Chapter Text
Part I: Initialised
When Arthur stumbles into Pendragon HQ, he's late for work, hungover as fuck and trying to look neither.
The entrance hall is painfully bright, the transparent aluminium letting sunlight stream in from all sides, the dome above breaking the light into shards on the white floor. Arthur grimaces and disguises the pinch to the bridge of his nose as a gesture to push up his sunglasses. His father will have his head for this, he’s sure of it; a night of excessive partying on a work day and the knowledge that he’s once more made it to every gossip emagazine there is.
Ever since Sophia had sold him out to the reporters four years ago, the media attention on him has doubled and there’s still no sign of it abating. There are memographs of him everywhere, doing the most inane things and - Arthur winces a little at the thought - of him with his friends, bar hopping and clubbing and of Arthur flailing his arms about in the way reserved for the dancing attempts of the severely drunk.
Arthur suppresses a sigh and makes his way past the fountain, the massive glass dragon looking at him with all the judgement its clear eyes can muster and even the faint trickling of the water is enough to send painful stabs through his temples.
Behind the sleek front desk, Vivian is inspecting her nails and Arthur can tell that she’s on the line with someone, despite being unable to see the tiny earpiece from over here. They exchange a glare and she turns her nose up at him, flicking the end of her elaborate hairdo over her shoulder, before pointedly tapping around on her tablet simply for the sake of looking busy. Arthur rolls his eyes and passes her without another glance.
Off to the right, a group of tourists is inching closer, crowding around the fountain and frantically snapping memographs. Their heads turn this way and that as they whisper furiously to each other, while at the front of the group their android tour guide drones on happily, ignorant to the fact that hardly anyone is listening.
“- are now in the entrance hall of Pendragon Enterprises’ headquarters, the place where everything started,” the android is informing them in a sugary sweet voice. It grates on Arthur’s nerves and his head throbs in sympathy. He tries to pick up his pace without looking like he’s fleeing. Even so, he isn’t quick enough to avoid hearing the first part of the impromptu history lesson - things that have been ingrained into him for so long he doesn’t remember a time when he hadn’t known them.
“After leaving university, Uther Pendragon started working at Vortigen Incorporated as a hardware specialist. He rapidly climbed the ranks of the company and soon started involving himself in Vortigen’s marketing department and, through his relentless drive, was declared assistant CEO eight years after entering into the company. Within the following two years, Uther Pendragon assumed full control of Vortigen Incorporated by purchasing the last remaining shares and renamed the company Pendragon Enterprises. Far from idle, Uther Pendragon soon reveals the first QuanticBattery, an invention that, to this date, is considered to have revolutionised technology. The QuanticBattery - later increasingly referred to as the QuanticHeart - makes for the centre piece for most of Pendragon Enterprises’ products, but first and foremost in their android lines. Since its foundation, Pendragon Enterprises remains the world leader of technology, producing not only tablets, hologram projectors and communicators, but also things such as kitchen appliances, hover-cars and, of course, androids. If you would follow me into the next part of the building-”
Arthur breathes a sigh of relief when the commentary finally fades into the distance as he steps into the ascender. He’s barely let himself slump against the gently thrumming wall and tapped the right number on the touchpad, when Nimueh materialises before him, just about slipping through the ascender’s closing door.
Pristinely dressed, her dark hair pulled back into a complicated arrangement that mirrors the current fashion and armed with no less than three tablets, she looks every inch as dangerous as she is beautiful. Arthur wearily eyes the pointed gold of her heels and wonders if turning up late and hungover is enough of a reason for her to murder him. His mouth obediently stretches into his ‘Pendragon heir’ smile, fake and almost painful, but honed to perfection over the years.
“Save your charm for someone who’ll buy it,” Nimueh says, voice as sharp as her heels. “Because of you I got an earful first thing this morning. You do realise that your little excursion already made the headlines?”
Arthur’s smile never wavers, even as it freezes a little on his face as he narrows his eyes at Nimueh.
“It’s hardly anything I haven’t done before,” he says cooly.
Nimueh glares at him. “You can tell your father that when you see him,” she says, then reaches for one of the tablets and shoves it at him. He grabs it reflexively. “He wants you to start on the M-RYS line straight away and you’re not to leave before you’ve finished all the models. The release is being pushed forward.”
Arthur straightens, suddenly uninterested in continuing playing his usual part in the game he and Nimueh have become so good at these past years.
“Pushed forward?” Arthur frowns, really wishing life would give him a break just this once. “When was that decided? And why wasn’t I consulted? I’m in charge of the M-RYS project and we had a meeting about this just two days ago. I told my father that the models need at least another round of testing.”
“I’m in no position to question Uther’s orders,” Nimueh says, tone clipped. “If you want particulars you can go and talk to him about it.” Her lips quirk and there’s a familiar cruelty to the corners of her mouth. “I’m sure he’d love to see you so you can tell him about all the fun you had last night.”
“Don’t patronise me,” Arthur snaps, pressing the words out from between clenched teeth.
Nimueh looks decidedly unimpressed. She flicks careless fingers into the direction of the tablet she’d forced into Arthur’s hands.
