Chapter 34: The Caerleon

There was the faint whirring click of a digital camera, and a flash of light. Merlin turned to see Lance grinning cheerfully as he snapped away.

"Arthur said, no official photographers and no press," Lance explained, lowering the camera. "So I'm this event's unofficial photographer. You needn't worry that I'll sell these pics to the tabloids."

"You'd better not," said Merlin, half-joking as he glanced at Arthur, but he could see that his Assistant Director was smiling.

"I think I got everything," Lance went on, squinting at the camera's tiny screen as he viewed the captured images. "All of the tables, flowers, guests, cake, kiss."

"Erm," said Merlin, despairingly.

"It's alright, Merlin," Lance murmured reassuringly. "I won't let everybody have copies of that one. Don't look so horrified, mate," he added as other members of the Institute's staff approached. "It's not as if I made a sex tape or anything."

"Honestly, Lance!" snapped Gwen, who had drifted across the room to collect her spouse. "What a thing to say! As if you'd have the opportunity."

"Oh, of course not," Lance replied, pretending to look taken aback. "I'm not a voyeur. And I should imagine Uther's arranged for armed guards around the perimeter of the hotel, to keep any lurking paparazzi away from the wedding suite."

Will made the usual "wedding night" joke about wishing he could be a fly on the bedroom wall, but he made certain to check that he was well out of Uther's hearing.

Gaius cast his eyes towards the ceiling and sighed—not for the first time—at the prurient silliness of the young.

"Which hotel are you staying at?" he asked Merlin quietly. "And I don't think you need worry about paparazzi. There's some allegedly dishy American film star and his entourage at the Savoy, and Lady Gaga's in town today as well, so I doubt that your civil union even registered on their radar."

"It's the Caerleon," replied Merlin, also in an undertone. "I don't know anything about it, but Arthur says it's small, on a quiet street, and not the sort of place you'd be likely to find flashy pop stars or Hollywood divas."

"Ah," said Gaius, his eyes brightening. "The Caerleon! I believe Pelles Fisher-King's staying there. Yes…I've heard the service is excellent…nice facilities, and so on. And Arthur's quite right, it's on a quiet street."

"Well, stepbrother dear," said Morgana, who had joined them bearing a silver platter of meringues. "It appears that your father still harbors dreams of your return to the homeland." She looked over her shoulder at her stepfather, who had migrated to the adjoining room, where sofas, chairs, and little tables were arranged for guests' post-meal collapse. Uther, seated in a highbacked, thronelike chair, was talking to Dinadan, Bedivere, and Mr Fisher-King, whilst Elaine and Hunith hovered in the background. Morgana—who had eavesdropped diligently—announced that he was mulling over the possibility of his older son moving back to London for most of the year.

"Absolutely not," Arthur said promptly.

"He thinks it would be convenient," said Morgana.

"That's bollocks," muttered Will, frowning. "Convenient? How can Arthur run a museum from overseas?"

"And Merlin certainly can't do conservation work on our manuscripts if we're living in London," Arthur continued. "Don't pay any attention, Morgana, Father's drunk. Shall we go, do you think? Elaine can get Father on his feet, and I'm sure the staff of the Tintagel would like us to get a move on so they can come in here and tidy up for their next event. I have to commend you, Morgs. This was the perfect place. Perhaps we'll all come back here to celebrate our fiftieth anniversary, if one of us hasn't done the other in by then. Now, if you would excuse us…"

He collared Merlin and practically dragged him off in the direction of the door.

"Just another hour or two," he murmured. "And we can be off. There are a few things I need to collect at Father's, and then…what is it?"

Merlin's head was lowered and he was coughing with partly-suppressed laughter.

"What is so funny, Merlin?" Arthur asked, astonished. "I wasn't aware I'd said anything amusing."

"Well, it was…it was when you mentioned our fiftieth anniversary…it was the image my brain conjured up," spluttered his junior conservator, mopping at his eyes. "Of you and me as a couple of feeble, scrawny old geezers, trying to go at it."

Arthur bit hard on his lower lip to keep from smiling. "I don't know about you," he replied severely. "But I intend to be an extremely fit and robust old geezer, thanks very much. You, I imagine, will be even more pathetically scrawny than you are now. Hasn't your doctor told you to take calcium supplements? I shouldn't want to break your frail, tiny bones, when we're two geezers having a go."

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"What about all of these gifts, Arthur?" asked Elaine, gesturing in the direction of the pile of presents still sitting on one of the sitting room tables.

"I'd rather not open them now, if you don't mind their staying here for another day or two," Arthur replied. His tone was affectionately polite, but Merlin could see that his eyes were dancing with impatience.

They had returned to the Belgravia house, dropped off the few extra gifts—adding them to the small mountain in the sitting room—and gone upstairs to change for the second time that day.

