't called him 'sir' in years. "I... no," he says reluctantly. "The filing's all done, so I suppose I'm done with you too." "Of course you are," Merlin mutters, leaving Arthur's office. He sounds awfully bitter, Arthur thinks, for someone who just got off work. --When Morgana was six and Arthur was four, she had decided that all she wanted for Christmas was a little sister. "You might as well be my little brother," she'd told Arthur imperiously while she poured him and her dolls tea and Arthur had wondered if maybe they could play another game, like being Jedi knights. "And you're no fun at all. I want a little sister I can dress up in pretty clothes." Morgana's mother had left to "find herself" around the same time Arthur's mother had died, and neither Morgana nor Arthur had been old enough to understand that that made a little sister highly unlikely. Instead, Morgana had gotten a flamepoint Siamese kitten with huge blue eyes named Morgause for Christmas. Arthur and Morgana were immediately smitten with her velvety paws and rumbling purr when she was scratched under the chin. It also became clear very quickly that Arthur was terribly allergic to Morgause, and whenever they visited he could only watch longingly as Morgana picked her up and let her outside for the rest of the night. Sometimes, Arthur wonders what would have happened had Morgause not run away a year before Morgana's father had a heart attack and Uther adopted her. Uther would have inevitably forced Morgana to give Morgause up, and no doubt their relationship would be even more contentious as a result to this day. Arthur initially has no idea what Merlin's up to when he waltzes into Arthur's office at the end of the day and plops two little white pills and a paper cup of water on his desk with a brisk "take those". "If you're attempting to drug and kidnap me, I have to say you're doing a terribly poor job of it," Arthur says dryly, glancing in between the pills and Merlin. "Not that I want to give you ideas, but usually you'd grind those up and dissolve them in my tea, or something." "Please," Merlin rolls his eyes and shows Arthur the box. "If I were doing that, I'd be far more stealthy. They're antihistamines. Non-drowsy." "All antihistamines make me drowsy, and I drove to work today." Merlin lets out an extremely put-upon sigh. "Only you would drive to work, and

then for work sit at a desk for two hours making me take notes on Gaius' new initiative to promote public transportation to reduce carbon emissions and traffic." "But the tube takes longer," Arthur points out. He doesn't tell Merlin the real reason, which is germs. Merlin would mock him forever and call him posh and sneeze on top of Arthur just to tick him off, but whenever he's taken the tube he's always seen at least two people cough or wipe their nose or sneeze into a hand, only to use it once again to hold on a pole to stay upright. Also, he's always felt terribly uncomfortable squashed next to other people, even if they were healthy. He felt that they were staring at him and analyzing every little detail of him, deconstructing him down to his core elements, and inevitably they'd find him lacking in... something. But really... germs. They're a problem. Merlin sighs and crosses his arms. "Fine, I'll drive you home." Arthur considers the offer. Merlin's driven him around before, usually so Arthur won't waste a moment he could possibly be using to yell at someone over the phone. He isn't a terrible driver - a bit too conservative around yellow lights and yields too easily for other drivers, but he'll get Arthur home safely. "Seriously, Arthur," Merlin says impatiently. "Will you just take them? I promise not to compromise your virtue." The image of Merlin leering over his prone form flashes quickly in Arthur's mind, and instead of letting himself dwell on that, he swallows down the pills. "Right," Merlin says with satisfaction, "now you wait for those to kick in and I'll go fetch your visitor." Merlin's gone just long enough for Arthur to work himself into a woozy state of minor panic. Who would Merlin drug him to meet? Oh god, what if it's someone important? What if it's a foreign dignitary? What if a member of the press sees him like this? What if Gaius sees him like this? He's just about to demand Merlin drives him home at once when Merlin pokes his head back in the office. "Pills set in?" He asks cheerfully. Arthur's too tired to do anything but nod. "Good." Merlin won't open the door enough to actually come in, and he looks like he's kicking something in the background, which is just weird. He's just about to ask Merlin who exactly he's kicking when Merlin opens the door and the most beautiful specimen of a Siamese cat Arthur has ever seen saunters into his office like she owns it. Her eyes (Arthur's sure it's a she, she's far too sleek and beautiful to be anything but) are painfully blue, her fur the perfect cream, the tips of her ears and her nose inky instead of a foggy gray. Arthur's palms ache with the need to stroke her. "Who's this?" He finally manages evenly as the cat sniffs around his bookshelves.

"Oh, right," Merlin says. "Arthur, may I introduce Sophia, Chief Mouser to the Cabinet Office." "Hello, Sophia," Arthur says gravely as she comes to twine around his legs, purring. After a few figure eights, she jumps right up into his lap and rubs her cheek against his tie. Arthur would protest the cat hair, but he can't find the heart. "She normally sticks around accounting where they spoil her terribly," Merlin says from what feels like a great distance. "But she's been hanging around here ever since you left out the crust to your tuna sandwich the other week. Gwen and Lance and I have had a terrible time trying to keep her out ever since." "Aren't you a beautiful girl," Arthur coos, and he's pretty sure he hears Merlin change a snort of laughter into a cough. It's his loss - Merlin's probably never felt the affection of such a fine creature. "I see I'm the third wheel here - I should give you two your privacy," he says sardonically. "Oh, yes, go on, then," Arthur mutters, too busy being fascinated by the fact that Sophia's so pleased she's practically vibrating. Cats are even more delightful than he'd ever imagined. Merlin makes a highly disparaging noise and shuts the door loudly on what Arthur feels is gearing up to be a highly successful cuddling session. Siamese cats, he thinks, are quite the nicest cats. The most beautiful, certainly. He's always loved the contrast of the black against white, it makes the blue of Merl- no Sophia's. It makes her eyes look very blue. It's strange that he thought of Merlin. Merlin isn't a cat. The drugs must be stronger than he thought. No, Merlin has nothing to do with Sophia's sleekness, how warm and affectionate she is against him. This is the nice thing about cats, he thinks. They know when to fuck off and when you're really in need of a good cuddle. Not that Arthur needs anything. Not even from Merlin, though it was very nice for him to arrange all of this. His thoughts of Merlin keep getting strangely tangled up in his thoughts about Sophia, though, like when he scratches behind her ears and wonders if Merlin would like that too, if Arthur kissed behind those absolutely ridiculous ears of his. Would Merlin purr against him? It would be nice if Merlin purred and nuzzled him - Merlin was so grumpysometimes... He must doze a little because it seems like it's only five minutes before Sophia gives him one last, fond headbutt before leaping off his lap and slinking out of the door. Almost immediately after she's gone, Merlin sticks his head in. "That was like being in a hotel room next to newlyweds," Merlin says, taking one look at Arthur and whipping the lint brush out of Arthur's desk, brushing most of the white fur off of him. "You're going to have to dry-clean this suit if you don't want it to send you into anaphylactic shock the next time you wear it."

"Yeah, okay," Arthur says sleepily. He thinks for a few minutes. "I'm tired." "I'll bet you are," Merlin mutters, picking up Arthur's briefcase and practically dragging him to the car. Arthur must fall asleep on the ride home as well, because the next thing he knows, Merlin's manhandling him out of the elevator and unlocking his door. "God, you're so heavy," Merlin bitches. "I'm never doing anything nice for you again." "Yeah you will," Arthur says, shucking off his jacket and starting on his shirt. "You love me, I know. Don't fight it." He isn't sure if it's his imagination or if Merlin blushes. He's really very tired. "That doesn't excuse you putting on a strip show for me." Merlin's voice sounds tight. "'M not," Arthur grumbles, throwing his shirt at and tie Merlin before starting on his trousers. "'M having you dry-clean these." "I want a raise." "Nice try, not that tired," Arthur yawns, shuffling to his bedroom. "Thanks, Merlin. You can see yourself out." "You're welcome," Merlin says faintly from the other room. He might say something more, but Arthur falls instantly asleep. He dreams vividly at first, like he's very heavy and watching from outside of his body as Merlin sighs, tiptoes into his room, and grabs a garment bag to stuff Arthur's cat-clothes into. "You're so impossible," Dream-Merlin mutters grumpily, sitting down next to Arthur. It's very vivid, Arthur swears the bed dips, swears that he feels a phantom hand start to brush away his fringe from his head. "I do the stupidest things for you." Arthur wants to tell Merlin that nothing he does because Arthur tells him to is stupid, thank you very much, but he can't quite manage it in his dream. Instead he watches Merlin heave a massive sigh before, very tentatively, brushing a soft kiss against Arthur's forehead, like his nannies used to do when he was sick, and Arthur in the dream feels warm all over, boneless, content... ... the dream changes without much explanation but in a way that makes complete sense somehow, as dreams are wont to do. Arthur's sitting in his office chair, and instead of Sophia it's Merlin who slinks in with feline grace, sitting in Arthur's lap and purring, only Merlin's obviously smaller and can fit. Merlin's skin is pale and his hair is dark and his eyes are blue, but sometimes in the dream

they look gold, like they're catching and reflecting back a bit of sunlight. Merlin/Cat/Sophia/Something is much more affectionate, kissing with gentle human lips along Arthur's jawline, hands somehow returning the favor of stroking down Arthur's side even though sometimes the hands are paws and sometimes they're hands and sometimes they're both at once. It should be a sexual dream, with all the touching and the kissing, especially when the kisses move from Arthur's jaw to his lips, but it isn't. It's just warm. Sweet. Comfortable. He never wants to wake up. Not when he could stay here forever... Getting out of bed the next morning is a chore, even though the alarm isn't set until eight and Arthur fell asleep ungodly early because Merlin drugged him. He's working from home, but he's got to draft some potential answers for Question Time that correspond with the late responses various cabinet members sent in so Gaius can look it over tomorrow and be prepared Sunday, he's got to do laundry and buy some toilet paper and toothpaste, but for the first time since he was a teenager, getting out of bed is a painfully physical exercise. It's like his body and eyes are heavy and his bed's a center of gravity, and all he wants to do is fall back into the weird cat dream. Cats are really nice. Though, he thinks when he pulls himself out of bed and makes a truly terrible instant cup of coffee before settling down with his papers, they might not be worth the after-effects of the drugs.

--The thing about Merlin is he's just really... weird. Despite the fact that Arthur teases him constantly about not knowing what e-mail is ("Merlin, the next time you think about ringing when Arsenal is about to score a goal, please consider a new invention I've heard about called electronic mail that I can check during a commercial break..."), he does know, selectively. That is, he doesn't know to forward important interdepartmental memos, but he is perfectly aware of how to e-mail Arthur when he sees one of his new weird cat images that he thinks Arthur will find funny. Arthur does not find these very strange cat pictures funny. "There is a cat in the ceiling," Arthur says slowly, attempting to understand the latest one. "His name is Ceiling Cat." "Yes," Merlin nods enthusiastically. "And you find him... funny."