“Send me the report as soon as you’re done. You’re in Maintenance 5,” she says, before making a point of dismissing him by turning her attention to one of the tablets still in her hands.
As if on cue, the ascender glides to a smooth stop and a dispassionate, computerised voice informs them that they’re on “Level −2, Laboratories number 01-50”. Arthur gets off, fuming, and grateful for every bit of distance he can get between him and Nimueh’s sharp tongue.
“At least send some coffee down,” he says, knowing how petulant he sounds but having run out of fucks to give.
Nimueh scowls. “I’m your father’s PA, not your servant. Get it yourself.”
Arthur bristles, but the ascender’s door slides shut before he can say anything else.
It’s not like he isn’t used to Nimueh. She treats everyone like they’re something annoying and sticky on the sole of her shoe, but he’d been under the illusion that becoming the assistant CEO of Pendragon Enterprises would force her to at least pretend she respected him. Clearly, Nimueh doesn’t share that opinion.
Arthur has always wondered how someone like Nimueh ever ended up working for his father; her arrogance and his general prickliness don’t necessarily make for the best combination. But somehow they haven’t killed each other yet and Arthur suspects it has something to do with the fact that they’ve known each other for so long. It’s probably how Nimueh got the job in the first place, which is not to say that Nimueh isn’t good at what she does. In fact, loath as Arthur is to admit it, she’s actually frightfully competent and her success rate is impeccable.
Stopping briefly at the location board, Arthur scans it quickly for the dot with Gaius’ name and finds it flitting around in Lab 10. Destination in mind, he sets out down the corridor, sticking out sharply in his dark suit, his red tie the only splash of colour between white walls and white coats. All around him, lab-coated employees rush past, absently nodding at him.
As a software specialist, Arthur doesn’t spend a lot of time in the labs, but between having frequently visited Gaius here as a child and his father slowly integrating him into the business in his teens, people have become used to seeing him here.
Arthur has never particularly enjoyed the atmosphere down at the labs. He often has a feeling that the people here tend to forget their humanity, that they’re more than parts in the huge machine that is Pendragon Enterprises.
Pushing up the sleeves of his suit jacket and shirt, Arthur waves his wrist over the scanner by the door. The screen flashes briefly, running through the data on his chip in quick succession, displaying some basic information (Arthur Pendragon, ID AP17084139, Pendragon Enterprises - assistant CEO), before emitting a soft bleep as cleared appears in bold green letters and the door before him slides open.
Lab 10 is one of the bigger labs in HQ and certainly one of the busiest.
There’s an abundance of white cabinets and dozens of screens running data on various experiments or work progresses. Behind a transparent aluminium wall off to the left, squinty-eyed scientists are peering through microscopes or measuring out variously coloured liquids in pipettes. The masks and hairnets have stripped them of any personality, blending them into figures only recognisable from the glowing name-tag on their chests. Among them, androids hurry to and fro, following orders and carrying stacks of tablets and sealed containers.
Gaius is sitting at a holo-desk and, having dragged several windows up into the air in front of him, is flicking through a list of reports. He looks up as Arthur approaches and seems entirely too unsurprised to see him, wordlessly nodding towards the closest chair. Arthur grimaces, but obediently folds into the seat.
“I assume you’re here for something to get rid of your headache,” Gaius says, waving away the holograms and getting to his feet. He fishes around in one of the wide pockets of his lab coat and emerges with a haemoscope.
Arthur eyes it a little warily, but extends his hand without protest, anticipating the sharp little prick. He watches Gaius peering at the slim screen and suffers the disapproving look that follows.
“Your blood alcohol is still high,” Gaius says as the haemoscope vanishes into his coat once more. “I suggest that you consider restricting the wilder parties to the weekends from now on.”
Arthur rolls his eyes. “I’ve already had it from Nimueh, no need for another round.”
Gaius raises that infamous eyebrow of his and promptly stabs Arthur with a hypospray. Arthur curses, his hand flying to the nape of his neck as he rubs at the lingering sting.
“A little warning!” he snaps, rubbing some more.
Gaius looks the picture of innocence. “Terribly sorry.”
Arthur scowls, but saves his breath. His nerves start to tingle as the hypo takes effect, a brief wave of heat washing over him and making him shudder. It sweeps away the head splintering ache in his temples and takes with it the roiling nausea that has sat in his stomach all morning. Arthur blinks, his eyes finally adjusting to the light and he lets out a relieved sigh.
Gaius, now back at his desk, folds his hands and looks at him expectantly. It’s rather unnerving, Arthur thinks, the way Gaius always seems to know when something’s up. It’s not the first time that Arthur wonders if those sharp eyes of his are actually capable of seeing right past all that skin and bones and straight into his brain. If, somehow, Gaius can trace the electro magnetic pulses there and translate them into his thoughts.
Arthur slips off his sunglasses and slides them into his breast pocket.
“Nimueh told me my father wants to push the M-RYS launch.” He feels his forehead drawing into an unhappy frown. “Apparently he didn’t think it necessary to consult with me on this. Has he talked to you about it?”
Gaius sighs, his expression apologetic. “I don’t know any details myself,” he says. “But I assume it has something to do with the new advertising campaign.”
