Keep Calm and Carry On Commentary - 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. (It is reasons like this that Arthur cites when he denies that he has daddy issues. "WOULD SOMEONE WITH DADDY ISSUES HAVE JOINED LABOUR???" Yes, sweetie, they would. You fail at rebellion.) 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. (Yeah, sorry, guys, I got a few comments on this so, in case I didn't make it clear enough, Arthur in this universe would rather have his toenails removed with a pair of tweezers than be PM. It's mostly in reaction to his father - to him the position is like being a puppet with the party's hand stuck up his arse (and Merlin's hands are the only ones that have anything to do with his arse, thank you very much). He sees it as an empty seat that people grapple for looking for power that doesn't exist, and directly against everything he considers necessary for a happy life, that is, privacy, free will to do whatever he wants with his life and not worry about how he looks (even though he cares how he looks, he hates about himself that he cares), and a quiet home to return to at the end of each day. (This story is about him realizing that the home is useless unless Merlin's in it. That's another foray into Arthur's psyche for another day.) In my head, Merlin eventually runs the children's program at the British Library and Arthur opens a successful political consulting firm and they live happily ever after with a herd of hypoallergenic cats. Because, I believe, these will exist in the near future.)
"You have more daddy issues than a back-alley hooker," (More of Julia laughing at her own jokes, take two.) 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. (Merlin, FYI, doesn't actually care about Arthur's tie at all. He's been in love with Arthur for nearly as long as Arthur's been in love with him and has this vain hope that if he keeps putting his hands on Arthur, Arthur will become overwhelmed with mad passion and just pin him to the desk and just have his wicked way with him. He only has half an idea of how close Arthur is to doing exactly this.) 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? (No. He probably would have made out with him by now.)
"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." (This is something I as an American still don't get why the Europeans are whining about. Well, okay, let me re-state that - I understand the whining about the Euro, but I think it's fucking stupid. Maybe instead of whining about how Greek people have violated their economy, they should have looked a little closer at the Greek economy and noticed the MASSIVE FLASHING NEON WARNING SIGNS SAYING "ECONOMIC COLLAPSE IMMINENT" AND DONE SOMETHING TO STOP IT. And before Europeans start getting mad at me, I feel the same way about the American economy.
Mostly, I just feel that economics are stupid and I'm going to continue to keep my savings in a small community bank and plug my ears for the rest of my life. And that's my unsolicited political opinion.)
"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.
- - -
(CHILDREN, GATHER 'ROUND, IT'S TIME FOR A PUBLIC SERVICE ANNOUNCEMENT.
I feel, before we delve too deeply into Merlin's active idiocy when it comes to clothing, we should take a moment to acknowledge that this is a very real, very serious condition that plagues almost every boy I know. My father, for example, thought it was a good idea to only bring one outfit with him when he went to meet my mother's extended family for the first time, and it was clashing stripes and plaid. In his defense, it was the seventies, and that means that it's entirely possible that my mom left out the fact that they packed while high. Then again, it took us years to convince my father that he couldn't wear socks with his sandals, and my brother is under similar fashion delusions, like that his bright green t-shirt and olive pants match, or that it's okay to have long hair, or that his offensively yellow hooded sweatshirt is awesome, so there's the even scarier possibility he did this sober, and that it's a genetic disability that I now carry the gene for.
I think the worst sufferer from this condition I know of is, ironically, the guy who I based Arthur on a lot. (Unlike Arthur, however, he was far less anal and didn't have massive daddy issues.) But Merlin's wardrobe is very much the uber-British version of his. There were so many fashion fiascoes he committed in the time I knew him. There were his beloved Crocs that were the color of stale oatmeal, his really terrible corduroy pants (you know the kind where the ridge of corduroy is super-thick and it looks weird?), the cashmere turtleneck incident that made him look like he should be playing bongos in a Starbucks (to add insult to injury, this sweater was given to him by his girlfriend. BETRAYED BY ONE WHO WAS SUPPOSED TO BE AIDING HIM!), the time he walked around with the collar of his polo shirt popped for half the day because he was too lazy to fold it back over that morning when he got dressed (when I called him out on this he looked at me with huge betrayed eyes as I fixed his collar and went "but I see other guys do it!" and I had to go "yes, sweetie, and you know what we call those guys? DOUCHEBAGS.")... and then there were his ties. Oh god, his ties. He'd wear ties on important days which, like, made sense and stuff, only the ties he chose were the worst ties in the history of ever. Like he had one of those ties that has the stick figure doodles of little kids on it? He was all "it shows I like kids and stuff!" and I was like "no, sweetie, it shows you're either a first grade teacher or a pedophile". (He was neither.... I hope.) And then there was the time where he wore a yellow and blue checked shirt with a yellow and blue tie with weird circles on it (they were, like, circles made out of lines? I DON'T EVEN KNOW WHERE HE FOUND THESE THINGS) and they were different shades of yellow and blue and he was under the impression that they totally matched and was like "No! You're wrong! I know this one! It's okay to wear two different prints if they're made from the same colors!" and I was like "Not if they're both terrible prints with colors that are two different shades."
