A/N:

In true escapist fashion, this fic trundles blithely onward in its non-specific pre-pandemic and non-election-year bliss, full of unabashed Christmas cheer (and just a tiny dash of angst).

On with the fic!

Chapter 13: The Ghosts of Christmas, Once and Future

Saturday, Week 12

"Right, then," Arthur said as Merlin bundled his cumbersome portfolio through the door of the flat on Saturday evening, "Let's see them."

"Arthur!" Morgana chided as she joined him in the hall, reaching out to help Merlin with the portfolio. "He's hardly through the door and you're already ordering him about! You ought to at least wish him a happy Christmas first."

Arthur rolled his eyes, even though Morgana was too focused on Merlin to notice. It was the principle of the thing, really...even if she did make a fair point.

She turned to Merlin and pressed a quick kiss to his cheek. "Happy Christmas, Merlin."

"Happy, uh...happy Christmas," he replied, tripping over the words as he gazed at her with a dazed expression.

Arthur held out a hand to him as Morgana took the portfolio and carried it towards the lounge.

"Happy Christmas. How was Wales?"

Merlin shook himself out of his reverie.

"Cold, rainy, the usual," he said with a grin as he pulled off his mittens and shook Arthur's hand. "It was lovely to see my mum."

Arthur nodded, then swept an arm out towards where Morgana had disappeared down the hall.

"Shall we, now that we've dispensed with the pleasantries?" he asked. "Morgana's talked my ear off about your work."

Merlin turned a bit red as he shrugged out of his coat and kicked off his shoes. Arthur left him to flail in the silence for a moment before throwing a lifeline.

"Morgana's mulled some wine, and we've got eggnog as well—heavy on the bourbon."

"Mulled wine'd be great, diolch."

Not entirely back from Wales, is he?

Arthur grinned but generously didn't point it out as he ducked into the kitchen to ladle the wine from the simmering pot on the hob. As he lifted the lid, the rich scent of cloves, cinnamon, and citrus washed over him, the perfect complement to the cheerful murmur of Merlin and Morgana's voices drifting in from the lounge. Now this, this was the Christmas he'd been looking forward to.

/\/\/\/\/\/\/\

After they'd eaten their fill of Christmas sandwiches and the Christmas loaf Merlin's mum had apparently insisted on sending back to London with him, they resettled themselves in the lounge, all still wearing the paper crowns from a couple of crackers that Morgana had conjured up from who-knows-where for the occasion. Arthur had switched over from eggnog to tea before enthroning himself in his favourite armchair: a battered and scuffed but immensely cosy leather club chair he'd picked up at a charity shop during uni. Although he could afford a much nicer version now, he couldn't quite bear to part with it, not after he'd broken it in just the way he wanted. Merlin and Morgana had cosied up on the minimalist sofa across from him, cradling matching mugs of wickedly strong coffee. The portfolio lay closed on the coffee table between them. Arthur raised an eyebrow at Merlin imperiously.

"What are you waiting for? An engraved invitation?"

"Why the clients think you're charming is beyond me," Merlin grumbled mildly as he set his coffee down—far away from the portfolio—before unzipping it and flipping through the pieces self-consciously as he looked for the one he'd promised to show Arthur.

"Wait, stop—no, go back," Arthur blurted, surprising himself.

Merlin glanced up at him, flipping back to the piece he'd just passed.

"This?"

"It's, um…" Arthur said.

He would have cursed his uncharacteristic ineloquence, except he was too busy gazing, enraptured, at the painting of a woman on a throne, draped in a rich red gown and wearing an intricate golden crown atop a cascade of natural curls: regal, powerful, and stunningly beautiful. He leaned forward to get a better look.

"Who, um—?"

He glanced up in time to see Morgana's amused smirk.

"That," she offered, "is Queen Guinevere."

Oh.

It wasn't the usual sort of depiction he'd seen gazing out at him from famous canvases in museums or looking down at him from gilt frames hanging in the palatial halls and libraries of the Pendragon estate when he was a child. There was no pride, duplicity, or detachment here. This queen's dark eyes spoke of warmth and wisdom and a steady hand at the helm of the kingdom.

Someone the people would love and be proud to call their sovereign.

There was something arrestingly real which called to him from the canvas in a way he couldn't articulate.

Before he could dredge up anything remotely coherent to say, Morgana's smirk widened as she added, "Merlin based each of the pieces in this set on people he personally knows."

Merlin nodded and cleared his throat, then launched into a nervous babble.

"Um, yeah, my friend Gwen sat for the draft of this one. It, uh, it's colour-matched with the one you wanted to see—the one with Excalibur..."

Before Arthur could process any of that information, Merlin carefully laid aside the painting of Queen Guinevere and extracted another painting in the same vibrant red hues. Gold accents glinted on Excalibur's crossguard and pommel, while etched runes gleamed golden along the fuller of the blade. In the centre of the painting, a strong hand gripped the hilt as though preparing to draw it from the stone.

"So...what do you think?" Merlin asked.

Recovering his wits at last, Arthur glanced at Merlin, who was chewing on his lip and awaiting Arthur's judgment.

"Not bad," Arthur said.

He was pleased to see that Merlin's tight expression melted into a relieved smile as he understood the veiled compliment for what it was.

"In fact," Arthur continued magnanimously, "I think I'd rather like to hang it in my office, if you're looking to sell."

"Really?" Merlin asked.

"Really," Arthur nodded, grinning.

"I told you he'd like it," Morgana stage-whispered to Merlin as she glanced at Arthur with an expression that was uniquely hers: smug, teasing, and more than a little fond.

As he looked between his new friend and his sister, he had to admit that the warmth in his chest wasn't just the eggnog.

Morgana and I, he thought, we never had Christmases like this growing up.

After his wife's death, Uther Pendragon's harsh rule had made Ebenezer Scrooge look like a veritable Father Christmas. Even now, Arthur grudgingly admitted to himself, working at Pendragon Enterprises meant that these moments were still few and far between. He savoured the rich flavour of his Earl Grey tea, the mirth dancing brightly in Morgana's eyes, and the ridiculous way Merlin waved his hands as he told an increasingly outlandish story about his childhood involving—inexplicably—a purloined batch of cranberry scones, a grumpy old sheep named Kilgharrah, and a Christmas panto gone utterly awry.

Arthur absolutely refused to spoil the moment.

The Plan(TM), he thought, can wait 'til Monday.

A/N:

Any theories about The Plan(TM)? ;)

Notes:

"diolch" = "thanks" in Welsh, in case that wasn't readily apparent from the context