The title for this chapter is a line from the song Mr. Brightside by The Killers.

Scientific Soul Mates

Chapter 7:
I'm coming out of my cage

*.*.*.*.*

Telling his father—finally—came the next day.

He'd talked it over with Morgana, and the pair of them decided, together, it would probably be for the best if they went over for dinner —as they hadn't done so in months now anyway—and eased him into the subject of marriage and then drop the big news—subtly, carefully. A sit down dinner with his children always used to seem to settle him, calm him, the anxiety and stress melting from around the corners of his eyes ever so slightly—because no matter how much time he spent at work, no matter how much energy he put into what he did and how hard he worked, he did love his children, and having dinner with them—especially as they grew and became just as busy as their father—seemed to be one thing he never quite tired of.

Which was why, whenever they had any sort of news to break to him, they always did it over dinner. Whenever they had good news to break to him, they did it over a dinner, and whenever they had bad news, they did that over dinner as well. The only time they ever seemed to talk about things was over dinner. There were no phone calls, no lunches or cups of tea or chats before bed or e-mails—if a Pendragon child needed to talk about something with their father that was related to anything outside of the workplace, it was only ever done over dinner.

Which explained why Uther Pendragon was willing to agree to such a thing in the middle of the week when he had so much on his plate—he had been working an important case, the entire firm knew, and his night should have been spent going over notes and dispositions and locking himself away in his office at home where it was just himself and Morgana if she chose to work in his office as well, otherwise she would have spent the evening in her own office, going through files and preparing a case for a client of her own before she grabbed a late dinner of coffee or tea, depending on her mood, and something thrown in the microwave around midnight.

That was how things always went, how this night should have gone, but, well, Arthur was simply in it to shake things up, wasn't he?

Perhaps it would have been better for the lot of them if they had news to share more often, because spending so much time shut away from each other and their friends with only their books and files and cases for company wasn't the sort of existence Arthur thought anyone should crave or live through. It would do them at least a little bit of good to be around each other more often. Perhaps he would just have to start making up news to get them all together like that more often.

But for now, they simply had the one bit of news and the one dinner to see to, and as such, the dinner was reason enough for Arthur to pack up his briefcase and leave work early, shopping list in his pocket, key to his father's house swinging from his keychain as he left the building, passing his secretary and colleagues who greeted him stiffly with nods meant to be friendly but just reminded him of the fact that he only knew a handful of these people by their names; the rest of them were just faces, just people he worked with who respected him and kissed his ass only because his father was the head of the firm. None of them would be invited to the wedding at his request, though Morgana had insisted upon this one and that one for her own personal agenda. But, getting into the elevator, he knew it didn't matter—none of it fucking mattered—because he was going to be married in just a few days, and tonight he would tell his father about it over a meal he prepared himself and…

Honestly, nothing else really fucking mattered except what his father would have to say on the subject, and whether he would show up or not. He already knew his friends and sister would be there, and that was all fine and well and he appreciated them for that fact, but... his father was an important part of his life, his father was his father, so not having him at the wedding would be a bit of a blow, would be absolutely and terribly…

On his journey to the store, through the store with his list in his hands and his tie loosened and hanging around his neck, on his way to his father's house, he tried not to think about it too much, tried not to worry what he would do if his father said he didn't approve, would not be attending the wedding. He tried not to think about it as he went about preparing the meal they'd be eating that night, the house around him empty and cold and uniform, the maid having swept through just the day before and leaving everything spotless and lifeless, not a thread or cobweb out of place. It left him with a chill, to be perfectly honest, the harsh kitchen lighting reflecting off the counter and the stainless steel everything that was around him in a way that made him shed his jacket, and take a break from cutting up vegetables to jog up to his old bedroom to change into some old band shirt and a pair of faded jeans he'd left behind some years ago when he'd decided to get his own place. It was a tight fit, but it was better than the suit he'd been wearing and found much too stifling in that kitchen that was too quiet and too empty anyway.

But that wasn't much of a point he felt necessary to try to drive home at the moment.

Instead, he spent the rest of the afternoon and early evening preparing his 'I'm getting married to a complete stranger please don't disown me' meal for his father and sister, trying to keep all other thoughts away with the rhythm and familiar swing of the kitchen and the process and recipes he had memorized from having to do this a few too many times over the years. Lucky for him, he enjoyed cooking quite a bit—enjoyed it as much as his sister and father enjoyed arguing in court, enjoyed it as much as he enjoyed writing, enjoyed it as much as he enjoyed his house feeling lived in, enjoyed it as much as he hated his current job, enjoyed it simply because he enjoyed it.

And he wondered, as he found himself enjoying it, what sort of things his soon-to-be husband did and did not enjoy. Did he like sports or painting or did he hate the colour blue or did he sleep with ten pillows or did he leave the cap off the toothpaste or dog-ear books or did he like music or—well, perhaps this whole 'marrying at first sight' thing was proving to be just a tad more stressful than Arthur had originally anticipated. No matter, however; he'd already committed, already told most who needed to be told right off the bat, and he was going through with it. That was simply all there was to it.

But if his husband turned out to be a mime enthusiast or hated chocolate ice cream or loved the sound of nails on a chalkboard or something insane like that… he might request a divorce right off the bat.

He didn't have much more time to dwell on such thoughts or consider what else his future husband did or did not like— or rather, he didn't allow himself the time to dwell on such thoughts any longer than necessary, because the next thing he knew, the meal was ready, his father and Morgana were home, and they were all sitting down to enjoy the meal, their father's eyebrow quirking as he began to cut into his food, the question written in the very way he chewed, wondering, Arthur knew all too well, what the occasion for such a gathering was.

He just hoped, as he took a gulp of wine to calm his nerves, looking over to Morgana for her support, that his father would take the news better than the pair of them thought—or could ever hope—that he would.

*.*.*.*.*