Sartorial Stupidity is a real problem, you guys. It can ruin lives. Don't let it happen to you or the men you love. If you have been affected by this disease, the comments are a safe place for you to discuss your pain. This is a caring and sharing zone.)
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 self-importance, 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?") (This is my reverse rant. WHAT DO YOU PEOPLE HAVE AGAINST THE LETTER? IT'S A PERFECTLY GOOD LETTER. MAYBE IF YOU CALLED IT "ZEE" INSTEAD OF "ZED" LIKE AN IDIOT, YOU WOULD LIKE IT BETTER SINCE THAT'S ITS PROPER FUCKING NAME.)
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.
(Translation of Arthur's thoughts time, the un-constipated edition! Arthur has a sort of weird relationship with Merlin's clothes. He finds them super-endearing and also despairs of them for the same reason he despairs of Merlin - he both admires and finds ridiculously stupid the fact that Merlin just honestly doesn't give a crap about what people think of him, or really has no idea what people think of him and doesn't care to find out. And on some level Arthur resents that, and on some level it's what's attracted him to Merlin in the first place.
Merlin, like many boys, is perfectly capable of dressing himself in a more casual way. Pairing a t-shirt with the occasional scarf or sweater isn't really that hard, and what's worse is he looks really really good and Arthur can't pretend that Merlin's just functionally moronic or stick him in the unattractive pile because hello, his hotness is STARING ARTHUR IN THE FACE. This issue translates to the date sweater - it makes Merlin look hella good.
Merlin doesn't think to look hella good for Arthur because it's not work appropriate. In fact, he thinks his clothes DO make him look hella good, and Arthur's complaining because he's being a tool.
Still, once they get together, Merlin begrudgingly lets Arthur sort out his work wardrobe and make sure that, if he insists on wearing terrible ties, they at least match and are not clashing with argyle. This is only achieved through a lot of sexual persuasion.)
"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."
(The answer to this question is yes - Arthur owns many solid-colored t-shirts that he wears on weekends or when he's playing footie or going to the gym or sleeping in. They're all the same basic t-shirt in boring colors like white and black and gray and blue. Sometimes if he's feeling daring he'll get a dark green or maroon-ish one. THAT ARTHUR'S A REBEL.)
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?". (No, yours, sometimes, by accident) 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?" (A little, and also he sort of wanted Arthur to find it) and "Are Merlin's ears naturally that way, or are they able to be pruned, like shrubbery?" (Arthur teases about Merlin's ears because he wants to nibble them and taste behind them and see if they're very sensitive.) to which Merlin replied by adding to the list "Was Arthur ever hugged as a child?" (No) and "Did Arthur's father surgically remove Arthur's heart on his fifth birthday?" (Not for lack of trying) 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. (Arthur sleeps in one of his t-shirts and boxers. Merlin cycles depending on the weather. Sometimes it's sweatpants and ratty sweaters, sometimes it's boxers and t-shirts, sometimes he mixes the two up, and then when it gets hot it's just boxers. He sleeps in the nude when he's feeling like being dangerous or because Arthur's divested him of all clothing and then made him stupid via sex.)
"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. (Gwen knowing him too well has nothing to do with the fact that she and Arthur used to be schtupping and more with the fact that she has eyes.)