"He's symbolic. For God, you see." "And the fact that he is watching me..." "...is supposed to be funny, yes," Merlin says. "That's why I sent it to you. Because you like cats." "But cats don't speak English," Arthur says. "Not, mind you, that this nonsense the cat's supposed to be saying is the Queen's bloody English, this is... for Christ's sake, Merlin, don't you have a degree in this garbage? I'm offended on behalf of the years and years of schooling you are apparently flushing down the toilet." Merlin opens his mouth and Arthur raises his hand up to stop him. "If you ask me if you 'can has' this year's immigration numbers, you're fired," he says before he hands over the folder. Merlin takes it with a roll of his eyes. "Develop a sense of humor!" He shouts as he leaves the office. "Do your job!" Arthur suggests, and dials up his counterpart at the Conservative party to yell at him about human decency, what you don't fucking say to the press, and the various inhuman acts he plans on performing on his mother. It's a wholly satisfying conversation that puts Arthur in a good mood right through lunchtime and into the early afternoon, until his e-mail pings with a message from Merlin with the subject "!!!URGENT RE: YOUR SENSE OF HUMOR!!!" The entire body is You're welcome. -M and a link to a comic with a graph showing that comments said in close proximinty to a cat become increasingly inanae. Arthur puzzles over it for a very long time before being forced to conclude: a) the comic itself is inane, and, b) Merlin is not utilizing his time properly. "Merlin," he says, stomping to his assistant's desk, which is a testament to Merlin's extreme disorganization and oddity. Including the goldfish bowl, Merlin's desk contains a few day's worth of food wrappers, his battered iPod, piles of folders and books Merlin finished but forgot to take home, three action figures of Merlin's literary heroes (Shakespeare, Oscar Wilde, and Jane Austen, which Merlin has pointed out to Arthur are also all British, thus appropriate for the office as they display his national pride), a framed photograph of Merlin standing with his arm around his mother, the latest book Merlin's been reading furtively when he thinks Arthur isn't looking, and a cup full of the weird kind of pens that only Merlin likes to use because he's fond of the texturized grip. The cubicle walls around his desk that block Merlin from the other mindless department drones are full of tacked-on crooked pictures of him and Will mugging the camera, a few of Merlin smiling awkwardly with famous people who toured 10 Downing, and the

weird web comics Merlin likes so much with the ugly scribbled famous authors like the Yeats or Kierkegaard saying pretentious things Arthur doesn't understand. "Merlin, what have I told you about sending me frivolous e-mails?" Merlin looks up from his lukewarm cup of tea he's still nursing from that morning with eyes that would melt butter. "They're delightful and brighten your day?" "No." Arthur says emphatically, punctuating the statement with his hand slammed down on Merlin's desk for good measure. "Well, you were cooing inanely at Sophia," Merlin points out. "I was drugged! You drugged me!" Arthur shouts this loud enough that Gwen's head pokes out of her office. "Boys," she says severely, "what have I told you about slipping each other sedatives?" "He did it!" Arthur says, pointing at Merlin. "I'm innocent! He plied me with antihistamines and gave me a cat!" "Oh, you're welcome for that!" Merlin scoffs. "You certainly didn't sound like you minded." He puts on his imitation-Arthur voice, which is very nasal and swotty sounding, like Arthur should be adjusting his spats at Eton. Never mind that Arthur went to Eton, he never wore spats there, no matter what Merlin thinks. "Oh, Sophia," he says as Arthur, "who's a perfect kitty girl? You are! Yes you are just the prettiest kitty kitty kitty cat!" "I did not say that!" Arthur yelps. Gwen's mouth is twitching frantically, and damn her, she knows how he feels about cats, which means she knows that Merlin's probably not lying. Gwen never understood Arthur's deep and meaningful bond with cats - she's always been a dog person. It's one of the many reasons Arthur counts as evidence that it's good they broke up when they did before they made a truly terrible decision like getting married to each other. "Also, you drugged me and then sent me a mocking comic!" "Remember, Arthur," Gwen soothes, "sticks and stones may break your bones, but words can never hurt you." "I think the nature of our job suggests otherwise," Merlin mutters, and Arthur shoots both him and Gwen venomous looks. "Everyone in this department is fired," he snarls, and stomps back into his office. But he does spends a good hour that afternoon going through the stupid comic out of perverse curiosity, just so he can hit the reply button and send one to send back to Merlin.

I'll have you know my sense of humor is excellent. He writes in the body, and then after a few moments of thought he adds Hah hah. Bite me. Five minutes after he presses send, he hears Merlin's laughter, bright and unexpected through the door. And when he leaves for the night, he notices that Merlin's printed the comic out and tacked it up, and then outlined in bright green so it stands out from all the rest.

--Technically, Arthur's in charge of scheduling the journalism students that will occasionally tour through his department like a descending plague of locusts. By "in charge" he means "he signs off on the slips of paper", but he doesn't really have a say. The woman in charge of these things is named Kay, and she's old enough to be his mother and then some, has a bit of an older-woman mustache, and is one of those people who is terrifyingly kind yet always seems to give off the distinct impression that if they ever snapped, they would kill you in cold blood without a second thought. Arthur thereby signs off on everything she sends his way and makes sure he doesn't know the particulars. Unfortunately, this strategy is what leads to him and Merlin sitting awkwardly on his desk facing about twenty dewy-eyed journalism students. Well, fuck. "I really need to start listening when you brief me about my day," Arthur mutters out of the corner of his mouth to Merlin. "So what, you can run away and leave me to deal with this on my own?" Merlin mutters back. "Alright," Arthur claps his hands and attempts to smile brightly at the students instead of answering. "I'm Arthur Pendragon, I run this joint, and this is my assistant Merlin Emrys. And that's really his name, to answer your first question. So, what've you got to ask us?" A lot of them have boring questions - how do you deal with the long hours, what are the worst mistakes journalists can make, did Arthur and Merlin always want to do this when they were kids? They've answered these questions more or less on the fly so many times that Arthur and Merlin have developed a seamless running dialogue they can start up at a moment's notice about their job, and it never fails to amaze Arthur that when they do, Merlin's actually quite charming. Normally, he thinks of Merlin as a bit of a bumbling idiot, but when Merlin really gets into philosophizing about the nature and importance of a free press with his eyes alight and his hands making fantastical shapes in the air (all while,

somehow, managing to be obliquely insulting to Arthur), he's perhaps a little magnificent. At least when Arthur catches some of the girls (and there are always a few) gazing adoringly at Merlin, he understands and doesn't feel the need to check if they're concussed. If they knew Merlin like Arthur knew Merlin, though... Well, it would be a different story. Hell, they didn't even have to really know him, they just had to see Merlin drunk once, and all future attraction would be killed immediately. "Yes, you," Arthur calls on one of the girls who at least had the decency and good sense to be ogling him, "you had a question?" "Hi," the girl says, a bit breathless. "I'm Jennifer. But you can call me Jenn. That's with two n's." Next to him, Merlin makes a choking noise and Arthur's forced to kick his shin, hard. "Very well, Jenn," he says politely. "What was your question?" "Well," Jenn simpers a little. "You and Mr. Emrys, I mean, clearly you're a great boss, since you and he are so close, and Mr. Emrys gets to do so much hands-on work with you. I was just wondering if that's normal, if we're going to be as close with our bosses as Mr. Emrys is with you." "Um," Arthur says vaguely. The question is semi-innocent, he knows.The girl was trying to flatter him and perhaps butter him up enough to ask for her number. She certainly didn't mean to make it sound like he and his assistant... well. It wasn't even worth thinking about. "I... that is..." He feels the brush of Merlin's fingers against where his hand is resting on the desk, like he's trying to offer comfort, but Merlin recoils and places his hand next to Arthur's instead under Arthur's glance. His pinky brushing against the side of Arthur's hand is an itch, somehow worse than if Merlin had actually covered Arthur's hand with his own. "It's both luck and circumstance," Merlin says smoothly, betraying no emotion. "Arthur's a great boss and we get on well, it's true, but anyone you work with for as many hours as Arthur and I work together is bound to come to a sort of... understanding with you. Being close is a bit inevitable." The question and answer session wraps up soon after that and Arthur has a full day's work ahead of him after it, so he puts his head down and just does it, but he has a sick, churning feeling in his gut all day. "That was a good answer," Arthur says to Merlin when he comes in to give Arthur the last papers of the day before he heads back to his flat. "With the student earlier today I mean. Good quick thinking." "Yeah well," Merlin avoids his eyes. "Someone had to." "But, uh," Arthur clears his throat. "I think that even if we didn't work together...

that is. I mean, I know you won't work for me forever and I'd... We're mates, right? After a fashion?" Merlin snorts. "That's one word for it." He gives Arthur a small smile. "I'll see you tomorrow, okay?" Arthur nods, but before Merlin can leave, he twists up all his courage and says, "I should have said, when she asked that question..." Merlin turns around and looks at him. "I mean," Arthur goes on doggedly, "what I should have said is that you do so much work with me because without you... I couldn't do what I do. Without you." "Like, at work, right?" Merlin sounds a little odd. Is he coming down with a cold? "Yeah, of course," Arthur says. "What else would I mean?" "Nothing," Merlin gives Arthur one of his sad, unreadable looks that Arthur never understands, but never fails to make him feel deeply ashamed, like he's done something terribly wrong, if only he knew what the hell it was. "Good night, Arthur." "Good night," Arthur says. He feels like something important just happened, like Merlin just told him something he should know. But, for all that his job is in communications, when Merlin sends him these coded messages, he can never quite understand what's just out of his reach. ---

Keep Calm and Carry On - R - Part 3a

"No comment," Arthur says flatly when Morgana knocks on his door. "I'm not here for that," Morgana says. "I just dropped by to give Merlin the key to my flat, so I thought I'd say hello." Arthur looks up sharply. "Why would Merlin need the keys to your flat?" Are Merlin and Morgana having some sort of affair he's missed out on? How does Merlin have time to have an affair? Or Morgana, for that matter? He can picture it horribly vividly, all pale skin and dark hair and Merlin's hands going down, down... "God, no, not that," Morgana laughs. "Merlin's far too young for me." "He's fucking 28, not a child," Arthur snaps, typing a bit more vehemently than he needs to for a brief on Gaius' stance on strengthening the British electricity grid. "I think at the ripe old age of 32 you can lower yourself..." "You're defensive," Morgana snorts. "I'm going to China for that story I've been talking about for ages on carbon emissions. Merlin's looking after my cats."