"Am I supposed to feel like a bride putting on her going-away dress?" Merlin had complained, struggling out of his morning suit with as much difficulty as he had had struggling into it earlier. "Or like a groom flinging his wedding kit onto the floor in a fit of passion?"

"If one of us has to play the bride, it certainly isn't going to be me," Arthur replied smugly, glancing at his eminently masculine physique in the mirror. "I don't think either of us is the cross-dressing type, but a gown would look much nicer on you than on yours truly."

Merlin swore muffledly in response as he wrestled his shirt up over his head, and threw his balled-up waistcoat at Arthur, missing him entirely.

Now they were ensconced in the sitting room, with the few members of the "wedding" party who had returned with them, drinking scalding tea to perk themselves up. It was well after the lunch hour, but the large and filling brunch had left most of them with absolutely no desire for food. (Arthur claimed to be hungry, but nobody listened to him.) Merlin stood quietly near his mother, and his Assistant Director made pleasant conversation with the others whilst his mind moved on to…other things.

"I think we've thanked everybody who needs to be thanked," Arthur whispered as Merlin passed him on his way to replenish his cup of tea. "We should be able to sneak off…I just need one quick word with old Pell about that manuscript. He says a first payment installment at the end of the month will be fine."

He stretched his arms and rotated his shoulders, now freed from the constricting stiffness of the formal shirt, braces, and morning coat, and shot a glance at his junior conservator. Merlin was Merlin again, lanky in a thin, grey pullover sweater over his shirt, sleeves rolled to the elbows, spiky hair and short fringe faintly disheveled from pulling the garment over his head and then absently combing his hair with his fingers. He was fiddling with his wristwatch, eyes midnight blue beneath lowered lashes.

Arthur looked at those wrists, delicately modeled but strong, and swallowed.

Old Pelles Fisher-King and Uther were nattering on about the fifteenth-century manuscript, leaning over the real thing, which Uther had brought out from his office safe. Merlin sidled over to where Gaius was examining high-resolution photos of the page that had fascinated all of them: the image of the noblewomen, flanked by male companions. He was holding a large magnifying glass above the figures of the knight with the golden circlet on his head, and the dark-haired figure beside him.

"If we could clean the inscription below this fellow," Gaius murmured, pointing at the dark-haired male, "we might have an inkling…of course, I have my own notion of who this represents."

"Well, we know who the crowned knight is, anyway," Merlin replied, peering at the tiny letters inscribed beneath him. "Artorius rex, it reads as clear as day; I remember that from Bath. If he's King Arthur, who d'you suppose the ladies are?"

"Magnificent, isn't it?" sighed Pelles Fisher-King, joining them. "Don't let me forget to give you the accompanying documents. Remember, I told you about them: complete records of an eighteenth-century sale, and nineteenth-century sketches of all of the illustrations. Oh, and some notes taken by an eighteenth-century owner. I left those things at my hotel, but of course they'll belong to you. Exquisite manuscript, isn't it? I'm pleased to know it'll be tucked away in Uther's safe, until it's shipped off to New York."

"Do you think we'll be able to clean that inscription, well enough to read it, Gaius?" Merlin whispered. "I'd hate to damage the pigments."

Gaius shrugged and uttered one of his favorite phrases, "Only time will tell," before patting Merlin on the shoulder and shoving him gently in Arthur's general direction. "I think you two had better get a move on, before Uther decides to analyze the entire manuscript and asks for your opinions."

Arthur gave his Head of Conservation a grateful look. "Right," he said, catching Merlin's eye and then looking meaningfully at the door. "It's mid-afternoon already. And why the hell has Morgana disappeared?"

Hunith had been chatting happily with Elaine, but now she stepped close to Merlin and put an arm round his shoulders.

"It was lovely, darling, all of it," she said warmly, squeezing his shoulder and blinking a little. "A wonderful, wonderful day. I'm so happy for you. We'll see each other again before you go back to New York, won't we?"

"Of course," replied Merlin, reaching for her hand and squeezing in his turn. "We're meant to have lunch the day after tomorrow, aren't we?" His other hand involuntarily went to the front of his sweater, where he could feel the shape of the dragon pendant beneath the thin wool, pressed against his skin.

Hunith went to Arthur and kissed him on the cheek; he took her hand and returned the gesture. Trying to catch Merlin's eye for the second time, he murmured, "I think we should leave now, before something happens to delay us even further. Don't you agree?"

Merlin looked at him and then looked away, but a little warm color came into his pale cheeks, and he mumbled, "Oh, alright, then," and hunted about the room for his jacket.

'I understand we're at the same hotel," Mr Fisher-King said as Arthur marched determinedly towards the door. "Charming place, really. Perhaps we'll see each other at breakfast—" Then he caught himself, with the realization that this would be rather unlikely, given the circumstances, and smiled a little self-deprecatingly. "Before you go back to the Institute, I'll be interested in hearing your opinion on the condition of the manuscript's painted scenes."

