Arthur/Merlin - If You Want Closure In Your Relationship... [Part 1B]
Title: If You Want Closure in Your Relationship (start with your legs)
Author: tsumetaikaze
Fandom/Pairing: Merlin [Arthur/Merlin, Lance/Gwen, past Gwaine/Merlin, side Leon/Morgana, side Gwaine/Anything Willing]
“He’s her bloody step-brother!” Merlin squawks into the phone later that night, hunched over his gas stove and trying in vain to get the stupid stovetop to light. “And he’s just as horrible as I knew he’d be. So up himself - and he knows, Gwen, he knows. He kept being all ‘oh but you’ve never met him, how do you know he’s an arse?’ playing innocent, yeah? I mean, who does that? Why not just state the obvious, acknowledge he’s a prat, promise not to subject us to it again and be done with it?”
He can tell right from the get go that Gwen’s not listening, and when he hears a distinctly male voice in the background he gasps, “Gwen! You hussy!”
She giggles and mumbles something he can’t hear, then there’s the sound of a door closing and she gives a breathy squeal. “Oh my god, Merlin, you’ll never believe it - I was at Guildhall today and, well, you know that guy that always hangs around the medieval poetry section? The one with -“
“The devastatingly handsome sod who’s been after you since day one? I do believe his name is Lance, yes - we have met before, you realise.”
She titters and he can just see her waving a hand at him as she continues, “Yes, of course, sorry, but anyway - there I was, shelving books on my own - did you know we have a book called Premature Burial and How It May Be Prevented? Weird. Sorry, anyway - yes, and I was just getting to the 500s when he, oh he walked around the corner and just -“
“Started reciting Aucassin and Nicolette and wooed you off your feet?”
“Will you let me tell me own bloody story!”
Merlin bites his lip through a grin, and makes a triumphant “Aha!” when the stovetop lights, at the same time as Gwen complains, “Yes, well, that’s what happened, but it’s not fair that you - oh my god did you two plan that?”
Merlin pauses with a hand outstretched towards the pot. “Er - we might’ve.”
“You could have told me you were chummy together!” She’s whispering furiously now, but Merlin knows she’s still on cloud nine and he could probably call her all a manner of horrid names and still be forgiven in however long it took her to get distracted by his shiny hair or something.
“Well now you know.”
“Oh he’s so lovely.” Right on cue. “Hang on, he’s - sorry, Lance, it’s Merlin -“
“Hey, mate!” comes faintly through the line, and Merlin smiles for his friends.
“Tell him I said hey, and that he’s a lucky devil.”
Gwen passes on the message with a warm laugh, and there’s a short silence before she’s back on and asking if he wants to go out for a couple of drinks.
Merlin sends one swift, apologetic glance at the finally-cooperating stovetop before he’s pulling a jumper over his head and wondering if he’ll need a scarf when it gets late.
*~*
Several suspiciously coloured drinks later, and Gwen is teasing him relentlessly, giggling away and constantly looking down at Lance’s hand on her knee like she can scarcely believe it, and Merlin is protesting adamantly.
“No, seriously, he always crushes like a teenage girl!”
“I do not!”
“Oh you do.” She puts on that grossly inaccurate voice she uses when she’s imitating him, and sings, “Oh Gwen, Will’s so pretty. Gwen, he smiled at me - oh Gwen, Gwen, there’s this guy called Gwaine and he has hair and eyes and oh I think I’m in love but - oh do you think he likes me too? Could you find out for me?”
Lance is hiding behind the hand not on Gwen’s knee, and doing a truly admirable job of not laughing.
“Well, Gwaine was gorgeous,” Merlin says by way of justification.
But Gwen’s not listening, having far too much fun laughing at Merlin’s misfortune and how many has she had, anyway? Then he realises that it’s not that big a change from what she’s usually like, and tries to take it all in his stride.
“Oh my goodness - Merlin - tell him about your therapist dilemma.” He opens his mouth to protest, but - “Go on!”
He scowls. “I do not need your new boyfriend to think I’m crazy right from day one.”
And while Gwen goes moony-eyed over his choice of words, Lance says gently, “No, I’m interested,” and smiles in that lovely gentle way of his that even has Merlin feeling a little light-headed, and well he can’t say no to that, can he?