"One, China having high carbon emissions is the farthest thing from news I can think of," Arthur says. "While you're there, I hear the sky is blue and the earth revolves around the sun. You should get on that." "The sky's not blue if they're cloud seeding..." "...and two," Arthur plows over her neatly, recognizing the beginning of an environmental rant when he hears one, "why is Merlin watching your cats? I thought I usually did that." "I know who really fed them when I was in Chernobyl," Morgana tosses a sheet of shiny black hair over her shoulder, and Arthur pouted. He'd really wanted to take care of the cats, he'd tried a new medicine and everything, just like every time Morgana went away. But, just like the time before, Arthur's eyes watered so thoroughly the second he stepped into Morgana's flat that he couldn't even see where to scoop the litter. It wasn't like Merlin minded, anyway. "Thought I'd eliminate the middleman, since you're allergic anyway. They're good judges of character, you know." "They scratch me to hell," Arthur complains. This may be because he's stepped on their tails while nearly blind one too many times, he isn't really sure. He just knows there was yowling. "I rest my case." Morgana sits down in the visitor's chair that Arthur usually purposefully keeps filled with file folders so no one stays to chat, but he'd had a meeting with the Queen's Press Director earlier that morning and hadn't had a chance to fill it up with his crap yet. "You didn't tell me you had a hot new speechwriter." "Who, Lance?" Arthur asks, glancing up at her. She would find him attractive. Everyone with a pulse who wasn't Arthur, it seemed, did. "Yeah, he's really good at the inspirational stuff." "Where did you find him, a modeling agency?" Arthur shrugs. "No idea, he's just been working his way through the Labour Party writing speeches. Co-wrote Alvarr's speech in favor of nuclear non-proliferation and drone attacks on Pakistan. The non-proliferation parts, anyway. Made Alvarr sound like less of a bloodthirsty bastard. Gaius really liked his work and asked me to get him to sign on." "That was a good speech," Morgana says thoughtfully, looking out the perpetual gap in Arthur's door to where Gwen is perched on Lance's desk. "You should keep him around, even though he's in love with Gwen." "What?" Arthur says, actually closing his laptop for such a serious accusation.

Morgana and Gwen had always seemed to get on almost eerily well, better than even Gwen and Arthur had at times (another thing that should have been a warning sign), and Morgana had taken their breakup with a philosophical shrug and a "well, she was too good for you, anyway", and ever since has bemoaned Arthur's inability to date someone she likes even remotely as much. "Look, Morgana," he says, "I'd appreciate if you didn't come in and just start shit to mess with me. I've got quite enough to do this week." "See, this exactly, this is why I don't trust you with my cats," Morgana says, getting up. "You're too stupid to be allowed anywhere near them." Arthur snorts. He highly doubts stupidity has anything to do with it. More likely, Nimueh and Mordred are as evil as their namesakes and have performed black magic upon Morgana, which is only unnoticeable because she was so evil to begin with. "I hope your plane crashes in China and goes up in flames and you die." Arthur says bitterly. Morgana chuckles and leans over to brush a kiss against his cheek. "I'll miss you too, Arthur." Of course Morgana's right, she's always fucking right. Arthur can't believe he missed how Lance looks at Gwen, tunes into every press briefing with his chin in his hands and hearts practically leaping out of his eyes. He brings her tea and coffee every day, visits her office constantly to talk or joke or sometimes even pretend he needs to work alongside her. It would be pathetic if Gwen didn't seem to enjoy it so much, or flirt back in her own, quiet, Gwen-ish way that Arthur recognized with a sudden clang of deja vu, like he was back in uni watching her and a much darker version of himself dance around each other all over again. "So... Lance," Arthur says awkwardly to her one day after work when they're getting drinks at the pub around the corner. Gwen goes out every Friday for a bit of a wind-down, and there's always an unspoken open invitation to join her, but Arthur usually tries to avoid human interaction on the rare chance he gets the luxury to just be alone for once. This, however, is a matter that takes precedence. Gwen blushes into her wine. "What about him?" "You seem interested," Arthur shrugs and takes a sip of his scotch. Gwen just narrows her eyes at him. "You don't get to do this, this," she waves her hand vaguely. "This nosing into my romantic life business." "I think as your ex I do," Arthur shrugs. "And I think both your boss and his..."

"...ah," Gwen smiles. "The real reason." "It's a valid reason!" Arthur says hotly. "You're the press secretary to the prime minister, Gwen, you can't go... philandering with a co-worker when you're in politics!" "Maybe I won't be in politics forever," Gwen says. "I never planned on it, you know, I only got this job because of your recommendation to Gaius." "But you're in it now, and it looks..." "Arthur," Gwen says sharply, and Arthur's reminded of what ten years ago he'd found so entrancing about her, the edge of steel under all that comfort and softness. "This isn't America, it's England, and unless I'm mucking about with a duck house and a moat on expenses, no one cares. There are husband-wife teams in Parliament, and I'm not saying I'm going to marry Lance, but if maybe you could unclench around that massive stick your father's shoved up your arse, the world would be a better place." "I do not have a stick up my arse!" Arthur protests. "Come off it," Gwen scoffs, rolling her eyes. "If that were true, you and Merlin would be at it like bunnies already. You're clearly besotted with him. Instead, you're uptight and miserable, and now you're trying to make everyone else miserable." Arthur forgot he doesn't like Gwen when she's got a little wine in her. She becomes irritatingly direct and almost Morgana-like, and Arthur just hopes she never goes to get drinks with curious journalists. "I do not," he says, slowly and carefully, "have romantic or inappropriate feelings for Merlin." "There's nothing inappropriate about having feelings for Merlin," Gwen sighs, "I just wish you'd let yourself be happy for a change." "I am happy," Arthur insists. "But if you were with Merlin..." "...my political career would be over," Arthur finishes. "It's damning enough to date inter-departmentally, but sure, let's add gay on top of it, see how that goes." "Again, what do you think this is, America?" Gwen laughs. " People don't pay that close attention to their government. I'm the Press Secretary, I come to this bar a block away from 10 Downing every Friday, and no one pays a jot of attention to me. Unless you're performing sexual acts with Merlin on The X Factor, no one gives a damn. Ah!" She points at him and gives a slightly tipsy giggle. "You're

blushing. You do love him." "I," Arthur sniffs, "have only had one scotch, and therefore I have that sense of propriety you lost two glasses of wine ago." "You stare at him all the time," Gwen goes on mercilessly, "hate that Alexander fellow, or anyone who pays attention to him, you two have those deep, innuendoladen silences where you speak only with your eyes and it's like something out of a Mills and Boon novel..." "Gwen..." "Arthur," Gwen says, covering his hand. "Please." Arthur swallows the rest of his scotch and is silent for a long time. "It isn't..." He says finally. "I mean, I've had... thoughts. But they're nothing... It's not worth... I mean of course I would, I see him every day, he isn't terrible looking..." "And what if he was worth it?" Gwen asks softly, eyes intent on Arthur's face. "Just imagine if he was." Arthur closes his eyes and turns his head away. There was that one time, that one dream, maybe a year and a half ago, the one he couldn't quite forget that's coming back to him under Gwen's not-so-gentle prodding. For a week, he'd watched Merlin go on dates with Freya and let himself think that maybe it could change, maybe it was worth it, maybe if he could just make a move... but that was a stupid week. A stupid, selfish, childish thought that had ran away with itself. If Gwen thought he wasn't happy, maybe the reason was because he'd never really let that thought go. And starting Monday, he would. Come Monday he'd walk in and steel himself completely against Merlin's big, blue eyes and dimpled smile and not be so soft on every one of Merlin's whims, spoken or unspoken. "Arthur?" Gwen repeats. "Was that out of line? I'm sorry, I'm tipsy and it was terribly..." "No," Arthur shakes his head, smiling at her. "I'm just tired. I'm going to head home." "Arthur," Gwen says as he pulls on his coat, "will you do me a favor and think about it?" "Sure," Arthur lies. "No, of course." ---

For Christmas, as always, Merlin wants a magic kit. Never mind that it's not an appropriate sort of gift for a boss to give his assistant (Arthur's father always gave his secretaries bouquets or potted poinsetta or something), he wants one, and he's wanted one the first two Christmases he worked for Arthur, and pretty much since he was eight before he even knew Arthur, and he's gotten it in his head that one day, Arthur will give in and get him one. "I don't want Gwen to, because she already gives me her tin of Christmas fudge," Merlin tells Arthur, trailing him like a puppy no matter how Arthur tries to lose him. "And I look forward all year to that Christmas fudge. And I think Lance thought I was kidding, and Gaius is too busy to get presents for anyone." "So ask your mother for one," Arthur says absently, looking over Gaius' charitable holiday schedule, trying to make sure he's appearing everywhere he's supposed to, which is a bit difficult with Merlin hovering about. "Mum only named me Merlin because that's what my dad wanted before he died," Merlin says, stuffing envelopes as he chatters. "She wanted to name me something sensible like Tom, or James, or Colin, or Dave, or..." "The point, please, Merlin," Arthur interrupts. This could go on for a while. "The point is, she didn't want me becoming a magician and getting teased that much more, and now she won't get me a magic kit because she says I'm too old, and it's what I really want, Arthur, it's what would bring me Christmas joy. Since you make my life miserable all year round, I think you owe me some joy." "I make your life a delight," Arthur insists vaguely. Fuck, forgot to make sure Gaius visits impoverished, ill, bald children, that won't do. "You're right, of course," Merlin says. "While my mum and I scrimped and saved for me to get to uni, while I was working my arse off studying motifs in Russian literature, I was thinking to myself, 'thank god I'm getting this education, it will serve me really well when I achieve my life calling to be Arthur Pendragon's lackey.'" "And don't you forget it!" Arthur calls after Merlin's righteous flounce out of his office. "I want my tea early today, and it better have the numbers on annual job losses with it!" Thanks to Merlin's needling, Arthur does spend an uncomfortable amount of time considering his Christmas present instead of going with another very sensible fountain pen for the third year in a row, standing in various stores and weighing things in his hands. On one hand, Merlin should get what he wants - it is Christmas, after all, and if Merlin wants to tap hats and make things disappear,

who's Arthur to stand in his way? On the other hand, it's a fairly ridiculous wish of Merlin's, and Arthur is patently against encouraging Merlin to be even more ridiculous than he already is. When December 23rd comes around, Gwen hands out her annual Christmas chocolate that is just as divine as Arthur remembered, and Lance hands out Amazon.com giftcards with a shrug. "Didn't have time for something personal, trying to come up with all the Christmas speeches," he says sheepishly, and Gwen and Merlin both hurry to assure him that's quite alright, cooing over him as if 25 is the greatest gift they could ever receive. Then again, Arthur wasn't so stupid he didn't catch Lance in Gwen's office earlier, shyly handing her a package of that expensive French-milled lavender soap Arthur knows she's so fond of but never can quite justify spending money on. But then again, after the pub he also hadn't be stupid enough to stick his nose in Gwen's personal life ever again. Merlin gets them all cashmere scarves, and fusses over Arthur's particularly horribly, trying to get it to lay just right. "I am capable of putting on a scarf myself, you know," he says crossly to Merlin, who seems fixated on how the crimson lays against the navy of Arthur's coat. "Arthur, I'm enjoying how nice my gift is," Merlin says absently, tugging it looser around Arthur's neck a little so his fingers brush the sensitive, shivery spot there. "Please stop ruining my Christmas joy." "If you don't stop, I can't give you your present," Arthur wheedles, holding up the package and shaking it enticingly. Merlin glares at it narrowly. "If it's another fountain pen..." "Just open it," Arthur says, shoving it in Merlin's hands. Greedily, Merlin rips open the paper, and then looks at his present thoughtfully. "It's an old book," he says, voice carefully polite. "I found it while I was looking for a gift for my father," Arthur says awkwardly. "It's a fairly famous grimoire - that's a spell-book, by the way, called The Key of Solomon. The owner told me it was a Renaissance text, but this is from the turn of the century edition, when there was an interest in magic because of the romantic movement. Original binding." "Wouldn't want it to be un-original binding," Merlin says. His voice sounds strange.

