Merlin Fic: CUT AND DRIED (Arthur/Merlin, au crack, PG)
More fic of little or no merit. Arthur/Merlin this time. Hairdresser AU wherein Merlin is a stylist with magic fingers. (Will now go back to the big fics, which get longer and longer and plottier and plottier and, still, the protagonists stubbornly refuse to porn.)
CUT AND DRIED
Without detailed directions, The Dragon Salon is extremely difficult to find, nested as it is down a side street in London’s exclusive Camelot district. Appointments are virtually impossible to get and even A-list stars are willing to beg, bribe and offer sexual favours for the chance of a colour, cut and blow dry.
Naturally Arthur Pendragon, star of stage, screen and other not-talked-about-now-he-was-famous publications, walked straight in off the street and expected to be served.
Gaius greeted him like the old friend and father figure he was. (Arthur’s own father having suffered from repeated attacks of ‘stress’ over the years was now in permanent residence at The Castle clinic where he was known affectionately by the staff as King.) Of course, they could fit Arthur in, but it would have to be with the new stylist.
Gaius gestured towards a gawky, dark-haired figure busy dropping hair implements in the background. Obediently, the boy came forward revealing a truly awful haircut and the kind of baggy clothes that gave Indie a bad name. There was, dear god, even a neckerchief. Arthur swore he felt his shirt cuffs curl up in sympathy.
Beaming widely, Gaius gave an expansive gesture taking in the nightmare vision. “My nephew, Merlin” he said proudly.
Merlin smiled, the sort of mad fan smile that in Arthur’s experience usually preceded inappropriate questions and determined personal touching. He winced.
“No!” he said.
Merlin continued to smile though it now looked desperate and embarrassed rather than madly enthusiastic.
Arthur felt a slight feeling of sympathy. He squished it down firmly and repeated his ‘no’ in the firm voice that was guaranteed to send directors scuttling and photographers cringing behind their lenses. “There is no way that this…this idiot is getting anywhere near my hair. Not only does he look about twelve but his own hair has obviously been styled via a pudding basin.”
“Twenty-one and it was a pie dish, thank you very much!” said Merlin crossly.
What kind of parent named their child after a bird? The sort who specialised in bad home haircuts, that's who. It didn’t surprise Arthur. Pudding basin, no pie dish, boy would have a stupid name.
“Fine!” he snapped back. “But I bet it was still styled by your mum.”
Merlin blushed and looked awkward. Arthur tried, and mainly succeeded, in not feeling guilty. Alright, he felt a little guilty, which is probably what made him decide to treat the stylist to one of his megawatt smiles. Merlin smiled back, looking dopily happy, and Arthur tried not to notice that the expression actually travelled as far as his eyes. His exceeding blue eyes. But still. This was important. Arthur had his reputation to consider and a Merlin haircut was clearly a one-way ticket to Heat’s Circle of Shame.
“Please Gaius,” he begged. “Why can’t Morgana cut my hair?”
Arthur knew better than to ask Gaius himself for a cut. Although he was the founder and owner of the exclusive Dragon Salon, Gaius’s own hairdressing skills were limited, rather like body functions, to a Number One or a Number Two.
At the sound of her name Morgana hoved into view bearing sharp scissors in each perfectly manicured hand. Arthur sensed a lifeline.
“Please Morgana,” he whined. “You always do a brilliant job.”
Morgana preened, but then obviously remembered why she was refusing to serve this particular client, internationally famous sex symbol or not. Her expression sharpened. “Two reasons, Arthur. One: you made Gwen cry when she gave you your shampoo.
“She used that mud shampoo, I hate that stuff it’s like having porridge --.”
“Two,” Morgana continued, inexorably, “You spent the whole time you were in the chair staring at my breasts.”
“I did not,” said Arthur, outraged, “That’s disgusting. You’re practically my sister. If I was looking at your tits it was because you were throwing them in my face and I’d gone rigid with horror.”
“Gwen. Crying.” said Morgana, ignoring the last three sentences.
Arthur sighed and gave up. “I said I was sorry,” he said, sulkily. “Don’t punish me with Merlin.”
Merlin shuffled and gave a little wave as if to say, still here, but said nothing. Gaius took the opportunity to drift away and let them sort it out between themselves. Arthur looked at his retreating back and knew his fate was sealed. He ran his fingers through his artfully tousled fringe and mentally kissed it ‘goodbye’.
Morgana grinned. Damn her freaky mind-reading abilities. “You’ll see. Merlin has magic fingers. He’s a brilliant stylist and is actually far better than you deserve.” She kissed Merlin on the cheek and abandoned Arthur to his fate.