- - -
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?" (In my head, Merlin, when he is bored, writes lots of stories on the 10 Downing server and sends them around to people. Mostly they're silly - he wouldn't want anyone reading any of his serious thoughts, and he prefers to write fun things anyway, because he has a whole philosophy about how there should be more great literature that makes you happy instead of stuff like Tolstoy which makes you want to kill yourself. So he writes things like pulpy noir spoofs where giant rodents from another planet take over London and then everyone's saved by Private Eye Stu Studabaker, or something. And then Arthur is all "See, this is why I don't give you a pay raise. Also, Stu Studabaker is a stupid name.")
"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.
- - -
Sometime about halfway through this fic, I had a minor coniption that there wasn't enough material stolen from The West Wing to make this a proper tribute, so I went through old episodes and decided to lift one of my favorite storylines, the one where Donna wants to put the pro Puerto Rican statehood guy on a stamp. I obviously translated it to British postage crises and then went "OH THIS IS A REALLY GOOD TIME TO MAKE MERLIN COME OUT AND MAKE ARTHUR'S LITTLE HEAD EXPLODE".
Also, in the process of writing this, I ended up learning a kind of ridiculous amount about who's been on British postage stamps and all the intricacies of the British postal system. There are a lot of things I have stupid amounts of useless knowledge on thanks to fanfiction.
And my parents think it's not educational.)
"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.(Trying to figure out a variety of things Arthur could be working on for Merlin to interrupt during was hard. I ended up spending a lot of time on the BBC front page mentally sorting through headlines going "Arthur dealt with that in this section, dealt with this in this section... OOOH, I don't think he's been working with this stuff before!"
In the original TV show no one had this problem. you could just give them a random sheaf of papers.)
"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.'" (Merlin really has this binder, and certain things are highlighted in it and underlined by Arthur with notes like "I MEAN IT, MERLIN, DON'T BOTHER ME ABOUT THIS, IT'S NOT MY JOB.")
"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." (This is entirely untrue, though the children's literature stamps are real. I was befuddled by that myself since they do children's literature stamps like ALL THE FUCKING TIME. Mix it up, British stamp people!)
"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." (This is also true. West End stamps coming in July!)
"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 Brontë 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..." (AHAHHA OH HILARIOUS VICTORIAN WRITER INCEST.)
"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... (This is not the first time Arthur has thought these thoughts, just the first time he hasn't managed to pretend he's not thinking them. And CERTAINLY the first time he's thought them while Merlin was in the room.)
"Arthur?" Merlin interrupts. "Arthur, you look like you're about to have a 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?" (RANDOM STALKER TIDBIT. So if you know a few people from Merlin's facebooks, you can find Joe Dempsie's facebook profile. Much like Bradley's, it's locked down, but the one thing you can see is that he's a fan of Nando's. This makes me unreasonably happy, since I spent a really long time researching what places Merlin could go pick up lunch near 10 Downing. LET'S DISCUSS HOW I'M LAME.)
"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. (Though honestly, after seeing Angel looking so glorious and cleavage-y at the BAFTAs, I feel a little for the dude. Ogling is never okay, but I've seen the promised land, and I understand the impulse.)
"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, It is a totally non-subtle in-joke with puckling that by "Alexander" I mean "Alexander Skarsgard". Imagine him and Colin Morgan making out. Do you need a minute after that visual? Because I, uh, do.) 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 North Sea (Apparently Sweden isn't on the North Sea, which I didn't realize until a commenter who's smarter than me pointed out. OOPS. Pretend I knew that.) 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. (THIS IS ALEXANDER MOTHERFUCKING SKARSGARD. WOULDN'T YOU BE???) "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. (DUH.) "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 North 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-or-other. "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." (For purely noble reasons, of course.)
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." (It was REALLY HARD thinking up flaws for Alexander Skarsgard's face. But Arthur is, understandably, jealous, and he'd see flaws in even the most heinously good-looking person on the planet that flirted with Merlin. OBVIOUSLY.)
"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 flame-point 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." (As much as he wants to. A lot. I mean, what.)
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." (This is not something I made up. I discovered this poking around Wikipedia one day and thus, all the cat sections were added to this fic, one by one.)
"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 grumpy sometimes... (I don't have allergies, which means I've never taken an allergy pill, which means I have no idea if this is an accurate portrayal of someone's drugged thought processes, but I find it amusing, nonetheless.)
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. (No you're not, sweetie. You're just pretty and Merlin's only human.)
"That doesn't excuse you putting on a strip show for me." Merlin's voice sounds tight. (NOT THAT YOU ARE COMPLAINING.)
"'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.