"There's a note." Merlin opens the cover and mouths to himself the words Arthur had spent hours agonizing over and has probably memorized by now. (Merlin, I know it's not the kit you wanted, but I think you can do some real damage with this. Already magical to me - no one can brew a pot like you. Please, no demons, dealing with you in the morning is punishment enough. All my best, Arthur)

"Arthur," Merlin sounds suspiciously choked up and his eyes are a little glassy when he looks up. "Oh, Arthur..." "There's no need to get emotional," Arthur says gruffly, stuffing his hands in his pockets. "It's really... I just..." "See you do things like this," Merlin interrupts, "every so often there's something like this, and then it's hard to remember you're you and I just..." He trails off, overwhelmed, and then launches himself at Arthur, pulling him in for a long hug. Arthur's never been a fan of hugs, they're uncomfortable, claustrophobic affairs, in his experience. But there's something nice about Merlin hugging him, something that makes him feel a little warm inside and treasured, proud of his gift and his note and comforted by Merlin's smell of sweat and tea and Gwen's fudge and old paper. Almost Christmas-y, even. Enough to make him take his hands out of his pockets and hug Merlin back. "It would have killed you to get a magic kit, wouldn't it?" Merlin mutters into one of Arthur's shoulders. "Yeah," Arthur says. "Yeah, it really would have."

--When Merlin seems down at the beginning of January, Arthur, naturally, assumes that it's post-holiday depression like everyone else, and that the best way to deal with this is to keep busy. Merlin doesn't seem to agree, getting mopier and mopier until that Friday, when he doesn't come into work at all. "He has the flu, Arthur," Gwen says pityingly, "you were working him to the bone and now he's too sick to come in today." "I thought he was depressed after the holidays like a normal person!" Arthur

says, flailing a little desperately. "He didn't say anything! How was I supposed to know he wasn't coming in today?" "You could check your voicemail?" Gwen suggests. "You know I can't work the voicemail system without Merlin," Arthur moans, burying his face in his hands. "Fuck, this is such a disaster." The entire day is a wash. Arthur wastes a half an hour and then scalds himself trying to make his own tea and coffee, he can't find any of the files or information he needs, and it's heinously silent without Merlin chattering away to Kilgharrah or playing his awful twee music or taking calls. Kilgharrah seems particularly depressed, refusing to come out from under his little plastic castle except to mouth morosely when Arthur feeds him before leaving for the night. "Look at this fish," Arthur says to Gwen, who's wrapping herself up in the cashmere scarf she got from Merlin. "He's depressed." "He never comes out from under his castle," Gwen says, pulling on her gloves. "It's just what he does. You up for drinks? I was going to maybe take some food from the pub to Merlin after." "Doesn't Merlin have a roommate?" Arthur asks. He's met Will a few times, but they'd never gotten on, which Merlin claims is just because Will has a problem with authority figures. Arthur thinks Will is clearly a bad influence on Merlin. "Will's still at home for the holidays visiting his family, do you listen at all when Merlin speaks?" "Usually," Arthur hedges. "Look, I'll go check up on him, alright?" He gets lost three times trying to find Merlin's flat, squinting at the paper Gwen jotted down his address on. There's no surprise that Merlin lives what's a long tube ride away in a serviceable and quiet but completely unfashionable neighborhood, the kind that seems like it would go to bed at eight sharp. Arthur gets a few choice words when he buzzes the wrong flat, but finally Merlin answers with a muzzy "Hullo?" "Merlin, let me up," Arthur says briskly. "Arthur?" Merlin says. He sounds hoarse. "What are you doing here?" "Coming to make sure you don't die," Arthur says. "Also, I'm freezing. Let me up." "Fine, fine," Arthur hears the buzz and heads up gratefully. Merlin's flat, when Arthur opens it, looks like a hurricane hit. There are discarded books and

sweatshirts and stacks of dirty dishes everywhere. Arthur knew that Will was a landscaper and gardener, but he didn't expect that Merlin's entire apartment would be like a greenhouse, albeit a slightly wilted one - Merlin's probably been too sick or scatterbrained to water the near jungle of plants. Merlin is curled up under a bright blue wool blanket that Arthur would bet money his mother knit, pale except for a hectic flush across his cheeks. His eyes are glassy and he looks miserable. "Hi," Merlin says miserably. "I've got the flu." "I can see that," Arthur says awkwardly. "When do you think you'll be better? I scalded my hand today trying to make coffee. And Kilgharrah's sulking." Merlin smiles weakly. "I'm keeping things down now," he says, picking up an empty Ritz box from the couch next to him and shaking it. "Had this and orange juice." "That isn't food," Arthur crisply takes off his jacket. "Tell me you have soup." "I dunno," Merlin mumbles, sinking back into the couch, "but go ahead, make yourself at home, don't wait for my invite." Arthur does just that, going into Merlin's postage-stamp sized kitchen and banging around until he finally manages to find a can of soup and dusts out a pot to heat it up. There's a weird smell coming from the refrigerator, so Arthur cleans that out too, and collects all the dishes around the living room and washes those while Merlin snores on the couch. He even manages to water half the plants before Merlin blinks himself awake and smiles in a way that makes Arthur's stomach try a strange escape out of his mouth. "This is nice," Merlin whispers. "What, being sick?" "Having you wait on me for a change." "Don't get used to it," Arthur says shortly. "I know I've got about a billion voicemails to get to and I can't access any of them. I need you back." "Yeah, I'm working on it," Merlin says, and then hacks out a cough. "Do I smell chicken noodle soup?" "Yeah," Arthur says, embarrassed. "My nanny used to always say it was the best thing when you're sick." Merlin looks bemused, like he's got a smart retort, but he manages to bite his tongue and instead ask, very politely, "Would you mind terribly bringing me some?"

"Needy, needy, needy," Arthur sighs, but he dutifully brings Merlin a bowl and spoon, and refills his watering can while he's in there so he can finish the plants, Merlin's eyes on him the entire time. "You're being very nice to me," Merlin says suspiciously, setting aside his mostlyfinished bowl. "Too nice." "You're sick," Arthur shrugs. "And maybe I'm a nice guy." "Don't you think you can try to pull a fast one on me," Merlin's voice is already fading fast, but he's shivering, so Arthur pulls up another blanket, this one a fleece in Manchester United colors, and tucks it under his chin. "You going to be able to take care of yourself this weekend?" He asks gently. "I need you on Monday, healthy or not." "Yeah," Merlin sighs, getting comfortable under his blankets. "Will's due back tomorrow afternoon. You can let yourself out, right?" "Of course," Arthur says softly. He waits until Merlin's fallen back asleep to take his bowl back, wash out the remains of the soup, and put the leftover in the refrigerator. He feels wrong, leaving Merlin alone for the night, but Merlin's all but dismissed him. There isn't anything Arthur can do but put the phone next to Merlin's hand, lax in sleep, and then scrawl out a note -CALL IF YOU NEED SOMETHING! OR ELSE! ARTHUR. Still, when he bends down to place the note, he feels guilty leaving. He's pretty sure this counts under law as abandonment, or at least criminal neglect. There's a fine sheen of sweat on Merlin's forehead, and when Arthur gently wipes it off, it pops back up again, making his bangs stick down. Arthur tries to brush Merlin's bangs up so they won't bother him, but the touch makes Merlin stir under his hand, restless, brows drawn together as he murmurs to himself. He doesn't still until Arthur keeps petting him like a dog, muttering shut up shut up shut up, but as soothingly as possible. "You're difficult," he tells Merlin when he finally calms. "And quite probably not worth all this effort." Merlin doesn't say anything. "I'm not in love with you, though," Arthur says stubbornly. "Just to clarify. I don't know what Gwen's been telling you." Merlin snores a little. "I just miss you, is all." Arthur sweeps his thumb across Merlin's brow, dry now but still furrowed in thoughtful sleep. "There's nothing wrong with that. You're useful, in your own way."

Merlin's still silent, and it suddenly strikes Arthur that he's crouching there like an idiot fondling his assistant's fevered face, probably catching his flu germs, and carrying on a one-sided conversation with him. "Well, buck up then," Arthur says bracingly, retracting his hand as if it's been burned, and then closing the door softly behind him. --Arthur makes it a rule to agree to every date his father sets up for him. It's easier to do that and then find some flaw or reason than to outright refuse him, after all. It's not like Uther ever chooses someone unattractive - that would be beneath him. No, the women his father sets Arthur up with are all very good looking, very conservative, and very rich, though never because they have worked a day in their life. Charlotte didn't believe in tipping waiters or waitresses because "they chose to have a bad job" and she didn't understand why their salary wasn't enough. Harriet wanted to know why he only drove a Toyota if he was such a supposedly influential man. Jemma had been told that Arthur used to date Gwen, and spent the entire dinner dissecting her middle-class accent. Dessert was spent crowing over Arthur's unfortunate slip-up in mentioning that while he and Gwen had met at Oxford, she'd spent all her schooling before that in public schools. Lettie just stared at him, large-eyed and nearly unblinking, and had no opinion on anything except what colors she wanted to paint the nurseries of her future children. The latest girl that's been foisted on Arthur is Vivian Alined. She's self-involved, materialistic, shrill, and generally offensive to anyone who hasn't been ostentatiously wealthy for at least three generations. She doesn't give a toss for politics except to bat her eyes and say "well, I agree with father" - meaning, of course, MP Alined, who petitions to drop nuclear weapons on various countries on a near weekly basis. Arthur's pretty sure if nuclear bombs could be better contained, he'd advocate to drop them on the poorer parts of London, too. Arthur isn't sure, then, why three months later he's still dating her, except that it's easy. He hasn't done anything his father's approved of for so long he's forgotten how good it feels to just get a pass for once, to be able to answer a few quick questions about continuing to see Vivian and family dinners and then have the luxury of ignoring whatever new full-scale assault Uther and Morgana are engaged in. He shamefully sought his father's approving eyes when he mentioned taking Vivian to the theatre or a new fancy restaurant, longed for a heavy hand of approval on his shoulder while carefully avoiding Morgana's glares. It felt nice. There was no shame in taking refuge in that. "You're a coward," Morgana scoffs when they get outside, tugging her green wool coat tightly to her against the chill winter air.