Arthur presses his lips together, his jaw clenching.
The M-RYS project is his, the first one he’s been allowed complete control over. Ever since his father first gave him the initial design and put him in charge, Arthur has vowed to himself to make him proud, to show him that he could do this on his own. Which is why, he thinks bitterly, the knowledge that his father has interfered at such a crucial stage makes it so unbearable.
“We were still having issues with the prototype last week,” Arthur says irritably, unable to hide his resentfulness as he’s unpleasantly reminded of the last time his father chose to ignore his professional opinion.
It’s like the TET-RYS line all over again.
The TET-RYS line is the series of android models preceding the M-RYS line and had first been launched when Arthur had still been in school. Since then, new models have come out almost every year, but even after several years, the TET-RYS androids are still one of Pendragon Enterprises’ biggest trademarks and sources of success. When Arthur had first started working at Pendragon Enterprises four years ago, he’d immediately been assigned to the project.
The pressure had been positively staggering. Though not in charge of the entire TET-RYS 400X project, Arthur had been the leading software programmer on the team and the weight of his father’s expectations had been constant and unforgiving. In that time, Arthur had barely eaten and had slept even less. He’d lost weight and had sported perpetual shadows beneath his eyes that never quite seemed to fade, no matter how often he ran a dermal regenerator over them. The fact that Sophia’s betrayal had also still been fresh, the wound still bleeding despite how much Arthur denied it out loud, had only added to the mess.
As the TET-RYS line is based on the concept that each modular part of the android could be chosen by the buyer, therefore enabling consumers to put together exactly the type of model they wanted, it had been important to find a balance for the production rates of the various parts. Arthur, stressed to all hell and his temper even more volatile than usual, had gotten into an explosive argument with his uncle and then-assistant CEO, Agravaine, over the overly-rushed launch date.
Agravaine, who had been in charge of the TET-RYS 400X models, had filed a complaint with his father over Arthur’s behaviour and Uther had sided with his brother-in-law without question, telling Arthur off for being presumptuous and insolent. As soon as the models were launched, Arthur’s predictions had come true, causing a huge outrage amongst the buyers when Pendragon Enterprises had been unable to stock up on parts and leaving customers waiting for weeks until their merchandise could arrive.
Arthur’s father, ever the cunning business man, had publicly apologised, sacked Agravaine and handed out free communicators and zoondroids, placating the masses with artificially intelligent puppies and kittens. He didn’t apologise to Arthur, instead gave him Agravaine’s old position of assistant CEO and declared the case closed.
Opposite him, Gaius hums in understanding and tears Arthur from his grim reflections.
“I sent in my full report concerning the malfunction,” Gaius says. “Including my professional opinion about the importance of further testing, but your father appears to have made up his own opinion.”
Arthur pinches the bridge of his nose. “Yeah,” he mutters, sour. Then adds, “I’ll start the final round of testing now and send you my report later today. Other than last week’s problems with the skin texture and delay in reaction, there hasn’t been anything else. Correct?”
Gaius inclines his head in confirmation. “As far as my department’s concerned, everything should be in working order.”
“Alright,” Arthur says and gets to his feet. “If there’s any more problems, I’ll send Leon down for a trouble shoot.”
Gaius nods. “I’ll await your report.”
Arthur offers a tired smile and reaches out to give Gaius’ shoulder a squeeze on his way past. “Thanks, Gaius.”
Gaius waves him off, irritated but smiling. “Off with you,” he says. “And remember what I said about those parties.”
Arthur rolls his eyes and doesn’t reply, dodging an android on his way out.
*
Maintenance Room 5 is, compared to the labs, not all that big - especially not the first half of the room. Along the middle, a clear aluminium wall divides a row of holo-desks from a brightly lit platform. All around it the square-edged metal arms of the assembler stick out at strange angles, some rooted to the floor, some the ceiling. Across the back, the Pendragon dragon stretches across the access panels to the storage space where readily lined parts are waiting to be picked out.
Lance is already there, fingers flying over the holographic desktop and looking disgustedly well-rested.
Arthur greets him with a clap to the shoulder, before taking up position at the holo-desk next to him.
“Please tell me there’s coffee,” Arthur says as he powers it up with a touch along the side.
Lance doesn’t even bother to hide his amusement as he hands over his portable coffee maker. Arthur brushes the Pendragon logo high on the flask and the lid slides open with a quiet hissing sound, emitting the scent of freshly brewed coffee as steam puffs out. Along the outside, a display informs Arthur of the brand of coffee, the amount still within the flask and the temperature.
“Long night?” asks Lance, his attention returned to the statistics and running code before him.
Arthur ignores him briefly as he rummages through the latch in his desk and unearths a cup. Rummaging some more, he makes a small sound of triumph when he finds the last milk-tablet he’d been so sure he’d left here the last time he’d worked in Maintenance 5. He chucks it into the cup and pours coffee on top, watching it fizz as the tablet dissolves, colouring the liquid a light brown.
“As if you don’t know it,” Arthur says, handing back the flask. “I can’t believe you ditched me and left me at the mercy of Percy and Elena! They barely got me home in time to get ready for work.”