So he takes another long pull on his beer, thumps it back down onto the table and starts the story, taking care to cut out the crazy anxiety part and focusing more on what a terrible person Arthur is and how he’s ruining his life. He’s just getting to the part where he meets Lady Morgana, Executive Director, that Lance cuts him off with, “Morgana Pendragon, right? This guy’s sister?”
Merlin blinks. “Er, yes. How did you…?“
“Thought as much,” Lance grins. He leans back comfortable in his seat, smiles his heart-melting smile at Gwen, and looks back to a bewildered Merlin. “I went to Oxford with them.”
There’s a short silence. “You what?”
Lance laughs. “Yeah, Arthur and I were in the same art history tutes in second year, played football together too.” He sighs, nostalgic. “Man, I haven’t seen him in - what, four years? Five?”
“Lucky you,” Merlin mutters, but Lance just laughs again in that quiet, breathy way of his and shrugs his shoulder.
“He’s a nice guy, really.”
Merlin is shocked. “Nice?”
Gwen just cackles, happily sitting back and watching the show with her violently green drink. “Oh, here we go.”
“Shut up, you,” Merlin chides, then points at Lance. “You’re too nice to ignore me, so I know you were listening when I explained that he is a prat of the most extreme level. He is a pompous, arrogant, condescending, self-important tosser - and that’s all from one conversation. I’ll have you know I am an excellent judge of character.”
Lance chuckles into the next swig of beer, and says, “I do not doubt you, Merlin.”
“Too right.”
“I’m fairly certain I said something very similar when I first met him. Give him a chance and you’ll see.”
“See that he’s actually the devil?”
Lance just keeps chuckling away to himself. “Just - let him try.”
Merlin sees that this is just the first of many things he’s sure he and Gwen’s new squeeze will have to agree to disagree upon, so he just stares in open amazement as he replies, “You really are the nicest sod in the world, aren’t you?”
“I do my best, kind sir.”
And so Merlin tries to think like Lance. He spends a good portion of his working week trying his hardest to see the good in Arthur, but after just one proper meeting Merlin was grinding his teeth, so he just can’t for the life of him discern what Lance was referring to.
It doesn’t help that the coming Friday Arthur has apparently forgotten (or completely disregarded, as is more probable) everything Merlin said when they met and shows up anyway, leaning against the wall without a care, and just looking at him sets Merlin’s nerves on edge. He bears it for an hour, until Arthur leaves without a word and Merlin can breathe again, tries to achieve the familiar sense of calm in the next hour, but gives it up as lost as he trudges back home with a hurried excuse to Morgana.
Maybe he has split personalities, and Merlin has only ever had the pleasure of meeting his stuck-up, holier-than-thou side. Or he has a lovely twin and they’ve been playing pranks on the world since they were born. There are a few other ideas rolling around in his head while he absently flicks through the ‘Missing’ catalogue for another shot at relocating anything from the daunting list, but he likes the personality one best, and decides to stick to it. Then he remembers what Morgana said about Arthur being an obnoxious meat head who can’t tell shit from clay, opts to ignore the ‘sorely misunderstood puppy dog’ part, and feels much more justified in his intense hatred.
He tells Gwen this after their next pre-Friday-morning-shift coffee, she rolls her eyes at him, sends a ‘hello’ to Morgana, and he heads off for hopefully a little quiet time. And it is quiet time, thankfully. He’s in the gallery not ten minutes after it’s opened, passing small-talk with Freya about the god awful winter they’d been subjected to and hopefully it’ll start warming up properly soon, and sitting in front of the girl with a sudden sense of clarity. He’s clasping his hands together and leaning back against the wall, staring blankly opposite him and letting her do her magic unhindered, for once.
It doesn’t really matter if Arthur is a good person in Lance’s eyes, because hell, everyone is a good person in his eyes. The fact is that there are plenty of people Merlin has known that have been friends with his friends but not a friend of his own, so just because Lance and Arthur are friends doesn’t mean he and Merlin should be too. Some personalities work and some don’t, and Arthur’s just doesn’t.
Well, that’s easy, isn’t it? Merlin smiles, settles deeper into his seat, and is feeling all kinds of content when Morgana walks up to him with loud, echoing steps across the floorboards and they head upstairs for a bite to eat.