"For what?" Arthur asks. "Choosing not to get involved in another political fight? Because I do that at work, thank you, and I've no desire to get into another one when just listening already gives me a headache." Morgana rolls her eyes. "I meant about Vivian, you giant arse." "We've only been on a few dates, Morgana. It's nothing to get in a twist over." "But you're seeing her again." It's not a question. "I see no reason not to," Arthur says slowly. "I imagine you spend lots of time talking about your common interests," Morgana says airily. "What were they, again?" "You're acting like it's a crime to date someone long enough to get my father off my back," Arthur gripes. "Please," Morgana says. "The only crime I see here is you buying into your father's ridiculous bit about love being some sort of political liability." "Christ, it's a few dates. No one's in love." "And isn't that a convenient system to keep it that way," Morgana goes on airily, and Arthur is re-visited by the childish, often-present urge to kick her shins or yank her hair. "Only go out with bints you could never possibly have any sort of feelings for, all the while acting like it's not your fault you'll be single and alone forever, when really all you'd ever have to do to make yourself happy..." "What the fuck do you know about my happiness?" Arthur snaps. "What do any of you know?" Morgana raises one terrifyingly perfect eyebrow. "Any of us?" "You and Gwen are worse than any mother in the world," Arthur says bitterly. "Hounding me about my love life, about Mer-" he cuts himself off at Morgana's too-interested reporter expression. "No. No. I'm not doing this with you too." "I didn't say anything," Morgana says serenely. "But it is interesting that you thought of Merlin when we were discussing something completely unrelated to him, don't you agree?" "I only did because Gwen's got this ridiculous notion in her head." Arthur crosses his arms before realizing how defensive that looks, and then awkwardly stuffs his hands back in his pockets. "You're a bunch of matchmaking harpies, is what you are, seeing things that aren't there."

"We are terrible people," Morgana agrees sarcastically. "Trying to see to your happiness. Unforgivable, really." "This has nothing to do with my happiness!" Arthur hisses. He would yell, but his father would probably send someone out to see to the noise. "If you really cared about my happiness, you'd realize Merlin has nothing to do with it and leave me alone!" "Oh, Arthur," Morgana sighs in her most pitying tone. "You can't really believe that." "Watch me," Arthur snarls, and stalks off before Morgana can utter another word. --The general feeling around Arthur's department is one of incredulous despair when it becomes clear that Vivian is not a one-off deal. "You're dating MP Alined's daughter," Gwen says disparagingly, her lips tight. "As in, the child of the man who wants to declare war with every country that so much as looks at us wrong and is so conservative he's nearly American?" "She's his daughter, not him, and I don't think you're the only one who should be getting regular sex," Arthur shrugs. It does nothing to dissipate Gwen's silent rage. He rather suspected an answer like that wouldn't. But really, he doesn't get why Gwen and Lance get to be the only ones having sex in this department. Sure, they're in love or whatever, and he isn't with Vivian, but she's attractive enough to keep all his vital parts interested, and she understands that he doesn't have buckets of time to spend on her. Arthur thinks she actually rathers that, since it gives her more time to be in love with herself. Merlin's also taken to shooting him utterly betrayed looks. "I had no idea you had such party loyalty," Arthur says acidly to Merlin as he glares daggers after Vivian, who came to visit Arthur for lunch. "I just don't like her," Merlin says. "She's spoiled, and bratty, and -" "- and my girlfriend," Arthur says tightly. He knows everything Merlin's saying is true, but coming from Merlin's mouth, it's somehow far worse an accusation. "And this goes for all of you," he raises his voice, "if you don't like Vivian, fine, but keep it to yourself. There's a severe lack of discipline and respect in this office." There's a deadly silence. "Get back to work!" Arthur barks, and slams his door shut on Gwen's despairing face. Arthur dates Vivian for another two and a half months after that, mostly, he

admits to himself, to make a point. He doesn't have any particular feelings for her, but he might as well milk this for all it's worth and get some semi-regular sex, as far as he's concerned. He doesn't realize his mistake until Vivian turns to him with bright, round blue eyes (one of the things Arthur truly likes about her, Gwen so far has been the only true exception to his weakness for a pair of blue eyes) and goes, "So, Arthur, about our wedding..." "Our what?" Arthur asks, staring at her over his chicken Parmesan. "We've been dating for almost six months," Vivian says, waving a dismissive hand at him. "Of course we're getting married. Now, I was thinking a year from now, so I'll have plenty of time to plan." "But," Arthur blinks, struggling to find sense in his terribly broken world, "I haven't proposed." "Details," Vivian shrugs, undaunted. "I hope you're alright with a big wedding, Arthur, because I was thinking at least two hundred - all terribly influential and rich sorts, of course, and that's just who I'm inviting." They have to break up, then, of course, and of course Gwen is insufferably smug about the entire thing. "Don't you dare say 'I told you so,'" Arthur grumbles, tapping his pen violently on his desk. "I would never," Gwen says serenely. "I would," Merlin pipes up, re-arranging Arthur's files behind him. "I told you so. A lot. And then you yelled at me. It wasn't very nice." "I could fire you," Arthur reminds him, leaning back and looking up at Merlin with what he hopes is foreboding, but from the way Merlin smiles down at him, sunny and soft, it's clear he's not doing a very good job. Perhaps it's because his palms feel suddenly sweaty and his chest feels tight. "Right, well," he says briskly, waving Gwen out of his office. "Cancel your plans tonight, Merlin. I'm afraid that my personal life has taken too much priority over work, and we have a terrible load to go through, so we'll probably be working very late." Merlin looks bewildered around Arthur's office which is immaculate, as usual. "I really don't think that's the case," he says. "Are you trying to drown your feelings in work? Because I tried to do that when I stopped dating Freya and it really isn't healthy..." "Merlin," Arthur grinds out through his teeth, "I do not pay you to care about

my feelings." "You do too!" Merlin insists. "If you're mad you need a fresh cup of tea and if you're happy I should bring you the latest Arsenal scores, which is stupid because you could just look them up online like any normal person..." "If I get you pizza, will you shut up and agree to work late tonight?" Arthur interrupts. "Will you put sardines on it like you usually do?" "No," Arthur sighs. "No sardines." "I'll go order it right now," Merlin says cheerfully, practically skipping out of Arthur's office at the prospect of melty cheese. It's almost cute, how a slice of pizza can cheer Merlin up so thoroughly. And by cute, Arthur means useful in a professional, workplace sort of way. It turns out Arthur was right, of course. Merlin had taken the months Arthur was too busy with Vivian to breathe down his neck as an opportunity to completely slack on his filing, and he's been hiding the folders under his desks so Arthur wouldn't figure out how many are out of place. Naturally, Merlin can't be trusted to file things on his own. What if his immune system fucks off again and Arthur has to, god forbid, access the 2001 census numbers? How is he supposed to know that Merlin files things by color (which must be why he spent an inordinate amount of the department's money on that 30-something set of sharpies) instead of alphabetically by subject like a normal person, or that each color has a strange call number that's a gibberish mish-mash of numbers and letters, all written on the top tab instead of the actual subject? "You file education in yellow," Merlin says, muffled around the crust he's gnawing at like he's homeless. Arthur internally winces as Merlin's greasy fingers get all over the latest report on the status of preschool education. "Like a pencil, see. But not actual yellow, because that doesn't show well. And not Marigold, that's education budget, because it's uglier and budgets are always ugly, so use Dandelion for that folder. And then write in black write PR for preschool report, 09 for the year, and then a number rating on usefulness from one to a hundred." "You most certainly were dropped on your head as a child, and everything useful got scrambled up," Arthur says, putting last month's NHS numbers in a folder and drawing a dot on it with red sharpie. It makes sense, he thinks, red like the Red Cross, right? "Are you filing the NHS under red?" Merlin yelps, scandalized. "Red and pink is foreign affairs, Arthur! And each shade means a different continent!" "Well, now it's the NHS," Arthur says, getting up to stick it wherever he damn

well pleases, but Merlin swallows his last mouthful of crust and flails after him. "No!" He says, trying to grab for the file. "You're going to ask for those, and then I won't be able to find them, then you'll yell at me, and then I'll have to make you tea and you'll still be angry..." "Ah, I'm taking over for you now, you can't be trusted," Arthur laughs, holding the folder just out of Merlin's reach. He hadn't realized he'd missed teasing Merlin, but Merlin's really, really terribly easy to tease, and he's been in such a sour mood for the last few months that any attempts had resulted in baleful glares. "Just give... it... to... me..." Merlin grunts, and Arthur lets out a surprise whoosh of air when Merlin backs him into his bookshelf. He hadn't been looking behind him and then it's easy for Merlin to use his (extremely slight) height advantage to grab hold of Arthur's wrist. "Hah," he says quietly, grinning down at Arthur, whose heart starts beating strangely fast. "I win." "You got me," Arthur agrees quietly, too nervous to move. For all his slightness, Merlin's really quite warm, or maybe it's warm in the office, because neither of them are wearing jackets and both have their sleeves rolled up, and Merlin's forearm is pressing into Arthur's and his hand is around Arthur's wrist, generating a frankly disproportionate amount of heat. Merlin's eyes flick over Arthur's face like a physical caress and Arthur wonders when Merlin is going to move and give him some air, because he's sure Merlin can feel Arthur's pulse through his wrist and therefore can tell his heart is about to explode. "Merlin," he says softly, like a plea. "Arthur," Merlin whispers back, and then he kisses him. Automatically, Arthur feels himself let go of the folder in shock as Merlin's hand moves up to clutch at Arthur's hair, like he's afraid Arthur's going to pull away. Merlin's lips are soft and he kisses with so much fear and yearning Arthur's chest hurts. Maybe it's Arthur who's yearning, he thinks, his hand coming to cling onto Merlin's hideous sweatervest for some reason he can't name. It should be to push Merlin away, or even to keep himself upright from the shock that his assistant is kissing him very inappropriately and Arthur can't find it in himself to stop this, but it's really to keep Merlin press closer like Arthur can feel him straining to. If he does it will be just like that dream Arthur's been trying so hard to forget and not keep having again and again, the one where Merlin presses Arthur down onto some surface and starts groaning Arthur, Arthur, not in the aggravated way he does when Arthur decides at the last minute to change his lunch order, but like he's humming into Arthur's mouth now, happy, as if Arthur's a particularly good croissant. If he doesn't keep his hands in between himself and Merlin, Merlin's going to pull Arthur against him so Arthur can feel if Merlin's real body is as welcoming as it is in those dreams. Merlin's already kissing him