Lance flicks his fingers, sending one of the windows before him flying off to the side to close it and bringing up a different one in its place.
“I warned you, you didn’t listen - as usual. So don’t blame it on me.” He pinches the air above one of the depictions of an M-RYS android on the flat of his desktop and drags it upwards into a hologram. “Meeting Elena really hasn’t done anything to rein in Percy’s love for excess. Or yours, for that matter.”
Arthur glares at him. “Yes, yes,” he grumbles into the cup. “We all know how noble and virtuous you are.”
Lance snorts. “Hardly,” he says. “Just not stupid enough to get pissed on a work night and do it in a way that once more ends with my drunk mug all over the internet.”
Arthur makes a face. “I’m hoping for the day when they finally get tired of taking my memograph at every waking moment.” He flicks through some data, then brings up his main window running the code for the software.
The mention of his never-ending fight with the media suddenly makes Sophia’s presence hover between them like a dark cloud of foreboding. But Arthur has long since gotten used to trying to kill it with stony silence and Lance is far too empathic not to pick up on it. Lance is his best friend, the best anyone could have in Arthur’s opinion, but even so Arthur has never been able to talk about it, not even with him. And really, he tells himself firmly, there isn’t anything to talk about.
And there isn’t.
He’d been young and so, so stupid and Sophia had been clever, beating him in a game Arthur hadn’t been aware they were playing. She’d sold him out and left, end of story.
Lance must know what he’s thinking about, but thankfully he doesn’t bring it up. All Arthur wants is to forget it ever happened, but every time he opens one of his news feeds, someone has dragged it all back into the open once more. A mention in passing, one of those damnable quotes of Sophia’s that everyone so loves to sprinkle into their articles - “Arthur Pendragon is a very troubled man. He doesn’t want anyone to know, of course, but I know how unstable he really is. I tried to help, but I’m not sure I was ever in any position to - I’m no professional, after all. But I can’t say I’m surprised, really, what with his terrible relationship with his father and never having known his mother. Not to mention his sister…”
Arthur clamps down on the thought, doing his best to banish the words burned forever into his mind. People must know the whole bloody thing by heart by now, considering the amount of times it has been taken apart and discussed and quoted and re-quoted.
“It’s your devilish good looks,” Lance says, breaking through Arthur’s gloom and flashing him a smile despite the minute tenseness at the corners of his mouth. “People can’t get enough of you.”
Arthur gratefully jumps at the chance to get rid of his maudlin thoughts.
“Naturally,” he says, managing a quirk of his lips. “I’m devastating. Also, sarcasm doesn’t suit you.” He turns his attention back to his holo-desk. “Are we ready to begin?”
Lance tabs at his desktop and the metal arms beyond the transparent aluminium wall whirr to life. “All systems go.”
Arthur skims the code one last time, before nodding to himself. “Computer, start initialisation process of project M-RYS, authorisation code AP17084139.”
“Code accepted, good morning Mr Pendragon,” the familiar female voice of his personalised computer, Elba, answers pleasantly. “Project M-RYS active; initialisation process in progress. The machines are ready and at your disposal, sir.”
Arthur leans back in his chair. “Proceed.”
“Assembling parts of M-RYS model serial number MRC874001B,” Elba says. “Number of products queued, 99. Estimated time of completion, 23:00 hours.”
“Lovely,” Arthur mutters darkly.
*
With no windows to connect him to the outside world, and the bright fluorescence as his only source of light, the hours stretch endlessly before him. The two dots between the numbers forming the time in the right corner of his holo-desk blink at him in a steady rhythm, seeing him through the morning, then the afternoon. At lunchtime, Arthur had sent Lance off into a break and he’d returned with a salad for Arthur. They’d already topped up the flask at least five times, holding it beneath the spout in the corner next to the glass dispenser and filling it with fresh water, making it hum quietly each time it made a batch of fresh coffee.
Having thrown a few differently coloured flavouring capsules into his salad, Arthur had taken the time to speak with his PA, Leon, as he’d mixed the leaves, the capsules bursting with the motion and coating the salad with a dressing. Leon, his face floating in a window off to Arthur’s left, had informed Arthur of the state of his inbox and asked about the rescheduling of a few appointments. Arthur had cursed a lot and worked out a new schedule, all the while shoving forkfuls of salad into his mouth.
By the time his food was gone, so was Leon, and Arthur had been back to watching model after model being assembled and readied before him, his focus fixed to the rapidly forming code he’d dragged up before him from his desk and rattling off the same questions and commands over and over and over again. Arthur knows that Lance had stayed mostly to keep him company and - mother hen that he is - fed and watered, but there’d hardly been any reason for him to stay. As a software implementer, Lance’s job had already been concluded the minute the software seamlessly connected with the hardware. The remaining testing is completely up to Arthur as the leading software specialist and head of the project. So when the time on his holo-desk had flickered from 19:59 to 20:00, Arthur had shooed Lance out of the room and told him to go home.
That had been over two hours ago.
“Assembling parts of M-RYS model serial number MRC874092B,” Elba informs him, snapping Arthur from where his head had been threatening to impact with the surface of his desk.