- - -
Commentary Part the Third
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. (It is reasons like this that Arthur cites when he denies that he has daddy issues. "WOULD SOMEONE WITH DADDY ISSUES HAVE JOINED LABOUR???" Yes, sweetie, they would. You fail at rebellion.) 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. (Yeah, sorry, guys, I got a few comments on this so, in case I didn't make it clear enough, Arthur in this universe would rather have his toenails removed with a pair of tweezers than be PM. It's mostly in reaction to his father - to him the position is like being a puppet with the party's hand stuck up his arse (and Merlin's hands are the only ones that have anything to do with his arse, thank you very much). He sees it as an empty seat that people grapple for looking for power that doesn't exist, and directly against everything he considers necessary for a happy life, that is, privacy, free will to do whatever he wants with his life and not worry about how he looks (even though he cares how he looks, he hates about himself that he cares), and a quiet home to return to at the end of each day. (This story is about him realizing that the home is useless unless Merlin's in it. That's another foray into Arthur's psyche for another day.) In my head, Merlin eventually runs the children's program at the British Library and Arthur opens a successful political consulting firm and they live happily ever after with a herd of hypoallergenic cats. Because, I believe, these will exist in the near future.)
"You have more daddy issues than a back-alley hooker," (More of Julia laughing at her own jokes, take two.) 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. (Merlin, FYI, doesn't actually care about Arthur's tie at all. He's been in love with Arthur for nearly as long as Arthur's been in love with him and has this vain hope that if he keeps putting his hands on Arthur, Arthur will become overwhelmed with mad passion and just pin him to the desk and just have his wicked way with him. He only has half an idea of how close Arthur is to doing exactly this.) 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? (No. He probably would have made out with him by now.)
"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." (This is something I as an American still don't get why the Europeans are whining about. Well, okay, let me re-state that - I understand the whining about the Euro, but I think it's fucking stupid. Maybe instead of whining about how Greek people have violated their economy, they should have looked a little closer at the Greek economy and noticed the MASSIVE FLASHING NEON WARNING SIGNS SAYING "ECONOMIC COLLAPSE IMMINENT" AND DONE SOMETHING TO STOP IT. And before Europeans start getting mad at me, I feel the same way about the American economy.
Mostly, I just feel that economics are stupid and I'm going to continue to keep my savings in a small community bank and plug my ears for the rest of my life. And that's my unsolicited political opinion.)
"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.
- - -
(CHILDREN, GATHER 'ROUND, IT'S TIME FOR A PUBLIC SERVICE ANNOUNCEMENT.
I feel, before we delve too deeply into Merlin's active idiocy when it comes to clothing, we should take a moment to acknowledge that this is a very real, very serious condition that plagues almost every boy I know. My father, for example, thought it was a good idea to only bring one outfit with him when he went to meet my mother's extended family for the first time, and it was clashing stripes and plaid. In his defense, it was the seventies, and that means that it's entirely possible that my mom left out the fact that they packed while high. Then again, it took us years to convince my father that he couldn't wear socks with his sandals, and my brother is under similar fashion delusions, like that his bright green t-shirt and olive pants match, or that it's okay to have long hair, or that his offensively yellow hooded sweatshirt is awesome, so there's the even scarier possibility he did this sober, and that it's a genetic disability that I now carry the gene for.
I think the worst sufferer from this condition I know of is, ironically, the guy who I based Arthur on a lot. (Unlike Arthur, however, he was far less anal and didn't have massive daddy issues.) But Merlin's wardrobe is very much the uber-British version of his. There were so many fashion fiascoes he committed in the time I knew him. There were his beloved Crocs that were the color of stale oatmeal, his really terrible corduroy pants (you know the kind where the ridge of corduroy is super-thick and it looks weird?), the cashmere turtleneck incident that made him look like he should be playing bongos in a Starbucks (to add insult to injury, this sweater was given to him by his girlfriend. BETRAYED BY ONE WHO WAS SUPPOSED TO BE AIDING HIM!), the time he walked around with the collar of his polo shirt popped for half the day because he was too lazy to fold it back over that morning when he got dressed (when I called him out on this he looked at me with huge betrayed eyes as I fixed his collar and went "but I see other guys do it!" and I had to go "yes, sweetie, and you know what we call those guys? DOUCHEBAGS.")... and then there were his ties. Oh god, his ties. He'd wear ties on important days which, like, made sense and stuff, only the ties he chose were the worst ties in the history of ever. Like he had one of those ties that has the stick figure doodles of little kids on it? He was all "it shows I like kids and stuff!" and I was like "no, sweetie, it shows you're either a first grade teacher or a pedophile". (He was neither.... I hope.) And then there was the time where he wore a yellow and blue checked shirt with a yellow and blue tie with weird circles on it (they were, like, circles made out of lines? I DON'T EVEN KNOW WHERE HE FOUND THESE THINGS) and they were different shades of yellow and blue and he was under the impression that they totally matched and was like "No! You're wrong! I know this one! It's okay to wear two different prints if they're made from the same colors!" and I was like "Not if they're both terrible prints with colors that are two different shades."
