(no subject)
Title: Treasure Troves
Fandom: Merlin (I love the show, but I am so ready to write something else for once. Or at least canonfic.)
Characters/Pairings: Gorlois, Gwen/Morgana
Rating/Warnings: G, lots of talk of food, not Britpicked (which warning also applies to the rest of this verse.)
Written For: hs_bingo, prompt "sweet sixteen."
A/N: 1) I had to basically invent a father/daughter dynamic for this; 2) I never checked whether sweet sixteen is a done thing in the U.K., but assume that Gorlois was raised in the U.S. and moved to England when he married, bringing the tradition with him; 3) the song quoted at the end is Vienna Teng's "Harbor."
"Sweet sixteen, Morgana,” her father said, pushing a heavy white plate of waffles across the linen-covered table. “I had the cook make your favorite.”
“Thank you, Father,” she said with a perfectly measured smile, picking up her fork. She speared a strawberry, admiring the picture it made: syrupy amber coating over rich, juicy red, with the sunlight striking on the fine-wrought silver of the fork. It was the sort of thing that Gwen would see and try to paint, or perhaps use as inspiration for a complicated paper-and-wire sculpture in which you could hunt for shapes. Beautiful.
“Nothing but the best for my little girl’s birthday,” Gorlois chuckled, reaching for the towering coffeepot. “Although not so little anymore, I guess.”
“No, I suppose not,” she mused, and popped the berry into her mouth. Sweet and sticky and fresh against her tongue, just like every birthday morning since she could hold a fork on her own. She decided not to mention the fondness she’d developed for mushroom omelets; quite possibly she only liked them in comparison to the rest of the dining hall food, anyway.
“I couldn’t get off work completely, I’m afraid,” her father continued, pulling the plate of bacon towards him. The grease shimmered in the brilliant spring sunlight; Morgana took another sip of her apple juice, frowning. “But I’ll be home early, at least, and we can get dinner at Roseanne’s. Perhaps catch that play too, that production with the new monochrome idea?”
“That sounds lovely, thank you,” Morgana said, cutting into the sugar-dusted crust of her waffles.
Gorlois had very nobly left his newspapers by the door rather than bringing them to the table as usual, but nonetheless the rest of breakfast was silent beyond the clink of silverware and the gurgle of coffee. At last he glanced at the grandfather clock and pushed his chair back.
“I’ve got to go, sweetheart,” he sighed. “I’ll see you around four. Will you be all right here alone?”
“Of course,” Morgana said smoothly, rising and dabbing at her mouth with an embroidered napkin. “I’ll just go get dressed now, then.”
“Excellent. Look in the study, there’s a surprise with you. And the Pendragons sent over a package as well, it’s there too.”
She crossed the room and dropped a kiss on top of his head, precisely centered on the bald spot in his greying hair. “Thank you, daddy.”
“You’re welcome, sweetheart.” Names they used for each other exactly four times a year: his birthday, her birthday, Christmas, the anniversary of her mother’s death. The affection was real; the demonstration was a carefully calculated act.
---
The box in the study held a new laptop, all mirrored black and gleaming silver. It was wonderful quality, and the accompanying bag held all the extra features: two power cords in case she lost one, a wireless mouse, two flash drives if anything needed transferring, noise-canceling headphones (perfect for the dorms). A gift that would delight any student.
The package from the Pendragons contained a dress, elegant and close-cut white silk with a dove-grey scarf to tie around the waist or drape around the neck as she chose. It was chosen with extraordinarily good taste, taste that probably belonged to some helpful worker in a London shop. It was also a bit too big; Uther would have got her size from Gorlois, and she’d lost a fair bit of weight since the last time he bought her clothing.
(There was also a note from Arthur, which was the most politely generic thing she’d read since the note he sent with the obligatory Christmas present between the families of business partners.)
---
Dinner was a lovely affair, as it always was at Roseanne’s. Morgana wore the dress from the Pendragons, tying the sash tight to make it fit, and forced her feet into her least favorite silver shoes because they were the only things she had that would match properly. She had swordfish and her first taste of white wine, which she did not enjoy half as much as she pretended, and stifled a wince with every heaping, over-rich bite of food that vanished into Gorlois’s mouth. Her stories of school were carefully stripped of any hint of animosity with Arthur, and of most of the context of Merlin’s silliness, and of any mention of Gwen at all, because she knew he would feel guilty about scowling at her on her birthday. The results felt like washed-out watercolors done on tissue paper, but Gorlois laughed in all the right places, mostly because she chuckled as a cue.
Over dessert (vanilla cream pie), he gave her another gift: a jewelry set of bracelets and dangling earrings and a long, dramatic necklace, all made out of silver and pearls and slender, graceful crystals cut to look almost like icicles. She tried them all on right there in the restaurant, murmuring her thanks; the dress was low-cut, and so the cold beads of the necklace settled directly against her skin.