Bleary-eyed and with his chin resting in the curve of his palm, Arthur blinks heavily and finds the assembler in the process of picking up yet another familiar head and carrying it to the matching torso. The face of the model is impassive in its pre-initialised state and its bright blue eyes are still hidden behind smooth lids.
As opposed to the TET-RYS line, the M-RYS androids don’t vary in appearance. His father had made it clear that he doesn’t want yet another line with different parts clogging up the factories. The latest TET-RYS model, 800X, would still be available, interchangeable parts and all, but the first M-RYS models all look the same; a slim, long limbed young man, his appearance unthreatening and his expression earnest. Unlike the smooth perfection of the TET-RYS line, the M-RYS model is made to look more real, more…human. Uther, who’d been in charge of the initial design, had made it clear that he wants the model to appeal to people on a different level than the TET-RYS line and Arthur, his eyes flickering to the already finished models on the conveyer belt off to the side, knows they have succeeded.
The designers and scientists have outdone themselves and even though Arthur has seen every stage of the model, has seen nothing but the model for hours on end - its image seared so firmly into his mind that he’s sure he could trace every line of its face and body blind - Arthur can’t quite suppress a sense of pride every time a model is completed.
“Powering up of model MRC874092B,” Elba says as code starts pouring onto Arthur’s screen. Arthur blinks again and forces himself to focus. He regrets not having gone to the labs for another hypo in his brief lunch break. Gaius wouldn’t have liked it, but he would’ve given Arthur a pick-me-up if he’d asked for it. At least then he wouldn’t be struggling not to fall asleep. “The model is ready for testing, Mr Pendragon.”
Behind the clear wall, the assembler is welding one of the neck pieces into place and Arthur briefly rubs at his eyes, before launching into the same process he had already done over 90 times today.
“Can you hear me?” Arthur asks, the words tasting too familiar on his tongue. He’s sick of them by now.
The eyes of the model snap open, almost startled. Arthur frowns a little, but when he scans the code on his screen, nothing seems to be amiss. He shakes his head at himself. What he needs is a good night’s sleep.
“Yes,” the model says with the same smooth voice as all the others before.
The code multiplies once more and Arthur leans back in his chair, putting up his legs as he goes and sighing a little with relief.
“ID,” he says and even to his own ears it sounds bored.
“MRC874092B.”
Arthur leans his head back, sinking deeper into the upholstery. The whirring of the assembler’s arms is familiar, soothing. The metal arms flit around, each of them following their own set of tasks - welding, cooling, prodding.
“Can you move your head?” Arthur asks and the model complies, turning its head first to the right, then the left. The back-head and neck pieces are still missing and Arthur can see shiny metal and bright blue tubes. They are hidden a moment later, when the assembler puts the next piece into place. Arthur absently taps a blunt nail against the ring on his right index finger.
“Your eyes now,” Arthur adds, his gaze flickering between the code and the model’s blue irises. Satisfied, Arthur addresses Elba so she can tick the appropriate virtual box on his check-list. “Cervical and optical animation checked.”
Behind the wall, the model’s eyes are still moving, as if searching where Arthur’s voice is coming from. The partition, after all, is only transparent on one side, making it impossible for the model to see him. Arthur tries to remember if any of the other models has done the same, but the code still reads clear and Arthur can’t, for the life of him, drag up anything through the hazy fog of sleepiness, one test having blended into another and making it impossible to separate them.
Arthur pinches the bridge of his nose, hard, and shakes himself out of it. “Now give me your initialisation text.”
The model straightens, suddenly looking perfectly bland as it smiles, bright and fake as its been programmed to do.
“Hello, I’m a first generation M-RYS android of Pendragon Enterprises,” it recites clearly, seemingly unaware as the assembler’s arms keep whizzing about it. An arm is fixed into place, blue muscles flaring slightly upon being connected to the torso, then quickly disappearing between white panels; sparks are raining down as metal is welded into place. And all the while, its QuanticHeart beats out a steady rhythm. “I can look after your house, do the cooking and take care of your children. I organise your appointments and I speak 300 languages. I’m entirely at your disposal as a sexual partner; no need to feed me or recharge me. I’m equipped with a QuanticHeart that makes me autonomous for 201 years. Do you want to give me a name?”
Arthur shifts, un-crosses and re-crosses his legs. “For the purpose of this test, your name is Test Model 92.”
The model looks at him, but for some reason, Arthur looks away, something strange prickling against the back of his neck and making the small hairs there stand on end.
“Test Model 92,” it’s almost a question, but Arthur pretends it isn’t.
“Initialisation and memorisation checked,” he says firmly, watching the code run smoothly. “Can you move your arms?”
Test Model 92 looks bewildered, as though the notion that it has limbs hasn’t occurred to it before and Arthur is definitely seeing things. He needs to finish this and go home, bloody hell. Pale skin spreads over fingers and wrists, all the way to the shoulders, growing closed over the metal; every additional inch bringing the android this much closer to looking human.
Arthur checks the code, then looks up through his fringe and watches Test Model 92 touching the freshly grown skin on his forearms, a look of wonder on its face.
