I'm in mourning for a lost fanfic. It used to be available on this site, but seems to have vanished: the excellent AU Merthur story, "A Kiss is Not a Contract…But It's Very Nice," by Toots McGonagall. In all honesty, it was that fic, read well over a year ago, that inspired me to write the Pendragon Institute stories. If anybody knows anyplace else the elusive Ms McGonagall may have posted it, please let me know.
Chapter 14: The Witch's Quickening
"Rings," said Morgana in a forthright tone of voice.
"No rings," replied Arthur, a little absently, as he flipped through a stack of color images his printer had just spat out at him.
"No rings!" Morgana shrieked, so loudly that her stepbrother winced.
"Why have rings?" Arthur asked, beginning to feel frustrated. "You know conservators aren't supposed to wear rings when they're working. Gwen takes her engagement and wedding rings off when she's in the studio. They get in the way, and they could fall off onto something, or damage the art. They're strictly against the rules."
His stepsister gave him a sideways look.
"What?" Arthur snapped. "I wasn't necessarily planning to wear one. And there's no reason Merlin should."
"Why, Arthur," Morgana said with a slyness worthy of the most evil villainess in a made-for-television melodrama. "Don't you want other people to know that he's taken? That they should keep their paws off, and so on?"
Arthur thought about his junior conservator, his lanky, coltish beauty, his tendency to try to see the best in everyone he met…even if that person wasn't worth a rat's backside.
"I'll, er, think about it," he said, steeling himself to meet Morgana's stare. He was standing behind his monumental office desk, where he had been working hard all morning to make the various piles of paperwork go away. Morgana was facing him from the other side, in a beautifully tailored dark grey jacket over a dress of violet silk, looking every inch the twenty-first century fashion plate – except for the glint of battle in her eyes.
The Assistant Director shrugged his shoulders. He knew she meant well – really – but there was just so much interference that even a stepbrother could take. And there was no way he was going to let her take charge of his formal union with Merlin Emrys. Even if the ring mightn't be a bad idea. "Now…have there been any more reports of alarm malfunctions? Because if so, I think we should look into getting our system replaced, or at least overhauled."
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Merlin had spent most of the day with Will and Gaius in Objects Conservation, working on an early sixteenth-century reliquary of some obscure female saint, from Belgium. The reliquary itself was of wood, shaped like a woman's head, neck, and shoulders, ending in the middle of the chest. It was elaborately painted and gilded – the saint had a pink and white complexion and golden braids – but the seam down the side of the head had split, and if one looked carefully enough, part of the saint's skull (or what people had thought was the saint's skull, during the High Middle Ages) was visible.
Objects Conservation was Will's area, and Gaius, being the Head of Conservation, was also capable of handling three dimensional objects, although his own specialty was paper. Apart from Gaius, Merlin was the only Institute conservator qualified to work on both paper and objects, and he had been perfectly happy to give his two colleagues a helping hand as they turned the piece from side to side (and even upside down), checking for other cracks and split areas in the wood. Gaius was not in a cheerful frame of mind, having sat on his eyeglasses earlier and bent the earpieces quite out of shape, but he had felt much better once the object had been stabilized, and no additional problems had been found.
That evening, Merlin stood in the kitchen unloading a sack of groceries, as images of skulls, gilding, Gaius' crooked spectacles, and the contents of the refrigerator floated through his brain. Arthur was going out to dinner; two childhood friends (who lived near his relatives in Devon) and their wives had flown into town, and he was planning to meet them at eight, at a nearby restaurant. He would have been pleased to bring his junior conservator along but Merlin had bowed out, preferring to get some research done and go to bed early. He was pleasantly drowsy and thinking about food, when Arthur's voice jostled him out of thoughts of corn fritters sautéed in oil with a hint of garlic.
"This business of Gwaine's brother's home in London," Arthur began, out of the blue, and Merlin gave such a start of surprise that he dropped the bottles of spring water he was putting into the fridge.