---
The play was decent, although not nearly as avant-garde as it claimed to be. Afterwards Morgana tumbled into her bed and grabbed her phone off the nightstand, slipping her shoes off with her free hand. There were thirty-seven “Happy birthday” texts - Merlin had attached a ridiculous GIF of a dancing cake as well - and one additional message from Gwen, who swore she wasn’t going to bed until Morgana called her. Smiling, Morgana slid under the covers and dialed.
“Hello,” she whispered, rather needlessly since Gorlois’s room was on the other side of the house. “I didn’t wake you, did I?”
“Of course not, I said I’d stay up. Happy birthday, Morgana!”
“Thank you. How was your day?”
“Fine. The shop was pretty busy, or I would’ve called in the afternoon. Did you open your present yet?” The eagerness raced along the line; Morgana could picture her perfectly, eyes alight and lips curled up, mostly excited with a side of anxiousness. Nobody gave gifts quite as enthusiastically as Gwen.
“Not yet,” Morgana answered, reaching for the tissue-wrapped package. “I was saving it.”
“Open it now?”
“I will, I will.” Morgana peeled back the layers. “Oh, Gwen,” she breathed, lifting out the necklace: polished wood and amber beads on a black leather cord. It was closer to a choker than a necklace, the perfect length to peek out from the unbuttoned collar of a uniform blouse without violating the dress code. “This is beautiful. Did you make it?”
“Yes.” She was beaming with pride and pleasure now, Morgana could tell. “You like it, then?”
“No, I love it,” Morgana corrected, switching it with the silver one even though Gwen couldn’t see. “Oh, and what’s this underneath it?”
“It’s a mix CD.” The gift-giving nervousness was slipping back into Gwen’s voice, although the happiness was still there. “Just some songs I thought you’d like, or that, you know, reminded me of you. It’s just a little thing -”
“Gwen, that’s so sweet! I’ll listen to it as soon as we’re done talking,” Morgana promised. “I know I’ll love it.”
They’d seen each other just yesterday, but they still managed to talk for over an hour, until Gwen started yawning and Morgana insisted on saying goodnight.
“No, no, I’m fi - i - ahne,” Gwen protested blearily, making Morgana laugh.
“You need to sleep, silly. I’ll call you in the morning, okay?”
“’kay,” Gwen sighed. “Happy birthday, again. I love you.”
“I love you too.”
Morgana popped the CD into her stereo the instant she closed her phone, curious to see what Gwen associated with her. The first notes swirled out of the speakers in a cascade of piano and drums, and then the singer’s silky voice spilled over the top. Sail your sea, and meet your storm, all I want is to be your harbor; the light in me will guide you home…
Morgana fell asleep smiling, and it wasn’t measured at all.
Fandom: Merlin (I love the show, but I am so ready to write something else for once. Or at least canonfic.)
Characters/Pairings: Gorlois, Gwen/Morgana
Rating/Warnings: G, lots of talk of food, not Britpicked (which warning also applies to the rest of this verse.)
Written For: hs_bingo, prompt "sweet sixteen."
A/N: 1) I had to basically invent a father/daughter dynamic for this; 2) I never checked whether sweet sixteen is a done thing in the U.K., but assume that Gorlois was raised in the U.S. and moved to England when he married, bringing the tradition with him; 3) the song quoted at the end is Vienna Teng's "Harbor."
"Sweet sixteen, Morgana,” her father said, pushing a heavy white plate of waffles across the linen-covered table. “I had the cook make your favorite.”
“Thank you, Father,” she said with a perfectly measured smile, picking up her fork. She speared a strawberry, admiring the picture it made: syrupy amber coating over rich, juicy red, with the sunlight striking on the fine-wrought silver of the fork. It was the sort of thing that Gwen would see and try to paint, or perhaps use as inspiration for a complicated paper-and-wire sculpture in which you could hunt for shapes. Beautiful.
“Nothing but the best for my little girl’s birthday,” Gorlois chuckled, reaching for the towering coffeepot. “Although not so little anymore, I guess.”
“No, I suppose not,” she mused, and popped the berry into her mouth. Sweet and sticky and fresh against her tongue, just like every birthday morning since she could hold a fork on her own. She decided not to mention the fondness she’d developed for mushroom omelets; quite possibly she only liked them in comparison to the rest of the dining hall food, anyway.
“I couldn’t get off work completely, I’m afraid,” her father continued, pulling the plate of bacon towards him. The grease shimmered in the brilliant spring sunlight; Morgana took another sip of her apple juice, frowning. “But I’ll be home early, at least, and we can get dinner at Roseanne’s. Perhaps catch that play too, that production with the new monochrome idea?”
“That sounds lovely, thank you,” Morgana said, cutting into the sugar-dusted crust of her waffles.
Gorlois had very nobly left his newspapers by the door rather than bringing them to the table as usual, but nonetheless the rest of breakfast was silent beyond the clink of silverware and the gurgle of coffee. At last he glanced at the grandfather clock and pushed his chair back.
“I’ve got to go, sweetheart,” he sighed. “I’ll see you around four. Will you be all right here alone?”
“Of course,” Morgana said smoothly, rising and dabbing at her mouth with an embroidered napkin. “I’ll just go get dressed now, then.”