“I have to apologise for the other week,” she says, dabbing at the corners of her mouth with the napkin. “I had no idea Arthur was - well - him.”
Merlin laughs and waves his hand, taking another spoonful of soup. “I had no idea he was actually someone important.”
Morgana gives an undignified snort. “Oh please, he may be important but that doesn’t mean he knows what he’s doing. He’s just like his father - in it for the money and the name.”
And, wrinkling his nose, Merlin feels a perfectly justified in his earlier decision to take Arthur at face value. “And to think I was told he was a nice person.”
Morgana lets out a short, sharp laugh before covering her mouth and looking around like a scolded child in the quiet hum of the café. “By who?”
“Lance.”
Her eyebrows knit together for a brief moment of confusion before she asks, “Lance du Lac?”
“Er - is that his last name?”
“Typical tall, dark and handsome? Wouldn’t hurt a fly, nicest person in the world, likes reciting poetry?”
Merlin laughs into his next mouthful of soup. “Yep, that’s the one.”
Morgana’s smile is wide and blinding and she looks positively delighted. “Oh Lance - oh, I miss him! He was always so good at putting Arthur in his place, it was wonderful. How is he? What’s he doing?”
Merlin grins, shrugs, and finds himself telling the story of Gwen and Lance and nefarious plots involving poetry and wooing (“Oh that lucky tart,” Morgana hisses), and inviting her to their next night out, whenever it may be.
Morgana agrees, excited, just as her lunch-break reaches that implausibly-extended margin, and she stands up with a swish of floor-length purple skirts to bid Merlin goodbye.
“And don’t worry, I won’t bring Arthur,” she grins mischievously.
Merlin pretends to look shocked. “Oh but he’s such lovely company!”
She gives a delighted, tinkering laugh, and Merlin is struck once again by just how regal this woman really is, before she shatters the image by poking him in the arm childishly and scolding, “You are just awful, Merlin. I shall see you next week.”
“Of course, my lady,” he says with a mock bow, and she rolls her eyes and glides away.
He’s grinning and thinking about the translation he still hasn’t finished as he trots down the stairs, thinking he might need to call in on Gaius for a little help in it and really just not liking the idea of that disapproving stare, when his farewell nod to Freya is interrupted by a distinctly posh and demanding voice shouting, “Merlin!” across the foyer.
He groans inwardly, squeezes his eyes shut tight to clear his head, focuses on Lance saying “Give him a chance”, and turns around with a scowl. “Yes?”
Arthur catches up to him quickly and stops two steps away, looking awkward in a dignified attractive way that Merlin is sure only Arthur can pull off. “I wanted to talk to you.”
“That’s nice.”
Arthur frowns and stands a little straighter. “Why didn’t you tell me your reasons for viewing the Primavera?”
“I’m not confrontation’s biggest fan.”
“You had the perfect opportunity when I first spoke to you.”
Merlin rolls his eyes. “You don’t just tell complete strangers that they’re interrupting your thought process and could they kindly bugger off, do you?”
“Why not?”
Merlin scowls deeper. “Well you would, of course, but normal people don’t do that. Normal people are polite and don’t insult strangers out of the blue and are considerate of others - which you most certainly are not.”
Arthur appears perfectly affronted, and draws himself up to somewhere a little closer to Merlin’s height. “Do you even know who I am?”
Merlin sighs in frustration and begins walking out the giant double doors, heading towards the tube station and assuming correctly that Arthur would be too proud not to follow him. “A prat with an expensive last name?”
“I could legally ban you from all the Tate galleries, make sure you never have a job ever again, or sue you for everything you’ve got in about five seconds flat - take your pick.”
“Do you want a one-bedroom second floor flat with really vocal neighbours, a broken kitchen, windows that don’t open and a permanent smell of horse? Or a European language collection of modern literature? Or my two pairs of shoes?”
Arthur looks a little bewildered. “Er - no?”
“Then don’t sue me - really.” There’s a brief respite of talking before Merlin can’t resist - “On what bloody grounds would you be able to, anyway?”
Arthur straightens the lapels of his suit in an I Am Very Important fashion, and sniffs, “You have offensive hair.”