Gwen, because she was a much, much nicer person than Morgana, agreed to wash his hair. In return, Arthur told her some scurrilous tales of his co-star Lancelot that had somehow avoided getting into the gossip columns. Gwen had an absurd crush on Lancelot who had that whole tall, dark and exotic thing going on that chicks loved.
Arthur thought he might be able to get Lancelot into the salon on the pretext of some charity event or other (Lancelot had a total bleeding heart for any soppy cause) and introduce the two but didn’t say so. Gwen was mid-shampoo and quite likely to flip out and drip chemicals straight into his eyes.
Shampoo, thick conditioner and optional head massage over, the evil moment could no longer be avoided and Arthur found himself facing Merlin (or more precisely away from Merlin) and eyeing him in the mirror.
They both took a deep breath as Merlin picked up his comb.
Oh. OK.
Merlin’s hands on his scalp felt entirely too good. Glancing into the mirror Arthur watched Merlin’s expression as he worked. He looked altogether absorbed. It was, he admitted, an attractive sight. Take away the hair and the clothes and the general air of hopeless incompetence and Merlin was working a killer set of cheekbones and eyes that could only be described as mesmerising. Arthur could swear they flashed gold. Perhaps some sort of contact lenses? Arthur made a note to ask his stylist to check them out. Then he sort of zoned out, lulled by the rhythmic touch of Merlin’s absurdly long fingers against his scalp.
It was, he admitted grudgingly, a very good cut.
Merlin made a final adjustment with his comb and put the hairdryer down. Arthur looked fantastic - if he did say so himself. Merlin hovered a little obviously waiting for some kind of response.
“Not entirely hopeless,” said Arthur.
“Admit it, it’s brilliant,” beamed Merlin.
“Acceptable,” said Arthur.
He stood up and Merlin whirled the protective red cape off before taking a brush and patting him down in a proprietary manner. Merlin was, Arthur was somewhat disconcerted to find, taller than him. They made their way back to reception. Arthur tried surreptitiously walking on tiptoes but that resulted in an unfortunate mincing motion so he gave it up.
He was disappointed that Merlin left him with Gaius at the cash desk already walking off to greet his next customer. Surely it wasn’t necessary to hug clients? He said as much to Gaius who replied, “Oh, Will’s an old friend of Merlin's.”
Arthur tried hard not to feel jealous, which would be ridiculous after a mere hour’s acquaintance. What was Merlin doing with friends? Will caught his eye as he was staring and gave him a discreet but very obvious finger. Arthur glared back.
He paid, leaving a generous tip because he could afford it and not because he knew that Gwen didn’t get paid much and Merlin surely must be poor if his wardrobe was any indicator.
As usual, Arthur was aware without quite being aware of crowds parting for him in the street. When he first started appearing on TV he had made the mistake of meeting people’s glances and smiling with the result that even the shortest of trips became hours long events. He’d then tried ignoring everyone which gave him a reputation for aloofness. Now, after years of practice, he had perfected the art of smiling benignly while never holding anyone’s eye. It had the effect of making him appear simultaneously both friendly and totally unapproachable.
So, when someone grabbed him, Arthur’s first thought was that he was being mugged and his instinctively swung fist only just avoided contact by his attacker jumping back. Arthur dropped his arm in horror.
“Merlin, you clot!” he said.
“You forgot your wallet,” Merlin panted, not in the least put out by being addressed as clot or by nearly being flattened. Possibly he was used to it. Or else he was just panting so hard his (giant) ears had ceased to function. Clearly Merlin was seriously in need of exercise. Automatically Arthur found himself planning a fitness regime, something with lots of aerobic potential.
“Oh,” said Arthur. Then because something more seemed to be called for, “Thanks.”
He then hesitated, in a quite uncharacteristic way, not wanting the encounter to end, but not sure what he wanted to say next.
Merlin grinned his dopey grin, blue eyes flashing. Yes, it definitely was gold. “No problem.” He reached out and ran a finger through Arthur’s hair, eyes narrowed with professional concentration. “There. Perfect again. Try not to take a swing at anyone else before you get home.”
“Thanks,” said Arthur again. He wondered if any lurking paparazzi had caught Merlin touching his hair and decided it didn’t matter.
“No problem.”
They looked at each other for a minute. Arthur opened his mouth to say something but Merlin got in first-
“Shit! Will! I totally forgot I was doing his colours. He’ll come out all streaked.”
Arthur tried and failed not to laugh. Merlin waved and was gone. He was still holding his wallet. Instinctively he opened it to check the contents and as he did so a post-it note with a mobile number went fluttering the ground. There was a scrawled message: For next time you want a blow job.