“Excellent. Look in the study, there’s a surprise with you. And the Pendragons sent over a package as well, it’s there too.”
She crossed the room and dropped a kiss on top of his head, precisely centered on the bald spot in his greying hair. “Thank you, daddy.”
“You’re welcome, sweetheart.” Names they used for each other exactly four times a year: his birthday, her birthday, Christmas, the anniversary of her mother’s death. The affection was real; the demonstration was a carefully calculated act.
---
The box in the study held a new laptop, all mirrored black and gleaming silver. It was wonderful quality, and the accompanying bag held all the extra features: two power cords in case she lost one, a wireless mouse, two flash drives if anything needed transferring, noise-canceling headphones (perfect for the dorms). A gift that would delight any student.
The package from the Pendragons contained a dress, elegant and close-cut white silk with a dove-grey scarf to tie around the waist or drape around the neck as she chose. It was chosen with extraordinarily good taste, taste that probably belonged to some helpful worker in a London shop. It was also a bit too big; Uther would have got her size from Gorlois, and she’d lost a fair bit of weight since the last time he bought her clothing.
(There was also a note from Arthur, which was the most politely generic thing she’d read since the note he sent with the obligatory Christmas present between the families of business partners.)
---
Dinner was a lovely affair, as it always was at Roseanne’s. Morgana wore the dress from the Pendragons, tying the sash tight to make it fit, and forced her feet into her least favorite silver shoes because they were the only things she had that would match properly. She had swordfish and her first taste of white wine, which she did not enjoy half as much as she pretended, and stifled a wince with every heaping, over-rich bite of food that vanished into Gorlois’s mouth. Her stories of school were carefully stripped of any hint of animosity with Arthur, and of most of the context of Merlin’s silliness, and of any mention of Gwen at all, because she knew he would feel guilty about scowling at her on her birthday. The results felt like washed-out watercolors done on tissue paper, but Gorlois laughed in all the right places, mostly because she chuckled as a cue.
Over dessert (vanilla cream pie), he gave her another gift: a jewelry set of bracelets and dangling earrings and a long, dramatic necklace, all made out of silver and pearls and slender, graceful crystals cut to look almost like icicles. She tried them all on right there in the restaurant, murmuring her thanks; the dress was low-cut, and so the cold beads of the necklace settled directly against her skin.
---
The play was decent, although not nearly as avant-garde as it claimed to be. Afterwards Morgana tumbled into her bed and grabbed her phone off the nightstand, slipping her shoes off with her free hand. There were thirty-seven “Happy birthday” texts - Merlin had attached a ridiculous GIF of a dancing cake as well - and one additional message from Gwen, who swore she wasn’t going to bed until Morgana called her. Smiling, Morgana slid under the covers and dialed.
“Hello,” she whispered, rather needlessly since Gorlois’s room was on the other side of the house. “I didn’t wake you, did I?”
“Of course not, I said I’d stay up. Happy birthday, Morgana!”
“Thank you. How was your day?”
“Fine. The shop was pretty busy, or I would’ve called in the afternoon. Did you open your present yet?” The eagerness raced along the line; Morgana could picture her perfectly, eyes alight and lips curled up, mostly excited with a side of anxiousness. Nobody gave gifts quite as enthusiastically as Gwen.
“Not yet,” Morgana answered, reaching for the tissue-wrapped package. “I was saving it.”
“Open it now?”
“I will, I will.” Morgana peeled back the layers. “Oh, Gwen,” she breathed, lifting out the necklace: polished wood and amber beads on a black leather cord. It was closer to a choker than a necklace, the perfect length to peek out from the unbuttoned collar of a uniform blouse without violating the dress code. “This is beautiful. Did you make it?”
“Yes.” She was beaming with pride and pleasure now, Morgana could tell. “You like it, then?”
“No, I love it,” Morgana corrected, switching it with the silver one even though Gwen couldn’t see. “Oh, and what’s this underneath it?”
“It’s a mix CD.” The gift-giving nervousness was slipping back into Gwen’s voice, although the happiness was still there. “Just some songs I thought you’d like, or that, you know, reminded me of you. It’s just a little thing -”
“Gwen, that’s so sweet! I’ll listen to it as soon as we’re done talking,” Morgana promised. “I know I’ll love it.”
They’d seen each other just yesterday, but they still managed to talk for over an hour, until Gwen started yawning and Morgana insisted on saying goodnight.
“No, no, I’m fi - i - ahne,” Gwen protested blearily, making Morgana laugh.
“You need to sleep, silly. I’ll call you in the morning, okay?”
“’kay,” Gwen sighed. “Happy birthday, again. I love you.”
“I love you too.”
Morgana popped the CD into her stereo the instant she closed her phone, curious to see what Gwen associated with her. The first notes swirled out of the speakers in a cascade of piano and drums, and then the singer’s silky voice spilled over the top. Sail your sea, and meet your storm, all I want is to be your harbor; the light in me will guide you home…
Morgana fell asleep smiling, and it wasn’t measured at all.