Sartorial Stupidity is a real problem, you guys. It can ruin lives. Don't let it happen to you or the men you love. If you have been affected by this disease, the comments are a safe place for you to discuss your pain. This is a caring and sharing zone.)
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 self-importance, 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?") (This is my reverse rant. WHAT DO YOU PEOPLE HAVE AGAINST THE LETTER? IT'S A PERFECTLY GOOD LETTER. MAYBE IF YOU CALLED IT "ZEE" INSTEAD OF "ZED" LIKE AN IDIOT, YOU WOULD LIKE IT BETTER SINCE THAT'S ITS PROPER FUCKING NAME.)
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.
(Translation of Arthur's thoughts time, the un-constipated edition! Arthur has a sort of weird relationship with Merlin's clothes. He finds them super-endearing and also despairs of them for the same reason he despairs of Merlin - he both admires and finds ridiculously stupid the fact that Merlin just honestly doesn't give a crap about what people think of him, or really has no idea what people think of him and doesn't care to find out. And on some level Arthur resents that, and on some level it's what's attracted him to Merlin in the first place.
Merlin, like many boys, is perfectly capable of dressing himself in a more casual way. Pairing a t-shirt with the occasional scarf or sweater isn't really that hard, and what's worse is he looks really really good and Arthur can't pretend that Merlin's just functionally moronic or stick him in the unattractive pile because hello, his hotness is STARING ARTHUR IN THE FACE. This issue translates to the date sweater - it makes Merlin look hella good.
Merlin doesn't think to look hella good for Arthur because it's not work appropriate. In fact, he thinks his clothes DO make him look hella good, and Arthur's complaining because he's being a tool.
Still, once they get together, Merlin begrudgingly lets Arthur sort out his work wardrobe and make sure that, if he insists on wearing terrible ties, they at least match and are not clashing with argyle. This is only achieved through a lot of sexual persuasion.)
"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."
(The answer to this question is yes - Arthur owns many solid-colored t-shirts that he wears on weekends or when he's playing footie or going to the gym or sleeping in. They're all the same basic t-shirt in boring colors like white and black and gray and blue. Sometimes if he's feeling daring he'll get a dark green or maroon-ish one. THAT ARTHUR'S A REBEL.)
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?". (No, yours, sometimes, by accident) 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?" (A little, and also he sort of wanted Arthur to find it) and "Are Merlin's ears naturally that way, or are they able to be pruned, like shrubbery?" (Arthur teases about Merlin's ears because he wants to nibble them and taste behind them and see if they're very sensitive.) to which Merlin replied by adding to the list "Was Arthur ever hugged as a child?" (No) and "Did Arthur's father surgically remove Arthur's heart on his fifth birthday?" (Not for lack of trying) 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. (Arthur sleeps in one of his t-shirts and boxers. Merlin cycles depending on the weather. Sometimes it's sweatpants and ratty sweaters, sometimes it's boxers and t-shirts, sometimes he mixes the two up, and then when it gets hot it's just boxers. He sleeps in the nude when he's feeling like being dangerous or because Arthur's divested him of all clothing and then made him stupid via sex.)
"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. (Gwen knowing him too well has nothing to do with the fact that she and Arthur used to be schtupping and more with the fact that she has eyes.)
- - -
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?" (In my head, Merlin, when he is bored, writes lots of stories on the 10 Downing server and sends them around to people. Mostly they're silly - he wouldn't want anyone reading any of his serious thoughts, and he prefers to write fun things anyway, because he has a whole philosophy about how there should be more great literature that makes you happy instead of stuff like Tolstoy which makes you want to kill yourself. So he writes things like pulpy noir spoofs where giant rodents from another planet take over London and then everyone's saved by Private Eye Stu Studabaker, or something. And then Arthur is all "See, this is why I don't give you a pay raise. Also, Stu Studabaker is a stupid name.")