“Upper limb connection checked,” he says automatically and, as his lips form the next words, words he’s said on endless repeat today, Arthur feels, for a split second, more like a machine than the android before him. Gods, he needs to sleep. “Now say something in German.”
Bright blue eyes look back at him, back to mindless obedience. Arthur breathes a sigh of relief.
“Guten Tag, ich bin ein M-RYS Android der ersten Generation, hergestellt von Pendragon Enterprises,” Test Model 92 rattles off, then looks down as the assembler attaches its legs.
Next to the coding window, where the transcript of the testing process is being shown - complete with sound waves and ready to be attached to the report for the current model - the German sentence glows green, a sign that the model has recited it correctly. Below it, a translation is added. Arthur has been switching the languages around, one small indulgence to at least break through some of the monotony.
“Now say it in modern Greek.”
“Έμαι ένα ανδροειδές της σειράς M-RYS της εταιρείας Pendragon Enterprises.”
Once more, the sentence glows green and Arthur pushes back his fringe as he moves to the next step. “Good, now sing something in Korean.”
There’s a pause, code running rapidly in the corner of Arthur’s eye as the android sifts through its not inconsiderable hard drive and picks a song in the language Arthur had requested.
“별이 유난히도 밝은,” the android starts singing, intonation crystal clear, it’s voice velvety soft and hitting each note perfectly, just as all the models have been programmed to.
“오늘 이 시간이 가면
그대 떠난다는 말이
나를 슬프게 하네
이 밤 다 가도록”
As the last note fades and the air is once more filled solely with the whirring of the assembler, Arthur can’t help but think that something about this particular rendition had sounded almost…mournful. Far more emotional than any programming could’ve achieved, not even Arthur’s own. But still, the readings come up clean and Arthur clears his throat, banishing his strange thoughts and re-focusing on his task.
“Multilingual verbal expression checked,” he says as the assembler finally puts the android on its own two feet. It looks down, then back up in Arthur’s direction as though in askance. Arthur smiles, tired and altogether unintentional. “Go ahead, take a few steps.”
And Test Model 92 does, balancing slightly unsurely for a moment, before finding its footing and walking a little closer to the partition. The model is closer now, right behind the transparent wall and when it smiles, bright and sudden, Arthur’s breath hitches a little. He clears his throat, again.
“Locomotion checked,” he croaks, looking at the stream of code and refusing to look as Test Model 92 returns to the platform, its skin now covering its entire body.
When Arthur next peers up, a shock of dark hair has sprouted from its scalp and the android is looking skywards, as if trying to look at the sudden addition. Test Model 92 touches it gingerly and Arthur forcefully clamps down on his initial reaction. He flicks through some windows, unseeing and carefully casual, checks the readings one last time before declaring the test complete.
“Testing of model MRC874092B complete,” he says to Elba, before addressing Test Model 92. “You’re ready for work.”
The android blinks at him and Arthur very firmly tells himself that he doesn’t find it adorable. Not at all.
“What’s going to happen to me now?” Test Model 92 asks as the assembler drapes a deep blue robe over the android. It eyes it, a little warily, before obediently slipping his arms through the sleeves.
Arthur scans its face, but still can’t quite remember if any of the other models had reacted the same. Surely he’d remember if they had?
“I’ll re-initialise you,” he says slowly, not taking his eyes off the android. “And then you’ll be sent to one of our shops to be sold.”
“Sold?” Test Model 92 asks, and is it only Arthur’s sleep deprivation or does its voice actually lilt, inching just the tiniest octave higher as though in shock. “Am I…I’m a sort of merchandise? Is that right?”
Arthur frowns. “Of course you’re merchandise. You’re our newest android model.” His eyes flicker to the coding, still open and displaying the last set of readings. The transcription window has been closed by Elba upon Arthur’s confirmation of the testing being complete. But he keeps the code window open, keeps it floating before him and watches a few new lines appear.
“Oh, I see,” Test Model 92 says, soft and a little lost. “I-I thought-”
The readings flicker and Arthur’s head snaps up. “Thought?” he asks, incredulous. “What did you think?”
The android looks straight at him, eyes impossibly blue. “I thought I was alive.”
There is a thump as Arthur’s legs slide off the holo-desk, his feet hitting the floor as Arthur lurches forward in his seat.
“What?” he hisses, his eyes snapping to the code and seeing line after line of red suddenly appearing. Error, the code informs Arthur, error, error.
“What the fuck,” Arthur swears at the projections in front of him, fingers already flying over the holo-desk, opening window after window - some on the desktop, some in the air around him.
“Error in the protocol,” Elba says right over Arthur’s cursing. “Memory components displaying unusual readings.”
“Yes, I can see that,” Arthur snaps irritably, the red of the code stinging his tired eyes. They feel gritty, burning even as he blinks and disperses some of the wetness that has built there in protest of Arthur’s treatment of them since last night.
“What’s going on?” Test Model 92 asks, a trace of panic in its voice. Arthur clenches his teeth and ignores it.
“Defective model,” Elba continues. “Permission to disassemble and check required components.”