He picked the number up and slid it into the pocket of his jeans. He would wait a day or two before calling. At least 24 hours. He had a free evening tonight. Hell, who was he kidding? He owed it to himself to go back and laugh at Will.
CUT AND DRIED
Without detailed directions, The Dragon Salon is extremely difficult to find, nested as it is down a side street in London’s exclusive Camelot district. Appointments are virtually impossible to get and even A-list stars are willing to beg, bribe and offer sexual favours for the chance of a colour, cut and blow dry.
Naturally Arthur Pendragon, star of stage, screen and other not-talked-about-now-he-was-famous publications, walked straight in off the street and expected to be served.
Gaius greeted him like the old friend and father figure he was. (Arthur’s own father having suffered from repeated attacks of ‘stress’ over the years was now in permanent residence at The Castle clinic where he was known affectionately by the staff as King.) Of course, they could fit Arthur in, but it would have to be with the new stylist.
Gaius gestured towards a gawky, dark-haired figure busy dropping hair implements in the background. Obediently, the boy came forward revealing a truly awful haircut and the kind of baggy clothes that gave Indie a bad name. There was, dear god, even a neckerchief. Arthur swore he felt his shirt cuffs curl up in sympathy.
Beaming widely, Gaius gave an expansive gesture taking in the nightmare vision. “My nephew, Merlin” he said proudly.
Merlin smiled, the sort of mad fan smile that in Arthur’s experience usually preceded inappropriate questions and determined personal touching. He winced.
“No!” he said.
Merlin continued to smile though it now looked desperate and embarrassed rather than madly enthusiastic.
Arthur felt a slight feeling of sympathy. He squished it down firmly and repeated his ‘no’ in the firm voice that was guaranteed to send directors scuttling and photographers cringing behind their lenses. “There is no way that this…this idiot is getting anywhere near my hair. Not only does he look about twelve but his own hair has obviously been styled via a pudding basin.”
“Twenty-one and it was a pie dish, thank you very much!” said Merlin crossly.
What kind of parent named their child after a bird? The sort who specialised in bad home haircuts, that's who. It didn’t surprise Arthur. Pudding basin, no pie dish, boy would have a stupid name.
“Fine!” he snapped back. “But I bet it was still styled by your mum.”
Merlin blushed and looked awkward. Arthur tried, and mainly succeeded, in not feeling guilty. Alright, he felt a little guilty, which is probably what made him decide to treat the stylist to one of his megawatt smiles. Merlin smiled back, looking dopily happy, and Arthur tried not to notice that the expression actually travelled as far as his eyes. His exceeding blue eyes. But still. This was important. Arthur had his reputation to consider and a Merlin haircut was clearly a one-way ticket to Heat’s Circle of Shame.
“Please Gaius,” he begged. “Why can’t Morgana cut my hair?”
Arthur knew better than to ask Gaius himself for a cut. Although he was the founder and owner of the exclusive Dragon Salon, Gaius’s own hairdressing skills were limited, rather like body functions, to a Number One or a Number Two.
At the sound of her name Morgana hoved into view bearing sharp scissors in each perfectly manicured hand. Arthur sensed a lifeline.
“Please Morgana,” he whined. “You always do a brilliant job.”
Morgana preened, but then obviously remembered why she was refusing to serve this particular client, internationally famous sex symbol or not. Her expression sharpened. “Two reasons, Arthur. One: you made Gwen cry when she gave you your shampoo.
“She used that mud shampoo, I hate that stuff it’s like having porridge --.”
“Two,” Morgana continued, inexorably, “You spent the whole time you were in the chair staring at my breasts.”
“I did not,” said Arthur, outraged, “That’s disgusting. You’re practically my sister. If I was looking at your tits it was because you were throwing them in my face and I’d gone rigid with horror.”
“Gwen. Crying.” said Morgana, ignoring the last three sentences.
Arthur sighed and gave up. “I said I was sorry,” he said, sulkily. “Don’t punish me with Merlin.”
Merlin shuffled and gave a little wave as if to say, still here, but said nothing. Gaius took the opportunity to drift away and let them sort it out between themselves. Arthur looked at his retreating back and knew his fate was sealed. He ran his fingers through his artfully tousled fringe and mentally kissed it ‘goodbye’.
Morgana grinned. Damn her freaky mind-reading abilities. “You’ll see. Merlin has magic fingers. He’s a brilliant stylist and is actually far better than you deserve.” She kissed Merlin on the cheek and abandoned Arthur to his fate.
Gwen, because she was a much, much nicer person than Morgana, agreed to wash his hair. In return, Arthur told her some scurrilous tales of his co-star Lancelot that had somehow avoided getting into the gossip columns. Gwen had an absurd crush on Lancelot who had that whole tall, dark and exotic thing going on that chicks loved.