"Arthur," he said firmly, once he had righted the miraculously unbroken bottles. "You should stay in your family home – with your family. Your stepmother's counting on it; she's devoted to you and would feel sorry if…and your, your father expects it."
Arthur raised an eyebrow and gave his conservator a weary look.
"He does, Arthur," Merlin went on, doggedly. "He may be, erm, difficult about all of this, but he's your father, and he…he cares about you, you know that."
His Assistant Director looked him directly in the eye. "And you, Merlin?"
"Erm, I thought of staying at a hotel," Merlin mumbled evasively. He knew his mother's friends, in Chelsea, had barely enough room for Hunith, and would not be likely to welcome a twenty-two-day guest.
"I'd be happy to pay for one," Arthur said, sitting down at the kitchen table and setting his briefcase on the floor.
"No," said Merlin, stubbornly. "I'll pay for it myself."
"For pity's sake!" Arthur remonstrated. "On a conservator's salary? Don't be an idiot. Do you know what hotel rates are like in London these days? I'll pay for it."
The expression on Merlin's face was becoming mutinous, so Arthur put a hand on his shoulder.
"Merlin," he said quietly, watching the pale face with its sharp, beautiful angles flush slightly. "Stop being so bloody proud. I didn't mean to sound patronizing. But if I'm in Belgrave Square, in the bosom of my fearsome family, it might be a good solution for you to stay at Gwaine's brother's…what's his name?"
"Agravaine, I think, something like that."
"How unusual," said Arthur. "Anyway, at Agravaine's. It'll be like having your own place, and you'll have it all to yourself, very private. So you wouldn't be trapped in a house full of Pendragons, but you could visit when you're feeling strong enough, and I could, er, come and visit you—if we want to...you know."
"If?" said Merlin with something like a smile quivering on his lips.
"Merlin," Arthur muttered, tightening his grip. "When, then. Think it over, we can decide tomorrow."
"This is getting to be quite an operation," Merlin said, still with that little half-smile. "And we have Morgana to contend with, as well."
Arthur grimaced. "She has wedding fever," he replied gloomily. "Can't seem to get a grip. When it comes to being the quintessential annoying step-relative, she seems to be aiming for a world record. If she barges into my office one more time, I'm going to leap out of the window."
Merlin chuckled, to Arthur's great relief. "Idiot."
"Takes one to know one," Arthur retorted. "Look who's talking."
"If you're going to talk about records…we ought to be in the Guinness Book of World Records, anyway," Merlin stated in what almost amounted to a whisper.
"For idiocy, you mean?"
"No, for…" Merlin gestured wordlessly in the direction of the bedroom.
It appeared to be common knowledge within the international museum community that the Assistant Director of the Pendragon Institute was, in addition to being gorgeous, very highly sexed. Merlin sometimes felt that it was a serious responsibility – being the sole provider of carnal pleasure to a fit and energetic individual who seemed to require incredible amounts of…of everything.
Not that Merlin was complaining.
Some of the most blissful, emotionally satisfying moments of his life had come from the hours he and Arthur spent entwined in bed, oblivious to anything but each other and what they were doing. There were times when Arthur, gripped in the intensity of sensation and desire, cupped Merlin's face in his hands and whispered his name hoarsely, over and over, then clutched him with an urgency and possessiveness that sent them both beyond the edge of passion. But sometimes he would be so gentle, uncharacteristically tender, letting his guard down enough to look into Merlin's eyes with an expression of protective sweetness.
On other, more lighthearted occasions, however, it was apparent that sex could be like a game to Arthur (a grown up game for grown up boys), or like some sort of hunt (minus projectile weapons), all within the confines of the home, of course. These occasions usually ended up with the two of them on the floor, or in the shower, or against the refrigerator door – almost anywhere but on the bed, or even the sofa.
On nights when they were too exhausted for any form of lovemaking, Arthur liked to go to sleep with Merlin pressed against him, usually with his head on Arthur's shoulder and one arm resting on his chest. However, Arthur was rarely too tired for sex. It was almost as though he was addicted to a drug; what he needed, in regular doses, was Merlin's body in his arms, milky-pale, thin and angular but surprisingly strong, either pliant and trembling as it received his, or virile and vigorous when the situation was reversed and vigor was called for.