"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.
- - -
Sometime about halfway through this fic, I had a minor coniption that there wasn't enough material stolen from The West Wing to make this a proper tribute, so I went through old episodes and decided to lift one of my favorite storylines, the one where Donna wants to put the pro Puerto Rican statehood guy on a stamp. I obviously translated it to British postage crises and then went "OH THIS IS A REALLY GOOD TIME TO MAKE MERLIN COME OUT AND MAKE ARTHUR'S LITTLE HEAD EXPLODE".
Also, in the process of writing this, I ended up learning a kind of ridiculous amount about who's been on British postage stamps and all the intricacies of the British postal system. There are a lot of things I have stupid amounts of useless knowledge on thanks to fanfiction.
And my parents think it's not educational.)
"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.(Trying to figure out a variety of things Arthur could be working on for Merlin to interrupt during was hard. I ended up spending a lot of time on the BBC front page mentally sorting through headlines going "Arthur dealt with that in this section, dealt with this in this section... OOOH, I don't think he's been working with this stuff before!"
In the original TV show no one had this problem. you could just give them a random sheaf of papers.)
"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.'" (Merlin really has this binder, and certain things are highlighted in it and underlined by Arthur with notes like "I MEAN IT, MERLIN, DON'T BOTHER ME ABOUT THIS, IT'S NOT MY JOB.")
"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." (This is entirely untrue, though the children's literature stamps are real. I was befuddled by that myself since they do children's literature stamps like ALL THE FUCKING TIME. Mix it up, British stamp people!)
"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." (This is also true. West End stamps coming in July!)
"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 Brontë 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..." (AHAHHA OH HILARIOUS VICTORIAN WRITER INCEST.)
"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... (This is not the first time Arthur has thought these thoughts, just the first time he hasn't managed to pretend he's not thinking them. And CERTAINLY the first time he's thought them while Merlin was in the room.)
"Arthur?" Merlin interrupts. "Arthur, you look like you're about to have a 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?" (RANDOM STALKER TIDBIT. So if you know a few people from Merlin's facebooks, you can find Joe Dempsie's facebook profile. Much like Bradley's, it's locked down, but the one thing you can see is that he's a fan of Nando's. This makes me unreasonably happy, since I spent a really long time researching what places Merlin could go pick up lunch near 10 Downing. LET'S DISCUSS HOW I'M LAME.)
"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. (Though honestly, after seeing Angel looking so glorious and cleavage-y at the BAFTAs, I feel a little for the dude. Ogling is never okay, but I've seen the promised land, and I understand the impulse.)
"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, It is a totally non-subtle in-joke with puckling that by "Alexander" I mean "Alexander Skarsgard". Imagine him and Colin Morgan making out. Do you need a minute after that visual? Because I, uh, do.) 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 North Sea (Apparently Sweden isn't on the North Sea, which I didn't realize until a commenter who's smarter than me pointed out. OOPS. Pretend I knew that.) 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. (THIS IS ALEXANDER MOTHERFUCKING SKARSGARD. WOULDN'T YOU BE???) "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. (DUH.) "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 North 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-or-other. "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." (For purely noble reasons, of course.)
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." (It was REALLY HARD thinking up flaws for Alexander Skarsgard's face. But Arthur is, understandably, jealous, and he'd see flaws in even the most heinously good-looking person on the planet that flirted with Merlin. OBVIOUSLY.)
"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 flame-point 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." (As much as he wants to. A lot. I mean, what.)
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." (This is not something I made up. I discovered this poking around Wikipedia one day and thus, all the cat sections were added to this fic, one by one.)
"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 grumpy sometimes... (I don't have allergies, which means I've never taken an allergy pill, which means I have no idea if this is an accurate portrayal of someone's drugged thought processes, but I find it amusing, nonetheless.)
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. (No you're not, sweetie. You're just pretty and Merlin's only human.)
"That doesn't excuse you putting on a strip show for me." Merlin's voice sounds tight. (NOT THAT YOU ARE COMPLAINING.)
"'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.
- - -
Commentary Part the Third