Merlin actually stops walking, stunned beyond belief. “You…” He shakes his head, “Wow. You are an awful person,” and stalks away in a rush, completely ignoring all of Arthur’s calls to stop. He decides he really just doesn’t want to bother with Gaius and his education today and whisks past the entrance to the underground, hops on the first bus to come his way, and heads straight back home to battle his frustration out with the kettle.
*~*
He’s beginning to feel his old friend Anxiety seeping through its barriers of ignorance again as the weekend passes with Merlin buried in his books and trying in vain to work out just what the hell this text is trying to tell him, and drinking perhaps too much wine. He’s always been quick to learn a language, but he understands in that vague sort of way that doesn’t allow for solid, accurate translations into his mother tongue - and it irks him.
It irks him that when he needs to vent (which is at least twice a day, now) Gwen is being all romantic and doe-eyed with Lance, and he can’t very well rant to Morgana about her own brother, and Will isn’t quite up for being best buds all over again just yet. For that matter neither is Gwaine, but he’s much less prone to holding grudges than Will is, so Merlin hopes he’ll have another friend to watch meaningless television and get pissed over cheap wine with once the sod comes home. It irks him that whenever he tries to get stuck into his work, get in the zone, all he can see is Arthur trying desperately to communicate with him in a completely oblivious, non-desperate kind of way that just irritates him beyond belief.
At work it’s not so bad. He’s been rostered on at the Guildhall so he can waste his time reading and not doing anything - ignoring Gwen’s complaints of “You do realise there’s an entire trolley here to be shelved by midday,” and smiles at all the right moments when Lance comes and hugs her from behind and tells her she looks beautiful, which she always does, and Merlin doesn’t think of giving Arthur a chance. He thinks of emailing Gwaine and finding out when he’s planning on coming back, because Gwaine’s always been good at that ‘no strings attached, just to take your mind off it’ thing despite being sketchy on the friendship business, but doesn’t because it forces him to wonder why he’s calling him in the first place and the last thing he needs to feel on top of everything else is desperate.
So he makes a break for it that Wednesday afternoon, promising Gwen that no, her legs do not look huge in those new boots she bought, and yes, Lance will still want to take her home no matter what - and heads to the gallery.
He welcomes the blast of warm air as he steps through the doors, takes a moment to remember that he’s never seen this receptionist before because for the first time, today is not a Friday, and continues on through the labyrinth until he reaches his destination.
He’s been sitting, staring vacantly with a mind that’s finally blank, when he hears Morgana’s tinkering laugh floating down the staircase in the next room, and sits up a little straighter. Arthur, impeccable suit and blonde hair artfully ruffled, comes into the edge of his vision not two seconds later, followed by Morgana. They’re standing at the bottom of the staircase, just visible behind the edge of the doorway, and Merlin is struck all over again by how preposterously attractive the two of them are, and how it’s really, improbably, not fair.
Arthur is laughing and tugging on one of Morgana’s long, dark curls, and Morgana is swatting his hand away and mock-glaring. She breaks down into loud, open-mouthed laughter not a second later, and says something Merlin can’t determine from this distance, the shuffling feet of tourists in the afternoon overshadowing their voices. But he can see the way Arthur suddenly jolts, flicking out his wrist to consult his watch, and pulls a face at his sister. He makes frantic motions indicating some imaginary place off to the left, kisses her swiftly on the cheek, and scoots off with a shout of, “Don’t forget!” after him.
Morgana just rolls her eyes in an obvious manner, gives a royal wave and waits a heartbeat, then turns to trail back up the old staircase - and Merlin suddenly needs to go outside, unnaturally cold spring be damned.
*~*
He doesn’t go to the gallery that Friday.
He spends Friday night indoors watching horrible old black and white movies in Gwen’s flat with Lance, throwing popcorn at the screen, drinking pretentious wine and making up lines when they’ve become so distracted by conversation that they’re not too sure what’s happening anyway.
He regrets it somewhat Saturday morning (wondering not for the first time why these spontaneous invitations rarely occur on a Saturday night, as would be logical), hugs a cup of coffee and heads to work anyway, spends perhaps a little too long wondering how on earth he’s going to catalogue Children Are Wet Cement (does it go under construction, crafts, family relationships or parenting?), and feels somewhat better after a disgusting, greasy lunch from the cafeteria.