Arthur hisses out a breath and slams his hand down on his holo-desk, angry and overwhelmed but refusing to admit it. His ring clacks against the transparent aluminium, the noise drowned out the hectic atmosphere.
“Permission granted.”
The assembler’s arms, idle since having completed their job, shoot up suddenly, whirring almost aggressively as they tear the blue robe from Test Model 92’s form. The android jumps and shies away from the metal arms.
“Disassemble me?” he asks, sounding scared. “But why?” He looks towards Arthur, pleading.
Arthur clenches his hands to fists. “You’re not supposed to think that sort of stuff,” he says, jaw tight. “You’re not supposed to think at all. There must be a defective piece or software problem somewhere.” I made a mistake, is what he doesn’t say. This is my first time in charge and I fucked it up.
The assembler reattaches itself to Test Model 92’s spine, yanking it backwards and returning it to its initial position over the platform, five feet above the floor. The android yelps slightly and looks around, frantic. Its pale skin starts to recede, the growth process reversed as the assembler starts the disassembling process.
“No!” Test Model 92 says, almost shouts. “No, there’s no mistake! I feel perfectly fine, I assure you. I thought I passed all your tests correctly?”
The hair is gone now, the assembler’s arms trying to take off the first panel, but the android is batting at them, trying to evade it.
“Yes,” Arthur says tightly. “But your behaviour is non-standard.”
Finally succeeding in having caught Test Model 92’s wrists, the assembler rids it off its chest piece, revealing the wildly thumping QuanticHeart beneath. Arthur stares at it, transfixed. More red fills the coding window. Arthur blinks and blinks again, trying to get rid of the colours dancing in front of his vision. Red, blue, red, blue. He pushes his fingers into his eye-sockets.
“Please!” Test Model 92 begs, frantic. “Please don’t disassemble me!”
Arthur bows his head. “I’m sorry,” he says.
In the background, the QuanticHeart throbs on, drowning out the whirring of the machines and forming a straight line to Arthur’s temples. Something inside him twists painfully.
“Please, don’t do this!” Test Model 92 pleads, its bright eyes pinning Arthur in place. They look wet, artificial tear ducts spilling over, triggered by the android’s obvious distress. Arthur’s chest is tight now, almost too tight to breathe. “I’ll do whatever you want, I promise! Please don’t kill me!”
The choice of words takes the last of Arthur’s breath and he stares at Test Model 92 through the partition, sees its tears and its hectic heart and there’s no way, no way Arthur can go through with this. He slaps down his hand before he even knows what he’s doing.
“Abort,” he says sharply. “Abort.”
The assembler freezes.
Test Model 92 is still in the air, missing an arm and both legs, its eyes wide and its face streaked with artificial tears. It’s the most real thing Arthur has seen in a long, long time.
“Disassembling process aborted,” Elba says and Arthur takes a huge, gulping breath. His own heart, he realises, has matched itself to the android’s and Arthur gives himself a moment to calm down, relieved when he sees the QuanticHeart slowing alongside his own.
“Reassemble model,” Arthur says finally, voice slightly raw.
“Model defective,” Elba says. “Should reassembling process be initiated despite failed testing?”
“Yes,” Arthur confirms and whatever had clenched inside his chest before finally releases when the assembler slowly starts moving once more, now rebuilding what it had torn apart only moments before.
As he watches the blue robe once more enfolding Test Model 92’s body, Arthur has no idea what the fuck he’s doing, doesn’t even know if it’s the right thing to do - but what he does know, is that it’s the only thing he could’ve done.
*
The icy night air is akin to a slap in Arthur’s face.
His communicator reads 23:37 hours and Arthur feels like a criminal as he sticks close to the shadows, one arm extended backwards to indicate the hooded figure behind him to do the same. His hover-car is the last one in the garage and he waves his right hand at it, where his chip is fastened on a bracelet around his wrist. The car’s lights flare to life, two beacons in the dimness.
Arthur opens the back door and ushers the blue-robed figure inside. It - no, he, Arthur might as well acknowledge the gender if he’s to spend some time with it - lifts his head, peering at Arthur with his bright blue eyes, before the door closes. Arthur briefly pinches the bridge of his nose, then rounds the car and gets in behind the wheel. The dashboard lights up as it recognises the proximity of Arthur’s chip.
“Authorisation confirmed. Good evening, Mr Pendragon,” Elba’s voice greets him through the speakers. The car gives the tiniest of trembles as it rises into the air. “Environmental controls active, navigation and security systems online. Awaiting destination input.”
“Home,” Arthur says absently, glancing upwards into the rearview mirror as the seatbelt snakes around his chest and middle.
“Destination accepted, route confirmed,” Elba says. “Your car is ready for departure.”
Arthur taps the reverse button on the side-dash and puts his foot on the gas. The hover car slides back smoothly and Arthur turns the wheel, then taps on the side-dash once more to put the car into regular drive mode and waits for the sliding doors in front of him to open. As soon as the gap is big enough, Arthur puts down his foot and the car shoots forward and out into the night.
It smoothly slots into place on the glowing hover-track and when Arthur is certain they are steady, he snaps “Auto-pilot”.
“Auto-pilot active,” Elba confirms. “You can now release manual controls.”