These unquestionably hot thoughts were interrupted by a gentle thump as Arthur, who was meant to be getting ready for his dinner with friends, kicked his briefcase out of the way and took a step in Merlin's direction.
"Now that we've got those things settled," he said, "we can move on to less problematic matters."
"Very funny," Merlin responded. "Hadn't you better start getting—?"
"Tell me, Merlin," Arthur went on conversationally, "do you know how to walk on your knees?"
"No," replied his junior conservator, giving him a doubtful look.
Arthur's eyes were fixed on that deliciously flushed and full-lipped mouth. "Would you like me to help you?"
"I wouldn't if I were you," Merlin said defiantly, his hands on his hips. "I'm not going to perform fe…I'm not going to do anything of the sort at this time of day, when you're meant to be meeting your mates at that restaurant an hour from now."
Arthur calmly pulled out his mobile phone and punched in a speed dial number.
"I'll be late," he said, holding the device to his ear. "Don't wait…start without me."
There was a faint, tinny chatter from whoever was on the other end, barely audible to Merlin.
"Sorry," Arthur murmured apologetically into the phone. "Something's come up."
Merlin snorted incredulously.
"Right," Arthur concluded, raising his eyes to Merlin's. "I'll be there presently."
"Arthur!" Merlin protested half-heartedly as his Assistant Director snapped his mobile shut and advanced on him.
"You needn't expect this to be a one-sided thing," Arthur said in a reassuring voice. "I'm a firm believer in favor for favor. If not now, later."
"You're unbelievable," Merlin replied, eyes rolling, but his expression softened as Arthur came up to him and stood less than six inches away, reaching out to run the back of his hand, fingers curled, gently down the side of his face.
"Merlin," Arthur whispered, and his fingers brushed over Merlin's mouth. Merlin caught them between his teeth, and Arthur laughed a little shakily, so Merlin leaned forward and kissed him to make him stop. After several minutes of this, they completely lost track of time and found that they had somehow traversed the short distance to the sitting room, where they were lying on the carpet more or less fully dressed, kissing very slowly and deeply, eyes closed. Arthur wound one arm round Merlin's waist and held onto him, even more strongly and possessively than usual, whilst his other hand clutched at Merlin's hair and then curved round his jaw, as Merlin's fingertips stroked his chest beneath his shirt. They rolled over several times, fumbling with uncooperative buttons and trouser zips, until Arthur eventually established himself on top; he shoved Merlin flat and groaned "Mine, mine," as Merlin gave him a look that managed to combine languor and reproach before suddenly yielding himself.
"What you said earlier," Merlin said faintly, after. "About reciprocity."
"Mmmr," mumbled Arthur indistinctly into the curve of his neck.
"I hope you meant it," Merlin continued sleepily. "It'll be my turn later."
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Arthur returned from his dinner at about half past midnight, to find Merlin curled up and fast asleep in bed, the picture of weary innocence. He moved the bedside lamp a little, so that the light was not shining on Merlin's face, and walked very quietly out of the bedroom.
In the study, he switched on his computer and shot off a quick email to his stepsister.
Dear Morgana, I'm happy to know that both you AND Mordred will be definitely attending my you-know-what in London. Between the two of us we should be able to contend with Father if he makes a fuss about Mordred. I'll be staying at the Belgravia house, as I risk being torn limb from limb by the Pendragon clan if I do otherwise. I'm not going to subject Merlin to that, however, so he'll be staying elsewhere (location to be decided). Just one request, dear girl…I'm pleased with your support, but do you think you can restrain yourself from bombarding me with party suggestions every single day? I promise to behave myself and not do that to you, should you ever decide to rope some poor, unfortunate, unwitting male into matrimony. Even though you claim you used to beat me when we were children (and I have no recollection of this), I think you'll agree that I could now thrash you without too much difficulty. All my love, Arthur
Couldn't resist that dialogue from Episode 1, Series 1!