He tactfully avoids a missed call and a voice message from Gaius wondering where he’s got to with that translation he was promised last week, and burns himself viciously on his uncooperative stovetop while trying to cook spaghetti. In the end he throws in the towel, hopes the gas isn’t leaking when he goes down to the local Indian takeaway to order dinner, and has to battle a window into submission when he gets back home so as not to spontaneously combust.
And all the while he doesn’t think about beautiful dark-haired women laughing and joking and being generally close with blonde-haired, prattish, suit-wearing footballers. Lance’s “You’ll see” doesn’t run around his mind as a broken record and he doesn’t wonder what Morgana wasn’t allowed to forget on Wednesday.
So it isn’t until a rare Monday off that he comes back in his second break of tradition (he’s pleased to see that Freya also works on Mondays, so it doesn’t feel quite so strange when he walks through the foyer), sits for at least three hours straight, and proceeds to continue not thinking.
“Merlin?”
He is tugged from his reverie by the familiar, softened Irish accent and nods, “Morgana,” with a smile.
She sits next to him immediately, legs crossed and chin propped on an elbow in a position he is beginning to associate les with Gwen and more with the lady next to him, and says, “You didn’t come on Friday - I felt very shunted. I’ve never been stood up before.”
“No, I can’t imagine you have,” he laughs. “Sorry, I had to work. Doesn’t happen very often on a Friday, but I had to cover for a friend and I take what I can get.”
“Oh you poor devil,” she mocks, then claps her hands, extending one out to him. “Well, let’s make up for it then, shall we? Unless you’re…” She nods her head towards the painting as she gets to her expensively-shod feet.
Merlin laughs and takes the offered hand, giving his girl one long, hard look before shaking his head. “No, I was just about done.”
“Oh good,” Morgana smiles, “Wouldn’t want to add another invader to your hit list.”
Merlin swiftly turns a wince into a smile, and cannot resist asking once they’ve sat down and ordered, “You’re close with Arthur, aren’t you?”
Morgana looks up sharply. “Whatever gives you that idea?”
Merlin shrugs, toying with his napkin. “I don’t know, you just… you’ve never actually said you don’t like him, you’ve just picked up his flaws -“
“Of which he has many, I can assure you.”
“I don’t doubt that,” Merlin concedes grimly, lifting his eyebrows.
Morgana’s lips curve in that delicate, secretive smile she used when they first met all those weeks ago, and tilts her head, “What’s the matter, Merlin?”
“Er - nothing?”
She leans forward. “You’ve got something on your mind.”
He shakes his head. “No, no - just… thinking.”
“Thinking?”
He plucks a lie out of the air and spits out hurriedly, “About what it must be like to have a sibling.” He waves vacantly at himself. “Only child, you know.”
Morgana is silent, calculating, before she answers off-hand. “I suppose it’s okay - he’s okay. I remember telling you once he was actually just a giant, misunderstood… some small animal.”
“Puppy dog,” Merlin supplies, and Morgana snorts.
“Yes, well that’s probably the most accurate. He just wants to please people but isn’t quite sure what they mean when he gets it wrong, or of how to fix it.” She dips her head towards him, pauses as the waitress brings them their coffees, and continues, “He is sorry about offending you, you know.”
And that’s what Merlin’s afraid of.
But he ignores her comment just long enough for her to change the subject, and she says, “Oh! Lance! Right, that’s what I had to ask you. How does this Friday sound? We’ll all go out for drinks and have a good old catch-up. Do you have his number?”
Merlin reaches for his phone where Gwen has plugged in Lance’s number (“In case you can’t get hold of me and you’re dying or something”), dishes it out and adds on the end, “But no Arthur, remember?”
Morgana gives an exaggerated shudder. “No Arthur, promise.”
They gossip like old women about Gwen and Lance and what their babies are going to look like, and by the time they’re both fed and watered Merlin finally acknowledges the time and that he really, really does have to get to Gaius’s and face the music at some point. So he thanks the surly waitress, who if he squints might be smiling the tiniest bit, and heads out.