To Merlin's immense relief, Elaine then crossed the room and announced, in a loud and clear voice, that it was time to let the boys go to their hotel for some rest.

Arthur gave his junior conservator an ironic look, but he turned to his father and held out his hand. Uther cleared his throat and thumped Arthur on the shoulder before pulling his son into an awkward hug. Arthur returned the embrace, looking almost as astonished as he no doubt felt.

"Merlin," said Uther quietly as Merlin turned to follow Arthur from the room. "Before you leave…a word."

"Sir?" said Merlin courteously, a little uncertain as to how to address him. "Sir Uther" seemed too formal; they were now, after all, more or less related by law. "Uther" was definitely too informal, but "Mr Pendragon," which was what Merlin had been accustomed to calling him at the Institute, didn't sound right either.

And there wasn't any way Merlin was going to call him "Dad."

The senior Pendragon coughed, and Merlin was astounded to see that something very like tears seemed to be lurking in Uther's stony eyes.

Uther appeared to be searching for words, but words were obviously eluding him. Then he reached out and placed the tips of his fingers lightly on Merlin's upper arm.

"Look after him," he said quietly, and then walked past Merlin and out to the front door, where his wife, Merlin's mother, Gaius, and a solemn-eyed Mordred were waiting to see them off.

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Nothing was ever easy when Morgana was involved, Arthur realized. If he had thought that he and Merlin were about to make a clean getaway, he was now rudely shaken out of that belief. The moment the two of them stepped through the front door, they were pelted with a shower of rice, and their ears were assaulted with shouts and laughter from their Institute colleagues, who had been waiting outside on the pavement (who knows for how long, but some of them looked to be well-fortified with hipflasks of God knows what) for them to emerge. Morgana, naturally, was in the vanguard; she must, he realized ruefully, have slipped out of the house to rally the troops.

"Aaagh!" said Merlin as some of the hard little grains went down the back of his neck, beneath his sweater.

"You're a bloody nuisance, Morgana," Arthur expostulated, but he couldn't keep a crooked little grin from his face at the sight of his museum staff, giggling uncontrollably as they emptied the small sacks of rice Morgana had given them in their pre-signing gift bags.

"Thank you, children," he said aloud, raising his hands as though in benediction. "I'll remember this little display the next time I'm asked about the refinement and professionalism of my curators and conservators. I'll see all of you back in New York."

He then gripped Merlin's wrist and made a run for the hired car that was, thankfully, waiting at the curb.

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The website for the Caerleon, which Merlin had located online, described the establishment as "a small jewel-box of a hotel on a quiet street." The building was handsome and unpretentious; it looked like a neoclassical townhouse, only wider, and the street was indeed narrow and quiet, with no bustling shops or restaurants in view.

In spite of their intention to arrive before evening, by the time he and Arthur stood on the pavement in front of the entrance, it was already growing dark. After practically fleeing from the Belgravia house, they had gotten out of the car a few streets away from the hotel, because Arthur declared himself to be starving. They had found seats in a tiny neighborhood pub, where Arthur devoured a beefburger and Merlin (who was not even remotely hungry) nibbled on the accompanying chips. After this, they had made their way on foot to the Caerleon, locating it after only two wrong turns, which Arthur naturally blamed on his junior conservator.

Merlin surveyed the hotel's handsome façade with approval, until Arthur tapped him on the shoulder.

"Merlin," he said gruffly, with just a hint of impatience, and Merlin smiled at the old, familiar emphasis on the first syllable of his name.

"Sorry," he responded, in tones of such fake submission that Arthur had to repress a snort of laughter. They made their way to the front desk, where Arthur gave his name, signed the hotel register, and was informed that their luggage, sent over earlier, was waiting in their room. He then handed one of the room keys to Merlin, who was standing beside him, looking—all of a sudden—uncharacteristically tentative, perhaps even a little melancholy.

The night before he had seen Merlin, his Merlin, cry, and the emotion that had filled him at that instant had been overwhelming. He had wanted to curl himself around that thin, angular body, warm him, hold him close, tell him everything would be alright, protect him against anything in the world that might hurt him, threaten him, make him unhappy.

In short, he had never been such a girl in his entire life.

"Come on then, Merlin," he now said briskly as his junior conservator hesitated at the front desk, fumbling with the key card. Taking him neatly by the arm, Arthur led him to the lift and pushed the appropriate button.

"I suppose you booked a palatial room," Merlin mumbled as they exited the lift and set off down the cream-colored hallway.

"No, I didn't," Arthur replied absently, beginning to feel anticipation build. Oh, to feel that silky skin beneath his hands, feast after famine! "I haven't seen it. I don't think it's large or palatial at all, just well-appointed, as they say."