Arthur thought he might be able to get Lancelot into the salon on the pretext of some charity event or other (Lancelot had a total bleeding heart for any soppy cause) and introduce the two but didn’t say so. Gwen was mid-shampoo and quite likely to flip out and drip chemicals straight into his eyes.
Shampoo, thick conditioner and optional head massage over, the evil moment could no longer be avoided and Arthur found himself facing Merlin (or more precisely away from Merlin) and eyeing him in the mirror.
They both took a deep breath as Merlin picked up his comb.
Oh. OK.
Merlin’s hands on his scalp felt entirely too good. Glancing into the mirror Arthur watched Merlin’s expression as he worked. He looked altogether absorbed. It was, he admitted, an attractive sight. Take away the hair and the clothes and the general air of hopeless incompetence and Merlin was working a killer set of cheekbones and eyes that could only be described as mesmerising. Arthur could swear they flashed gold. Perhaps some sort of contact lenses? Arthur made a note to ask his stylist to check them out. Then he sort of zoned out, lulled by the rhythmic touch of Merlin’s absurdly long fingers against his scalp.
It was, he admitted grudgingly, a very good cut.
Merlin made a final adjustment with his comb and put the hairdryer down. Arthur looked fantastic - if he did say so himself. Merlin hovered a little obviously waiting for some kind of response.
“Not entirely hopeless,” said Arthur.
“Admit it, it’s brilliant,” beamed Merlin.
“Acceptable,” said Arthur.
He stood up and Merlin whirled the protective red cape off before taking a brush and patting him down in a proprietary manner. Merlin was, Arthur was somewhat disconcerted to find, taller than him. They made their way back to reception. Arthur tried surreptitiously walking on tiptoes but that resulted in an unfortunate mincing motion so he gave it up.
He was disappointed that Merlin left him with Gaius at the cash desk already walking off to greet his next customer. Surely it wasn’t necessary to hug clients? He said as much to Gaius who replied, “Oh, Will’s an old friend of Merlin's.”
Arthur tried hard not to feel jealous, which would be ridiculous after a mere hour’s acquaintance. What was Merlin doing with friends? Will caught his eye as he was staring and gave him a discreet but very obvious finger. Arthur glared back.
He paid, leaving a generous tip because he could afford it and not because he knew that Gwen didn’t get paid much and Merlin surely must be poor if his wardrobe was any indicator.
As usual, Arthur was aware without quite being aware of crowds parting for him in the street. When he first started appearing on TV he had made the mistake of meeting people’s glances and smiling with the result that even the shortest of trips became hours long events. He’d then tried ignoring everyone which gave him a reputation for aloofness. Now, after years of practice, he had perfected the art of smiling benignly while never holding anyone’s eye. It had the effect of making him appear simultaneously both friendly and totally unapproachable.
So, when someone grabbed him, Arthur’s first thought was that he was being mugged and his instinctively swung fist only just avoided contact by his attacker jumping back. Arthur dropped his arm in horror.
“Merlin, you clot!” he said.
“You forgot your wallet,” Merlin panted, not in the least put out by being addressed as clot or by nearly being flattened. Possibly he was used to it. Or else he was just panting so hard his (giant) ears had ceased to function. Clearly Merlin was seriously in need of exercise. Automatically Arthur found himself planning a fitness regime, something with lots of aerobic potential.
“Oh,” said Arthur. Then because something more seemed to be called for, “Thanks.”
He then hesitated, in a quite uncharacteristic way, not wanting the encounter to end, but not sure what he wanted to say next.
Merlin grinned his dopey grin, blue eyes flashing. Yes, it definitely was gold. “No problem.” He reached out and ran a finger through Arthur’s hair, eyes narrowed with professional concentration. “There. Perfect again. Try not to take a swing at anyone else before you get home.”
“Thanks,” said Arthur again. He wondered if any lurking paparazzi had caught Merlin touching his hair and decided it didn’t matter.
“No problem.”
They looked at each other for a minute. Arthur opened his mouth to say something but Merlin got in first-
“Shit! Will! I totally forgot I was doing his colours. He’ll come out all streaked.”
Arthur tried and failed not to laugh. Merlin waved and was gone. He was still holding his wallet. Instinctively he opened it to check the contents and as he did so a post-it note with a mobile number went fluttering the ground. There was a scrawled message: For next time you want a blow job.
He picked the number up and slid it into the pocket of his jeans. He would wait a day or two before calling. At least 24 hours. He had a free evening tonight. Hell, who was he kidding? He owed it to himself to go back and laugh at Will.