sweeter than Arthur had ever imagined, even though it's the most chaste kiss Arthur's had since playing spin the bottle in Secondary school. He feels drunk. He wants to stop, somewhere in his gut he feels ill, feels the pizza churning in his stomach and a tiny voice in his brain screaming no, no, no. But his body's frozen into kissing back until Merlin parts his lips and gently runs his tongue along Arthur's lower lip, and it's too much, enough shock for Arthur to push Merlin away and try to regain his breath and composure. It isn't easy when Merlin's eyes are huge and his pupils are blown, or his lips are so red and puffy and spit-slick, or Arthur can see the bunching from where his fists were clenched against Merlin's chest. "No," Arthur says hoarsely when Merlin makes like he's trying to step forward into Arthur's space again, hand out as if he's placating a wild animal. "Don't touch me." "Arthur," Merlin sighs, still edging closer, but only enough to brush his fingers against Arthur's sleeve. "Arthur, please..." "I said don't touch me," Arthur snaps, and Merlin jumps back, stung. Good, Arthur thinks vindictively, and then feels even more ill for how bitter that thought sounds. "Did I do something wrong?" Merlin sounds so genuinely bewildered that Arthur huffs out a humorless laugh. "Did you do... Merlin, you kissed me." "Yeah," Merlin says sarcastically. "You seemed really torn up about that." "It was exceedingly inappropriate," Arthur says, picking up the folder for distraction. "Workplace relationships are forbidden." "Want to tell that to Gwen and Lance?" Merlin suggests. "I can't control them," Arthur tries to reign in his patience. "I can, however, control myself." "And how's that going for you?" Merlin advances on Arthur, who holds up the folder between them as a barrier. "Arthur, you're miserable, you're dating women you don't even like, you get angry and jealous every time I look at someone..." "You're completely out of line..." "Arthur, please," Merlin says, almost begs, and it breaks Arthur's heart. "We don't have to be unhappy. It doesn't have to be like this." "This is exactly how it has to be," Arthur says, tone final. He hands Merlin the

folder. "Put this away. I'll see you on Monday, and you will do me the courtesy of pretending this never happened." Merlin looks somewhere between enraged and bewildered. "Do you the courtesy...?" "And take the pizza out to the bin when you go," Arthur says. Merlin snaps his mouth closed and crosses his arm. "Please, Merlin," Arthur sighs. "For once, please don't argue with me." With a sigh, Merlin snatches the folder and the pizza box, but he stops in the doorway and turns around. He looks positively miserable and Arthur hates himself more than he ever has in his entire life. "Arthur, I -" Arthur shuts his eyes and turns away. "Please just leave," he says. Merlin shuts the door without another word.

--Ever since Arthur broke up with Vivian and he and Merlin had that... talk, something's been off about Merlin and the way he acts, which makes it clear that as usual, Merlin has ignored orders and has not forgotten anything ever happened. He's always asking "is that all, Arthur?" in this hopeful, expectant way like he's trying to prompt Arthur into doing something. He asks for time off at odd times, too, and stares moodily at his computer screen when he thinks Arthur isn't looking. Gwen, now sober and hellishly in love with Lance, refuses to speak with him on the subject of Merlin at all. "I need you to tell me what's going on in this department!" Arthur rages at her in his office. "It's taking away from my productivity!" "Arthur, I have a press briefing on that oil tanker spill," Gwen says, tucking a curl behind her ear. "You're making me less productive. Please go away." He doesn't even bother asking Lance or Morgana. Lance hasn't been around long enough to know anything, and asking Morgana for advice is like stepping into a nest of poisonous vipers. She doesn't even work for him, no matter what she seems to think or how often she hangs around. He comes close to asking Gaius for advice, actually, he finds himself standing in Gaius' office clutching a file folder with his mouth working uselessly while Gaius peers at him over his half-moon glasses, one eyebrow raised as he perches on his desk.

"Arthur," he says gently, "is there something you wished to ask me?" Abruptly, every inappropriate confession Arthur has ever wanted to tell someone but simply couldn't comes unbidden to his head. I'm terrified of small children and every time I'm near one I'm sure I'll break them. He thinks. The Christmas I was fifteen, I told my father I felt too ill to listen to the queen's speech but really I was having a wank. I wish my father had died instead of my mother. I seem to have developed an unnaturally strong affection for that assistant of mine, the same one you seem to feel is your long-lost nephew. I think he wants something from me and I hope I'm wrong about what it is because I'll never be brave enough to give it to him, even though I wish I could more than I think I've wanted anything in my life. I don't know how to want things, actually. Especially when they're other people. Especially when the other people are Merlin. "I... no," he finally says. "Sorry." "Arthur," Gaius calls, stopping him at the door. "Your department seems to be in a decidedly strange mood as of late. It's a beautiful June, and you and Merlin especially seem to be struck with winter malaise. See to it, please." "Right," Arthur nods. "Of course, sir." He doesn't say that the extent of his influence over those people is whapping Merlin over the head with a manila folder and telling him to look alive, and he's already tried that several times to no effect. He doesn't know what Merlin's so mopey about, at any rate. Surely he must have known the consequences, must have realized that Arthur never could or would return whatever delusions of affection Merlin had built between them. It was inevitable that in working closely together the two of them had developed a certain fondness for each other, but did Merlin really imagine Arthur would throw away his career for to take that fondness farther, to indulge one night that would inevitably end in regret? And if Arthur had made the non-regretful decision, what was he feeling now? Despite all of Arthur's mulling, it doesn't become clear what's secretly going on until late Friday afternoon when Merlin knocks nervously on the doorframe to Arthur's office. "You're knocking," Arthur says, looking up from the charts on unemployment rates he'd been brooding over but failing to understand for the last hour, instead turning the thought of Merlin over and over in his brain restlessly, like poking at a new bruise. "This must be a real catastrophe." "I have something to give you," Merlin says, putting a plain envelope on Arthur's desk. "Here." "Merlin," Arthur says, ripping it open, "they have this new invention I've heard

about called e-mail, you really should look into it." Merlin refuses to respond, eyes fixed on the ground. With a sigh, Arthur reads the letter. Then, reads it again. A third time. His throat feels like it's closing up. "No," he says. "No, Merlin, please don't..." "It's not because of what happened," Merlin says quickly, his eyes darting enough to let Arthur know that's at least half a lie. "Well, it's not just... But the British library had an opening and they're offering to help pay for my graduate school if I go there, and, well, I never really planned on being a career politician, Arthur, you have to have known that." "No, right," Arthur says flatly. "I knew that." "I already got a replacement," Merlin says, all professional efficiency. "You know Jas, the intern who works for Gaius?" "Tiny girl, Indian, glasses?" Arthur asks. If it's who he's thinking of, she's extremely soft-spoken and gives the impression of subservience, but with a steely edge that leaves Arthur with no doubt that she could bully even the hardest of men into line with a single look. If she weren't engaged and nearly a decade his junior, Arthur is sure he would harbor a slight infatuation with her. He allows himself to feel a pang of irritation that Merlin's got him so well pegged. "Yeah, she seemed excited." "Well," Arthur manages, awkwardly. Merlin's staring at him like a dare, like he was expecting something to come out of Arthur's mouth, which Arthur thinks is extremely unlikely, given the fact that he feels distinctly like he can't breathe. "Have a good weekend, then." "Okay." Merlin manages to make closing a door sound disappointed. Arthur isn't quite sure how he does that. --On Arthur's insistence, Merlin re-does his entire filing system - correctly - so another human being will be able to find whatever they're looking for. The colored dots are replaced with neat labels printed out on the computer, and Merlin even starts a database so Arthur can type into his computer whatever he's searching for and know that emissions standards are filed under E for Environmental Issues, and not T for Technology. Why Merlin never bothered to be this useful before, Arthur has no idea. Jas also starts spending half-days with Merlin, taking notes in a Moleskine on all

of Arthur's idiosyncrasies, preferences, and how to deal with every single person who may or may not walk through the office. Arthur at first keeps his door open a crack to make sure Merlin isn't maligning him, but once he determines that Merlin's being more than generous, he shuts the door tighter than ever. The sight of Jas' neat black ponytail is starting to make him feel ill. Another advantage to the closed door is that it deters Gwen, who alternates between shooting him pointed and heinously sympathetic looks. "Stop it," he orders when he pops into her office to hand her a few notes on Gaius' stance on locally-grown food and the recent scandal over the tell-all book some MP's mistress wrote that alleged the reason Gaius never re-married after his wife died so young was that he preferred the company of pre-pubescent boys. (One day, Arthur would appreciate if someone could give him some insight on how people come up with these things, and furthermore why pictures of Gaius reading to a cancer ward with a young boy sitting on his lap in any way constitutes proof.) "I didn't say anything," she always says breezily, but twenty seconds later she's staring at him like he's been diagnosed with a fatal disease. Arthur refuses to let Merlin dress him for his next dinner with his father. For one thing, Morgana's off again, this time to Johannesburg, and she's the one who snipes if his suit jacket is slightly wrinkled or his cuffs are uneven and cites it as a sure sign of his inevitable downward spiral - his father just assumes he's been working hard. Also, Merlin's hands have been distracting him lately. They're irritatingly elegant when he flicks through papers, and sometimes Arthur finds himself staring at Merlin's long, tapered fingers as he types, unable to swallow around a strange lump of something in his throat. Uther's townhouse is always extremely sobering and soul-crushing, certainly no place where Arthur can harbor thoughts on his assistant's hands, or any other attributes his assistant has, for that matter. He's greeted at the door by his father's butler/valet/handyman/paid wife, Leon, who Uther hired the second he was forced into retirement when he wasn't re-elected and no longer had a personal assistant running his life from his office. That was five years ago, and Arthur still isn't sure how he feels about Leon, mostly because Leon still has yet to demonstrate a personality, which is probably why Uther hired him. Before that night, Arthur had only heard him say variations of "dinner is ready, sir" and "your coat, sir?", but when Leon takes Arthur's coat, he says, a bit timidly, "If you'll forgive me for saying so, sir, your father seems a bit... off." Arthur blinks at him. "Off?" He repeats. "He canceled his speaking appearance at the London School of Economics," Leon nods. "He never cancels a speaking appearance. And he's been looking at old photo albums of your mother. Sir."