It’s when he’s rushing across the foyer that he gets the strangest sense of déjà vu, and turns with a forced, polite, “What can I do for you, Arthur?”
“I’ve been looking for you,” is all he says.
“Have you? Oh I’m so sorry I wasn’t at your beck and call.”
“Apology accepted,” Arthur sniffs, and Merlin actually can’t believe his ears. He focuses on the phrase misunderstood puppy dog and does his best to remain calm.
“What do you want?”
Arthur looks at him sideways a moment before saying in that posh, formal voice, “I understand that you and I got off on the wrong foot -“
“The wrong bloody planet,” Merlin mutters.
“-and I would like to rectify that.”
He is giving Merlin the most intense, wide-eyed imploring look as he speaks but Merlin is really just not listening, because it only serves to fuel Merlin’s complete sense of injustice at the whole thing - Arthur doesn’t even know what he’s apologising for and it’s annoying that Merlin still wants to forgive him just because Morgana used the words puppy dog and misunderstood in the same sentence when describing him. It’s annoying because Arthur has everything except Merlin’s approval, and because of that he automatically wants it, thinks he can get it, and doesn’t understand the meaning of ‘sod off’. He’s apologising because he’s been brought up to be polite and courteous but make sure everyone still knows who’s boss. He’s apologising because that’s what he believes is right, and what will give him the favourable opinion. He’s not apologising because he feels it, and god that just grates the nerves.
So he interrupts whatever crap Arthur is spinning in his snobby, regal, talk-down-to-the-plebs style, and says the first thing that comes to his head. “Uh huh, sure, but I don’t care if Morgana and Lance like you. I don’t. You’re a complete prat with no social understanding or genuine respect for anyone around you. Bugger off.”
As he turns away swiftly, berating himself for ever thinking that anyone with his upbringing could ever actually be a decent person (Morgana excluded) or considering Lance’s advice at giving people a chance, Arthur reaches out to grab hold of his arm. Merlin shakes it off easily, squeezing past an old lady with a Chihuahua in her hand bag and out into the blustering street. In the second’s pause it takes to determine if he can brave Gaius and his perpetual disapproval or head all the way back to Guildhall and fume to Gwen over yet more coffee, Arthur is by his side and tugging harshly on his jacket sleeve, yanking him around so they’re face to face.
“Merlin! Would you listen to me?”
“Not if I can help it,” Merlin grits out through clenched teeth.
“You - I’m trying to - oh for goodness sake, you are an idiot- don’t, say anything.”
Merlin shuts his mouth with a snap but glares for all he’s worth and takes a step back. Arthur takes it as a sign to continue and not the desired ‘get away from me’ that Merlin was going for, and breathes a sigh of relief.
“Right. I was trying to say that I…” He inhales sharply, squares his shoulders, and soldiers on. “I apologise. I am sorry that I didn’t take your reasons for viewing the Primavera into consideration. I’ve caused you a great deal of emotional trauma and I deeply regret it -“
Merlin throws his arms out, a look of utter disbelief on his face as he exclaims, “’Emotional trauma’? What the bloody hell are you on about? ‘Deeply regret’ - what? What? Do you even know what you’re saying? What you’re apologising for?”
Arthur is taken aback, and it is a couple of seconds before he manages a reply. “Well, I - I told you. I should have taken your reasons into consideration, and I’m -“
“What would you have done if you’d realised why I was there? If, heaven forbid, you actually understood how another person might feel?”
Arthur stands up straighter and juts his chin out defiantly. “I would have spoken with you and arranged a schedule so as to ensure our paths never meet, and so that you would never be disturbed while you -“
“Oh my god you are hopeless.”
“Excuse me? It’s a perfectly reasonable solution!”
“And all very clinical and fake and controlled and just - forget it.” Merlin folds his hands together like a prayer, then holds his palms out towards Arthur’s chest, imploring him. “Just forget all about it. Evidently you can’t stick to your word because you were there last week, so forget it.” He turns away, looks left and right and starts to cross the road.
It’s in the next three seconds that several things happen at once, and Merlin isn’t quite sure how any of it starts. One second he’s thinking several choice words in Arthur’s direction that could well make his mother cry, and then there’s a blaring car horn and a screech of tyres and Merlin is yanking Arthur by the arm and they’re toppling onto the pavement.
