Yesterday's fic, which I maturely did not publish the instant I finished it.
Title: Inconvenient Insights; or, He Got His (Lack of) Brains From His Father
Fandom: Merlin
Characters/Pairings: Merlin, Hunith, one-sided Merlin/Arthur (discussed)
Ratings/Warnings: PG, mild crudeness but Merlin is trying to tone it down. (Because, you know. Mum.)
Wordcount: 570
Written for: hs_bingo, prompt: blind date. (It wandered. Blind dates are tangentially mentioned. I have issues with the things, kay?)
A/N: First attempt at writing Hunith. Because Merlin is a momma's boy even when he's in a society that doesn't approve of that whole idea.
“Merlin, are you all right?”
“Huh?” He lifted his head from the crumpled crease of his maths book to see his mother giving him the Look of Concern, the one that meant he was about to be menaced with thermometers. “No, no, I’m fine.”
She cleared space on the notebook-coated kitchen table to rest her head in her hands: the regular warning flag for a deeply meaningful conversation on the horizon. “Having trouble with homework?”
“No, not homework, just - everything.”
“Your grades were fine, last time I checked. Are you having trouble now?”
“No.” He rubbed at his forehead. “This stuff’s a pain in the ar - neck, but I understand it.”
“Then what’s the matter? Friends? Boy trouble?” That last one still made him jump a little bit in an echo of his initial oh-God-she-knows panic; he couldn’t quite believe that she took it so calmly. “It is, isn’t it?”
“Not exactly. Just… well. Yes. Sort of.”
“Someone special I should know about?”
“No, no.”
“One of my friends from book club, her nephew’s gay. I could set the two of you up, if you’re lonely for someone.”
“What? No, no, don’t. Don’t even - don’t,” he stammered, utterly failing to conceal any of his absolute panic. A blind date set up by his mother - no. Just no.
“All right, all right, it was just an idea. So what is it, really?”
She was reaching for her knitting. Merlin gave up on the aloofness of a self-respecting teenage boy and leaned back in his chair, sighing. “It’s just… there’s this prat. Arthur Pendragon, one of the really rich paid students.”
“A prat, you say,” she inquired, her mild voice forming a delicate counterpoint to the rhythmic clacking of her needles.
“Yeah. Blond cricket player, smart, handsome in this stick-up-his-bum way, got a massive stick up his bum, in all of the top classes and horribly smug about it.”
“I see,” she hummed. “And he’s bothering you?”
“No, no more than he bothers anybody else. Just, he drives me crazy. He’s such a bloody arrogant jerk. Everybody in the school adores him, practically, and he knows it, and it’s like he thinks he deserves it. I don’t even get why anyone likes him. Just because he’s good at cricket and looks good in the whites and does all right in the classes, it doesn’t mean it makes sense for everybody in the school to be bloody hanging on his every word. Some of the girls would practically lick his feet if he asked them to. It’s ridiculous.” He swallowed, realizing that he might not want to talk so much when he was this tired and not filtering things properly, but Hunith was still knitting serenely away without a break in her rhythm.
“And he enjoys all of this attention?”
“Completely. Practically demands it,” he grumbled, reaching for his neglected glass of orange juice.
“And you have a thing for him.”
The orange juice ended up all over his books.
Fandom: Merlin
Characters/Pairings: Merlin, Hunith, one-sided Merlin/Arthur (discussed)
Ratings/Warnings: PG, mild crudeness but Merlin is trying to tone it down. (Because, you know. Mum.)
Wordcount: 570
Written for: hs_bingo, prompt: blind date. (It wandered. Blind dates are tangentially mentioned. I have issues with the things, kay?)
A/N: First attempt at writing Hunith. Because Merlin is a momma's boy even when he's in a society that doesn't approve of that whole idea.
“Merlin, are you all right?”
“Huh?” He lifted his head from the crumpled crease of his maths book to see his mother giving him the Look of Concern, the one that meant he was about to be menaced with thermometers. “No, no, I’m fine.”
She cleared space on the notebook-coated kitchen table to rest her head in her hands: the regular warning flag for a deeply meaningful conversation on the horizon. “Having trouble with homework?”
“No, not homework, just - everything.”
“Your grades were fine, last time I checked. Are you having trouble now?”
“No.” He rubbed at his forehead. “This stuff’s a pain in the ar - neck, but I understand it.”
“Then what’s the matter? Friends? Boy trouble?” That last one still made him jump a little bit in an echo of his initial oh-God-she-knows panic; he couldn’t quite believe that she took it so calmly. “It is, isn’t it?”
“Not exactly. Just… well. Yes. Sort of.”
“Someone special I should know about?”
“No, no.”
“One of my friends from book club, her nephew’s gay. I could set the two of you up, if you’re lonely for someone.”
“What? No, no, don’t. Don’t even - don’t,” he stammered, utterly failing to conceal any of his absolute panic. A blind date set up by his mother - no. Just no.
“All right, all right, it was just an idea. So what is it, really?”
She was reaching for her knitting. Merlin gave up on the aloofness of a self-respecting teenage boy and leaned back in his chair, sighing. “It’s just… there’s this prat. Arthur Pendragon, one of the really rich paid students.”
“A prat, you say,” she inquired, her mild voice forming a delicate counterpoint to the rhythmic clacking of her needles.
“Yeah. Blond cricket player, smart, handsome in this stick-up-his-bum way, got a massive stick up his bum, in all of the top classes and horribly smug about it.”
“I see,” she hummed. “And he’s bothering you?”
“No, no more than he bothers anybody else. Just, he drives me crazy. He’s such a bloody arrogant jerk. Everybody in the school adores him, practically, and he knows it, and it’s like he thinks he deserves it. I don’t even get why anyone likes him. Just because he’s good at cricket and looks good in the whites and does all right in the classes, it doesn’t mean it makes sense for everybody in the school to be bloody hanging on his every word. Some of the girls would practically lick his feet if he asked them to. It’s ridiculous.” He swallowed, realizing that he might not want to talk so much when he was this tired and not filtering things properly, but Hunith was still knitting serenely away without a break in her rhythm.
“And he enjoys all of this attention?”
“Completely. Practically demands it,” he grumbled, reaching for his neglected glass of orange juice.
“And you have a thing for him.”
The orange juice ended up all over his books.