Arthur sighs. His father looking at pictures of his mother is never a good sign. "Has he been going to the Carlton Club? Showing up at the House of Lords?" Leon inclines his head in a nod. "He has," he says reluctantly, "but I believe he's been... clashing lately with some of the other members there. In regards to certain political stances, I mean. He often seems angry when he comes home, and I hear of... more passionate arguments as of late." "Of course he is." Arthur rubs his forehead and grits his teeth against the budding headache he feels. If Leon's bringing this up, Arthur would bet that he's grossly understating these "clashes" and that the only reason they haven't shown up in the paper is that no one gives a toss about the House of Lords, and Uther Pendragon ranting and arguing isn't news so much as a matter of course. Only someone like Leon would notice an increase in passion or frequency. "He's charming like that, isn't he?" "I just think he's lonely and perhaps a bit peeved about it, sir," Leon says, but shuts his mouth and refuses to say more at the sound of Uther's approaching footsteps. The roast is drier and the conversation more stilted than usual that night, which is why Arthur's surprised when his father invites him for a nightcap before he leaves. In all the years that he's been coming to visit his father for dinner, he hasn't been invited for a nightcap since he graduated, not even when Gaius was elected, though he supposes that had more to do with his father's party pride than Arthur's relative accomplishment. "It's nearly been 30 years since your mother died," his father says out of the blue. Arthur does the quick math in his head - he just turned 31, so yes, yes it is almost thirty years to the day. "In some ways, you're like her, you know." "Really?" Arthur says politely. He's always supposed he must be, since parts of him are so little like his father. All he's ever known about his mother, apart from her face from a few pictures, was that she died when her brakes malfunctioned a malfunction that could have been prevented had Uther voted on stricter government oversight for automobiles - and that the press had run roughshod over his father, alternating between blame and stifling pity. Ever since, Uther has had a near-legendary phobia of driving in cars that are not his own obsessivelychecked fleet and vehement hatred for the press, which is another reason Arthur supposes he and Morgana are at loggerheads so often. "She was quite liberal, you know," Uther chuckles, reminiscent. "I met her on a charitable visit to Oxfam - she ran part of the literacy program. Soft-hearted. Dressed a bit like a hippie. Took me completely by surprise." Arthur remains silent. This is more information than every tidbit that's been

dropped accidentally in front of him in his life. "I've come to realize that perhaps her death was a blessing in disguise," Uther says quietly, and Arthur freezes, scotch halfway to his mouth. "It's given me... drive. A reason to dedicate myself to my work. And it's your work that makes you remembered. You're dedicated to your work, Arthur. You understand." Arthur coughs and sips his scotch so his father can't see his face. It was horrifyingly easy to picture himself in his father's place - he's heading there at a frightening pace. Alone, friendless, nothing to look forward to every day, convincing himself that his (utterly pointless, if he's honest with himself) work truly is worthwhile to the course of human history in order to justify his existence. The only thing that's kept him from going there, really, has been Merlin. If it weren't for Merlin, whose face would be enough to bring him into work every day? Who would fix him coffee and goad him into being kind, who would bring him his lunch and his tea and his files, who would make him laugh? And how long will it take, if Arthur loses Merlin, before he turns into the bitter shadow of a man in front of him, mourning something he let slip between his fingers? It's then, tipsy on Scotch and looking at his father's unfocused, slightly miserable eyes, that Arthur decides, fuck it all. This is never who he wants to be. ---

Keep Calm and Carry On - R - Part 3b

Jane Austen is the first to get lovingly packed up in the cardboard box on Merlin's desk, followed by Oscar Wilde and Shakespeare, in that order. Merlin's already cleared out his food debris and straightened all the files in the desk drawers. Next go his pens because Jas hates them, and the now-defunct sharpies. After that, the photographs. Then, slowly, the comics come down, Merlin smiling sadly at each one before either putting it in a pile he packs up slowly, reluctantly, as if he's dreading leaving Arthur as much as Arthur is - which is ridiculous, Merlin's the one who chose to leave. Arthur's the one who's forced to stare avidly through the crack in his door, almost calling Merlin into his office every time he stops work to put another thing in his box of personal items - his mugs for tea, his extra headphones. Every time Arthur thinks that this mini-break will be the one that he calls Merlin into his office and somehow conveys the exact extent to which he's desperately in love with Merlin, can't live without him, and how very necessary it is that they take the rest of the day off of work for in order to properly deal with the state of emergency that's going on in Arthur's pants whenever he thinks too long about how lovely Merlin's eyes or wrists or neck is. Or, really, when he thinks about Merlin at all. Perhaps they could also have a de-briefing (and Gwen says he has no sense of humor). Arthur keeps thinking up plan after plan, but when he goes to implement them, Merlin's gone back to work, or gotten up to say goodbye to the millionth person who's stopped in to wish him well, or is staring into space

looking so utterly lovely Arthur loses his nerve altogether. It goes on like this all day until it's seven, and everyone else has left for the night except Merlin and Arthur, who are staring at each other through Arthur's doorway over the box on Merlin's desk, daring each other to make this happen first. It's Merlin who breaks, getting up with a sigh and entering Arthur's office, shutting the door behind him even though there's no one this late on a Friday who could possibly infringe on their privacy. "Well." Merlin stuffs his hands in his pockets. "I guess this is goodbye then." "Right," Arthur says. The walls feel like they're closing in on him, but he bravely adjusts his coat and comes to stand in front of his desk formally. "Well, it's been... not an honor, exactly, but a strange sort of privilege." Merlin gives an odd little snort, ducking his head. "It's one way to put it." "Right." Uncomfortable silence descends on them again, the same one that's been between them ever since... well. Merlin takes one hand out of his pocket and sticks it out for Arthur to shake, utterly steady, and as Arthur takes it and pumps their hands up and down he keeps thinking no, this isn't it, this can't be it. Because this is the moment his entire life's been working towards. It isn't running for parliament or being the Prime Minister, both of which are jobs he doesn't even fucking want to do, anyways. It wasn't to date Alice or Vivian or even Gwen, as perfect and lovely as she was. This is why he's been miserable for so many years, this is why Merlin kissed him, so he could stand in his office with the setting sun on Merlin's face and finally have the courage to say I will never allow myself to be my father and I am allowed to be happy. Swallowing, Arthur stretches out his fingers and brushes them along the inside of Merlin's wrist where the skin is impossibly soft and delicate. If Merlin notices, he doesn't give any indication, just is quizzically examining Arthur as if waiting for some reason as to why they're still clasping hands but not shaking anymore, frozen. But Arthur can't offer an explanation for the first time in his life, so he steps forward into Merlin's space, their hands trapped between them. "Arthur?" Merlin asks, swallowing. "Please just..." Arthur lets go of Merlin's hand to run his fingers up Merlin's arm. The gesture makes Merlin's eyelashes flutter shut and eyebrows draw together in what could be emotion or anger. But when Arthur brings his hand to stop over Merlin's heart, he can feel the frantic pounding, like it's trying to leap out of Merlin's narrow chest and into Arthur's palm. "I don't know how..." "Arthur," Merlin repeats, sighing. His other hand comes up to cover Arthur's, and for a terrible moment Arthur's sure Merlin is going to lift his hand and say sorry,

this train has left the station, but instead he leaves it there. Warm. Comforting. Not moving away from Arthur even though they're so close that Arthur can smell that Merlin had gotten himself one of those girly Starbucks drinks he likes so much with the whipped cream halfway through the afternoon. "I want..." Arthur whispers, still afraid to voice it in case he gets slapped away. Merlin's mouth quirks upwards just slightly and his head seems to unconsciously dip closer and that's enough permission for Arthur to fist his hands in Merlin's jumper (his navy blue date jumper Arthur realizes a little giddily) and press their mouths together, taste the mocha chips and soured taste of cream. He feels dimly like the rest of the world has fuzzed out, like his brain is on mute and not running through disaster scenarios, which is weird, like everything is so good his throat feels thick and his eyes feel prickly and he could just die here, he could die from joy when Merlin moans softly and wraps one arm around his neck and the other around his waist in a vice-like grip. He's pressing them so close that there's nothing in the universe but the two of them and their ragged breathing before they nudge back into each other, kissing and kissing and kissing because it's the only thing they can possibly do. "God," Merlin breathes. His hands keep running down Arthur's face like he's a blind man trying to make sure Arthur's really there. "Arthur, I thought, I thought you wouldn't." Arthur nods and swallows, pressing their foreheads together. "I had to," he says. "I had to once. If I didn't, I'd just. I couldn't live with myself. Not if I didn't." Merlin makes a soft noise, almost like regret, and when Arthur pulls back enough to look at him. Merlin's eyes are soft in that expression Arthur's seen so many times and never dared to hope before was some sort of affection. "Come home with me?" He asks, leaning his head down against Merlin's shoulder and closing his eyes so he can't see Merlin's reaction, but he needn't. Merlin's silent for a few moments before letting out a little choked laugh. "You're pretty sure of yourself," he says. "What makes you think I'm that kind of girl?" "I've already bought you dinner a few hundred times," Arthur says dryly. "Call it a hunch." "Prat," Merlin laughs, kissing Arthur's forehead before moving away. "Okay, give me your keys though, I'm driving us." Arthur crosses his arms and glares. "It's my car." "You're shaking," Merlin says gently, and Arthur realizes, when he puts his hand

down against his desk to steady himself, it's true. It's a fine tremor, but it's one Merlin would feel because they were just very close and - oh god. "I, uh." He coughs. "I've wanted - that is, I've never with another... and I've wanted for... Shit." "Me too." Merlin's voice is still gentle, but there's a note of real, raw regret in there that makes it hard for Arthur to breathe. "And that's why I refuse to die in a car crash before I have sex with you." This time, when Arthur full-body shudders and his knees have trouble supporting him, he can't even pretend not to notice. "Arthur?" Merlin's voice abruptly loses all edge of mockery. "Arthur, I was kidding, if it's too much for you -" "If you finish that sentence, I will hire you back just long enough to fire you," Arthur grits out. "Just, Christ, if you talk about that in here again I'm going to do something very, very regrettable." "Right then!" Merlin exclaims cheerfully after a few moments of awkward silence where neither of them can speak from the tension in the air between them, so much thicker now that they both acknowledge it, burning hot enough that the room temperature goes up a few degrees. He's a bright, bright pink and Arthur thinks dimly that something regrettable might happen right here, right now, damn it all. "I'll just... better go get the car running, then?" "I think that's for the best," Arthur agrees, fishing around for his keys in his pocket before tossing them over. "Let me just, um, gather my stuff. I'll be out in a few." "If you're not, I'm stealing your car," Merlin says, and after a moment of indecision grabs Arthur's face and swoops in for a brief, hard kiss that makes Arthur very, very glad he's gripping onto the desk. "Right," Merlin pants when he pulls away. "So you should, you know, hurry." "Right then," Arthur says, watching Merlin back out of his office, grab his cardboard box, and flee. When Merlin's gone, he allows himself to collapse against the desk and laugh slightly manically for a few moments. This was it. This was what he agonized over, violently suppressed, and made himself miserable with for three years, and as easy as that, it's gone. This is what was going to ruin his career. And, well, if this is ruining his career, it's never felt so good. ---