When Merlin realises what’s happened and he and Arthur are kneeling on the ground, the first thought that crosses his mind is I would have preferred not to have done that. And when Arthur promptly opens his mouth to say, “I shall have to organise a reward for you, Merlin,” he can’t help but push his forehead to the cool concrete and groan in pure frustration.
Passers by have crowded around and the taxi driver that did his best to clean Arthur up has stopped to fuss over them but really to make sure no charges would be pressed (Arthur gets very vocal about how much damage he could have caused driving like a blind fool, says something about breath tests and jail and “My father will -“ until Merlin scrunches a fist in his shirt and says lowly, “Arthur, shut up”), and Merlin manages to get an ice pack for Arthur’s knee and antiseptic for their hands from the nearest store owner.
He’d like to say Arthur’s had a shock to the system, a life-altering moment and now he’s achieved clarity, but as the man in question simply brushes down his trousers and tugs his cuffs back into place, he realises it’s a lost cause.
“Well?” Arthur prompts, sitting straight-backed outside the café they received first-aid from.
“Er,” Merlin says.
“A reward. You’ve just saved my life - what do you want?”
Merlin stares for a moment, takes a deep breath, and snatches Arthur’s ice-pack from him. He takes it inside without a word, assures the staff they’re fine, really, and thanks them for their help, then walks down the street without so much as a glance at Arthur. He is walking away at a frightful speed in a direction only his feet know, and he stuffs his hands into his pockets. He isn’t surprised to see Arthur keeping pace with him, evidently doing his utmost to ignore his knee, so he grunts, “What makes you think your life is even worth a reward, anyway?”
Arthur scowls, and before he can start on another rant about just how important he is and how highly regarded and sought-after his opinion is, Merlin cuts in, “Don’t - don’t answer that. Please.”
Arthur doesn’t, and instead starts suggesting possible rewards. “Name your price.”
“How much is a bottle of arsenic?”
Arthur wisely ignores him. “I can get you into any gallery archives you want, international or otherwise, no matter how sacred or hidden or their state of disrepair. There’s a Pompeii exhibition we’re organising at the Britain - you can see all the artefacts in their original states, if you want, before they’re restored.”
Merlin looks at him askance, bewildered. “What makes you think I’d want to do that?”
“You - you’ve just been throwing the biggest tantrum in history about the lady Primavera, recovered from Pompeii - excuse me for making the connection.”
“And if you’d been listening to a word your lovely sister was saying, you’d know that I don’t actually like most art - just her.”
“Well the offer still stands.”
“No.”
Arthur huffs, maintaining perfect pace with Merlin even as they dodge crowds and turn corners. “I can buy her for you, if you’re really so attached. Or have another replica made.”
Merlin rolls his eyes. “That would defeat the purpose of the gallery atmosphere, wouldn’t it?”
Arthur almost growls, Merlin swears it, because then he’s barking out, “What do you want, then?” and Merlin’s rounding on him, pent-up fury finally winning out.
“You want to know what I want, Arthur?”
Arthur spreads his arms wide, inviting. “Name it.”
And Merlin steps right into his personal space and jabs a finger into his chest. “I want you to sod off. I want the peace of the last two years back. I want to enjoy her in silence and quiet without you around trying to be all chummy over it. I want my head back and I want to stop drinking so much damn coffee when I see books out of place. I want to see Morgana without you and all your obnoxious around. I want you to stop trying to apologise to me and, oh I don’t know, say thank you, because as you so kindly pointed out I just saved your miserable life. I want you to grow the hell up and stop thinking you can trample on everyone or buy their respect and forgiveness just because you’re completely incompetent at understanding other’s emotions. I don’t want to give you a chance, I don’t want to wonder what goes on in that stupidly pretty head of yours, I just want - to be left - alone, or so help me next time I will push you in front of a car myself.”
Merlin’s breathing heavily by the time he’s done, and Arthur’s expression is carefully blank, annoyingly handsome features schooled into polite nothingness, but that just makes Merlin angrier. So he walks away one final time, ducking into the nearest tube entrance, and breathing a sigh of pure relief when there are no answering footsteps by his side.
Finally.
[Part 2]