"If you dare try to carry me over the threshhold," Merlin said grimly, "I'll make you sorry." But his eyes were smiling as he spoke, and his lips were quivering with the effort he was making not to grin. When they reached their door, Arthur unlocked it, and stepped to the side with exaggerated courtesy, bowing slightly and gesturing with a sweeping arm, to allow Merlin to enter first.

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There was a bowl of roses on the circular table near the window, another bowl filled with fresh fruit, and a silver wine cooler within which a bottle of champagne rested in a little mound of ice. Arthur took one look outside into the dark London night and then drew the curtains, shutting them into their warm, softly lit cocoon of a room, in which the wide bed with its white coverlet took up a great deal of space. Then he opened the champagne, poured two glasses half-full, and handed one to Merlin.

Merlin sipped self-consciously, fidgeting a little as he often did when he was uncertain what to do next. For a moment Arthur felt tempted to laugh; it wasn't as if they had never gone to bed together before...they had been intimate hundreds of times by his count, and had never gotten tired of it, or taken their remarkable physical connection for granted. He had listened to married friends ruefully joke about how the spontaneity and fire had gone out of their sex lives, and how familiarity and "family" affection had taken the place of lust. Their pronouncements made little impact on him, though, because he knew that the tantalising blend of innocence and seductiveness, the oddly virginal beauty and clever, intuitive touch that were the hallmarks of Merlin's physical appeal would never cease to hold him in thrall. He had never known anyone who could read him so well…and yet be so alluringly clueless about the effect his own waiflike form, beguiling awkwardness, and coltish charm could have on people. Merlin was his for the rest of his life, and he would never stop desiring him, with the ferocious, protective, possessive passion he had felt even before the first time they had lain in each other's embrace.

Now that they were alone and face to face, they suddenly found themselves tongue tied and unexpectedly shy.

Arthur took a step closer to Merlin and then stood still, about an arm's length away, surveying the changing expressions that flitted rapidly across his junior conservator's...no, his partner's face. He could see affection, desire, nervousness, and faint embarrassment follow one after another, and wondered if the same emotions were visible in his own eyes.

"Do you remember the first time I kissed you?" he asked abruptly, and watched as Merlin's cheeks and the tips of his ears turned a charming shade of pink.

"I do, yes," Merlin said stoutly, although Arthur had a sense that he was trembling. "Erm, in that hotel room in Santa Barbara? I hadn't...I'd never..." His voice trailed off into silence, and he gave Arthur a look he'd never seen on Merlin's face before, one of genuine supplication.

"Merlin, please," Arthur murmured, coming a little nearer. "Don't say you're frightened of me, not after all this time, not now." He reached out and very delicately traced the singing lines of those cheekbones with his fingers, the seam of those full, pink lips, the outer edge of one of those outrageous ears. Then he put his hands on Merlin's arms and felt that he was, indeed, trembling.

The sound of a distant bell tolling the hour jolted them both out of their intense contemplation of each other, and Merlin smiled a little sheepishly as he began to unfasten the buttons of his shirt.

"No," Arthur said quietly. "Let me." Merlin's hands fell to his sides and Arthur reached out and began to unfasten the row of buttons, working slowly and carefully, mindful of Merlin's past accusations of haste, and the memory of buttons from so many of Merlin's shirts rolling across the floor of their New York flat.

Once all the buttons had been undone, he stepped closer, pulling the shirt open but not removing it. He rested his hands lightly on that slender, pliant waist, and heard Merlin give a little sigh, felt him shift almost impatiently. He himself was as eager as he had ever been, even more so than he had been as a hot-blooded teen, but he wasn't going to give in to the impulse to shove Merlin on the bed and tear his clothes off. Instead, ignoring the ache and tension in his groin, he pressed his mouth carefully to the little hollows above Merlin's collarbones, and the underside of his jaw, fingertips stroking over that pale throat, ever so lightly. Their foreheads bumped, and Arthur caught Merlin's mouth, just a slight brushing, barely a kiss, before drawing back, but a faint sound came from between those pillowy lips, and Merlin swayed against him. His slim, conservator's fingers grasped at Arthur's own, still-buttoned shirt, opening the collar and tugging the hem out of his trouser waistband with sudden haste.

"Merlin, we've all night," Arthur whispered, pulling Merlin's hands away, but keeping his own lightly clasped around Merlin's wrists. He would be gentle, oh, he would be gentle...at first. He would take his slow, sweet time with Merlin. He would...

Merlin gave a sudden start, and it was only then that Arthur became aware that there was a soft, persistent knocking at the door. A moment later, the knocking grew louder, and a hesitant voice could be heard from the other side. "Mr. Pendragon? Oh Mr Pendragon, sir? Sir? I'm terribly sorry, but I'm afraid I must speak with you."

Only two minor quotes, from Series 1 and 2.