Arthur wakes up to someone tracing his face. "Mmmmmmrmph," he grumbles, nudging into the fingers. He has no idea who it is, but it feels nice. Tickly, but nice. He hears Merlin huff out a laugh. Good, he thinks vaguely. It's good to know that the last couple of hours weren't some sort of holographic sex fantasy. "Time's it?" "Very late," Merlin whispers, his hand stilling. "Or very early." "Hm," Arthur says, mourning the loss of Merlin's hand as he retracts it with one last, fond brush along Arthur's jawline, apparently satisfied. He wonders if Merlin really enjoys that, just... feeling Arthur's face after he's looked at it for so many years. Curiously, he reaches out and places his hand against Merlin's cheek, fascinated. It's not the feeling of Merlin's thin cheek that's so nice as the way that Merlin's face moves under his hand, the way he smiles slightly and his eyelashes flutter. Arthur wants to kiss him, suddenly, just for being so wonderful, and then he remembers he can. Merlin tastes bad - stale, breath too hot, but it's good, because this way Arthur knows it's real, that Merlin's elbows he's struggling to free so he can wrap his arms around Arthur are his, not a dream that Arthur's going to wake up from and then spend the next day watching Merlin's elbows at his desk and pretending he's not doing that at all. But Merlin will never be at that desk anymore. Jas will, and Merlin's leaving him. Well, not really leaving him, but leaving. And he can't, he still can't, Arthur doesn't know how to live without Merlin almost every day, smiling and making terrible jokes and with his hair sticking up just so. "Don't go," Arthur whispers when he pulls away for air, panting. "Not going," Merlin agrees, kissing Arthur's nose, his forehead, the high point of his cheekbone, soothing. "I love you," Arthur says. It's too soon to say, he knows as soon as Merlin pulls away, eyes wide and staring at Arthur like he's never seen him before. Arthur stares back, refusing to back down from the challenge. He does, he thinks, strangely defiant. So what if it's only been, like, six hours since he first let himself kiss Merlin back, properly? It's how he feels. And it hasn't been six hours, really, this has been going on for years, building layer after layer until it's become too big between them to ever just be a one-off release. Merlin knows that. He has to know that. "You... really?" Merlin squeaks, eyes huge. "I didn't think you... I thought you just... you needed to. Once."

"No," Arthur says hoarsely. "I need... I need a lot. Very much. Often. From you." "Arthur," Merlin says, choked sounding, and then surges up to kiss him again. Arthur's just glad that out of that inarticulate jumble that fell out of his mouth, Merlin seems to have understood what he meant, if the way he's clutching Arthur closer is any indication. "You too?" Arthur mumbles against Merlin's mouth, not quite willing to part with his lower lip. "What?" Merlin pulls away, and Arthur darts in for one last taste before going, "Love me too." "Of course I do, you idiot," Merlin laughs, but he presses a kiss to Arthur's temple, like he doesn't really mean the 'idiot' part, but Arthur knows he does. "I can say with complete honesty that if I wasn't madly in love with you, I, like any sane person, would have quit two months into my job." "That long?" Arthur asks, pressing himself against Merlin for re-assurance. "You took a long time to come around," Merlin says, tucking Arthur under his chin and stroking his hair as if Arthur were child. Surprisingly, Arthur finds he doesn't much mind. "Sorry," he says into Merlin's chest. "Here now." "Mmm." They're quiet for a long time, long enough that Arthur starts dozing again, thinking that maybe, just maybe, he won't fake being sick on Monday just to avoid Jas. Maybe he'll actually go in and face her and the fact that she's not Merlin, since he's got Merlin in a new way now - a better way. Of course, he might not have any assistant at all if he's really as terrible as Merlin says he is. "I'm not that bad a boss, am I?" he mumbles. "I mean, Jas isn't going to be gone in six weeks, is she? 'Cause I don't want to have to go looking for a new assistant all over again..." "Not the time to be discussing your treatment of employees," Merlin says, sounding half asleep as he strokes through Arthur's hair. "Yeah, yeah, okay," Arthur sighs, and between one pass of Merlin's hand and the next, he falls asleep, boneless and content for the first time he can remember. ---

It's surprisingly un-weird to have Merlin not in the office. Proving once again that he was like nothing more than a particularly lovable fungus, Merlin had somehow managed to move into Arthur's flat within a week, claiming quite rightly that Arthur's flat was closer to work and school, and it only made sense that way. On some level, Arthur logically knew their relationship was in its fledgling stages and that perhaps it wasn't the best idea to let Merlin gleefully re-arrange bookshelves and get rid of double kitchen appliances, but it was very hard to stick to logic when coming home actually seemed like a positive prospect for the first time in his entire life. "And you're sure this isn't too fast?" Merlin had asked him solemnly after Arthur had caught him moving his scarf drawer in. "No," Arthur had said frankly, kissing the tip of Merlin's nose which he found an extremely useful trick in his ongoing quest to make Merlin shut up and listen to him. It was best deployed in the middle of a stupid argument over something like how they planned on having their eggs that morning, because the element of surprise was usually enough to make whatever Merlin was about to say grind to an abrupt halt, mouth gaping, and Arthur could lean in and kiss him properly next, which always made Merlin much more amenable. Sometimes, though, Merlin's nose looked just so and he had to kiss it for no reason other than it was there and he could. "But I am sure that I'm no longer capable of functioning without you bothering me for at least half of my day, and I'm beyond positive that I'd move you in even if you weren't sleeping with me in order to have you make me coffee every morning. Jas' is strong enough to form an angry mob and declare independence." "Yes, yes, your life is like a Dickens novel without me," Merlin had said, waving him off with a flush of satisfaction creeping its way up the back of his neck, hot under Arthur's stroking fingers in a thoroughly delightful manner. "Don't mock my pain," Arthur said solemnly. "You must, for queen and country, make me a pot of coffee." So Merlin still makes Arthur his coffee, at least on the mornings Arthur allows him out of bed to do so. He sleeps so nicely, is the problem, cheeks a little pink, mouth parted, hair askew. The quality of Arthur's work in the office may be at an all-time high, but his rate of productivity, especially in the mornings, is at an alltime low. It's simply impossible not to lean over and run his lips along one of Merlin's poky shoulders, and then Merlin will murmur and roll back into Arthur, smiling faintly as his eyes flutter open, and then how is Arthur supposed to leave bed without kissing Merlin everywhere? Merlin never has his graduate courses until 9:30 at the earliest, which is plenty of time for sleepy, hushed, lazy sex, which before Merlin Arthur had never had or understood the desire for. But now...

now Merlin's in his bed and he's his own boss and to hell with it, he'll have a bit of a lie-in if he wants. Gaius seems to approve, at any rate. "You look positively radiant, Arthur," he smiles when Arthur shuffles in sheepishly at 11 in the morning on one of Merlin's days off, collar just covering a mark Merlin made in a hastily-planned moment of passion, and his hair is still wet from the shower he'd only managed to have when he'd finally appeased Merlin (and mostly himself) with a good ten minutes of farewell kissing. There is a tiny bit of his pride that balks at this ridiculous creature he's become, but it's mostly soothed by the promise of Merlin, Merlin, sex with Merlin, lots of sex, Merlin! "I do think this new schedule is agreeing with you." "Um, right," Arthur says awkwardly. "And Merlin, I'm assuming, is similarly well? You're keeping him happy?" For an old man with Dumbledore glasses who may as well be Merlin's kin, Gaius manages to make that statement sound mortifying and filthy. "Er," Arthur coughs. "I... I should hope so. I mean, I think. Goddamit, Gaius!" "Right, right, I apologize," Gaius' face looks utterly solemn but his eyes are twinkling wickedly. Arthur wonders if Merlin learned that trick from Gaius, or viceversa. "I do forget how terribly British you are, sometimes." "And as the Prime Minister, you are, of course, the expert on all things British," Arthur shoots back, and then adds, "...sir." "That I am," Gaius nods. "And as such, I order you not to come into work until you damn well please. Now tell me how Gwen plans to spin the continued rise in unemployment." If Gwen's constant smile and increasingly excellent performance during press conferences is any indication, the new schedule is suiting her as well. "First of all," she says when Arthur goes into her office to discuss the changes in hours with her, "I won't say I told you so, but I absolutely told you so." "Yes, yes," Arthur flops down in her visitor's chair. "I am looking into bestowing knighthood upon you." Gwen looks pleased. "See? You even have a sense of humor now. That's a lovely new development. You never used to have one when you insisted on starting work at seven." "I'll have you know I'm a constant delight at all hours," Arthur sniffs.

"Of course you are," Gwen soothes. "But it's also nice for the rest of us to get a lie-in occasionally." "Speaking of which, those are some lovely flowers Lance sent you on your desk there," Arthur says innocently. "He's enjoying his extra sleep as well, hm?" It's nice to know he can still fluster Gwen enough to reduce her to blushing and indignant spluttering. The only thing that leaves Arthur with a bad taste in his mouth about the whole matter is that it turns out Merlin does have a strong work ethic, he just never bothered to use it when he was working for Arthur. "Hello, Merlin," Arthur says, leaning on Merlin's office door (Arthur uses the term "office" lightly, it's really like a large-ish broom closet filled floor-to-ceiling with books and a few pieces of furniture, Kilgharrah swimming happily in his tank in the corner), where he's curled up on his squashy couch taking notes on what looks like a book about the history of salt. Honestly. "It's nice to see you're alive." "What?" Merlin blinks over the edge of the book. "What are you doing here? I thought you were working until five." "I was," Arthur agrees, sitting down and plucking the book out of Merlin's hands, but he takes care to bookmark where Merlin was with a post-it in order to stave off indignant squawking. "And Gaius is fully prepared for Question Time on Monday. Actually, he was prepared at four thirty, which was five hours ago." "What, really?" Merlin fishes his phone out of his pocket. "Oh, and you tried calling me, a lot." "Yeah, but you silence your ringer at work." "Well that's what's professional," Merlin grumbles, but he lets himself be pulled practically into Arthur's lap, who buries his face in Merlin's dark hair and sighs. He's been missing Merlin the entire stupid day, and his poky elbows, and the way his shampoo smells, and all he wanted when he came home was Merlin waiting for him, which he doesn't think is so much to ask. It's Saturday, for goodness sakes. "I don't like this new professionalism of yours," he mumbles. "You?" Merlin looks incredulous. "You don't like my new professionalism." "Well," Arthur coughs uncomfortably, rubbing his hand up and down Merlin's arm in a nervous gesture. "I've recently come to realize that there are some things that may be, well. Slightly more important than work."

Merlin smiles gently. "Are there, now?" "A few, yes." Arthur mutters. "Not too many, mind you, but some." "Really," Merlin smiles. "Like what, pray tell?" Arthur turns his nose into one of Merlin's ears and whispers "You." He doesn't even have to open his eyes to know how widely Merlin smiles.