Arthur lets go of the wheel and turns in his seat, finally facing the figure in the back. Test Model 92 peers back at him curiously.
“That’s handy,” he comments, nodding into the direction of the brightly lit dashboard.
Arthur frowns, his eyes scanning the android’s face as if that alone is enough to reveal what’s gone wrong. This type of malfunction is unlike any Arthur has ever seen before. His fingers are itching to connect the model to his personal computer at home and run each and every test known to man. He knows, though, that that would have to wait at least another day. He needs to sleep and he needs it badly. No doubt tomorrow things will look much clearer. Maybe he’ll even be able to correct the malfunction by tomorrow night and return the model to Pendragon HQ in time to be shipped out.
“There’s definitely something wrong with the connection to your hard drive,” Arthur mutters, absently tapping the backrest of his seat. “You should have immediate access to all the information we programmed into you. You don’t recognise what this is?” He waves a vague hand about the space of the car.
Test Model 92 follows Arthur’s gesture, his eyes flickering over the upholstery, the shining dashboards, the glowing wheel, before finally coming to rest on Arthur once more. Something in his gaze has shifted, however, making it look less alert, somehow more…artificial.
“A hover-car, model YX900, manufactured by Pendragon Enterprises,” Test Model 92 rattles off the details, then blinks as though waking from a trance, his eyes now once more lacking the customary flatness that no type of genius programming has managed to erase yet. If Arthur can work out what caused this, then the next line of androids will be a breakthrough unlike any other.
“So it’s not that they can’t be accessed, but that there’s some form of delay,” Arthur muses aloud.
Test Model 92 isn’t listening. He’s scooted over towards the window and is peering outside, the reflection of millions of lights from the city around them reflecting in his eyes.
“Is this Camelot?” he asks.
Arthur follows his gaze automatically, taking in the familiar sight. Dozens of hover-tracks criss-cross each other on various levels, bracketed in by high rise buildings on each side. They’re slowly leaving the business district and the shape of the buildings is gradually starting to change, a few less holo-adverts dancing across high polished facades.
“Yes,” Arthur says.
Test Model 92 turns his head and looks at Arthur. “Why did you take me with you? Why not leave me there?”
Arthur releases the air in his lungs on a heavy breath. “I want to put you through a few more tests. You’re the only model that’s shown any problems and I want to be sure what the malfunction is before I report it. My father wants to launch the M-RYS line by the end of the month and…” he trails off, suddenly aware that the words I don’t want to disappoint him are a little too honest to be spoken aloud.
“I see,” Test Model 92 says, soft, and looks back out the window. Arthur marvels at the expressiveness of his face and eyes. “So, do you want to give me a name?”
Arthur starts a little and throws the android a bewildered look. “What?”
Test Model 92 pins him with his blue, blue eyes. “Well, you can’t keep calling me Test Model 92, now can you? So, what do you want to call me?”
Arthur rubs at his bottom lip, his ring cool as it touches his skin, and frowns a little. A name.
He’s not sure what makes him say what he does next, but tonight appears to be a night full of foolish impulses.
“What would you like to be called?” he asks, then adds, instinctively. “What’s your name?”
The android blinks, then smiles and it’s bright and earnest and heart-stoppingly real.
“Merlin,” he says, then. “My name is Merlin.”
*
In the past few hundred years, buildings have only become higher, the lights brighter.
Especially in capitols such as Camelot, it seems as though everything is stretching towards stars that are no longer visible, long since swallowed by the endless light pollution and replaced by the city’s lights reflected in every sleek, metal surface. Below - where the hover-tracks don’t reach and people still tread on the ground instead of elevated footpaths - the faint pin-pricks of lanterns can be seen. Arthur, who’s never been outside the city and knows the stars only from holograms and ebooks, often imagines them to be like this - tiny and out of his reach. Sometimes Arthur wonders about the world that was before, where the stars had still been up instead of below and where the people still cared to look for them. Now, Arthur often feels like the only one looking down, down where no one else bothers to look. It seems no one cares that the stars have since fallen from the sky and are now scattered beneath them.
Arthur’s penthouse is towards the western edge of the city, so close to the sea that on a clear day Arthur can smell salt and see where sky meets water. In the east, past where the White Mountains have long since been flattened to make more room for the city to expand, the business and entertainment districts stand out in their blinding brightness - Camelot’s heart, pulsating and full of colours.
Parking the hover-car in the garage on the roof, Arthur heaves himself out of his seat, the door lowering itself back down once he’s made it out. Merlin watches him silently and follows Arthur as they enter the ascender to the penthouse. Lights flicker on as they step into the hall, triggered by Arthur’s chip, though even without them, the flat is far form dark even at this hour - the hover-tracks and city lights ever present.
As Arthur rids himself first of his shoes, then his coat, Elba’s disembodied voice greets them once again.
“Welcome home, Mr Pendragon,” she says and next to him Merlin jumps a little in surprise. Arthur raises an eyebrow at him, then turns away to shrug out of his suit jacket and give his tie a vicious but satisfying yank.
When he turns back, Merlin has taken a few tentative steps towards the main living room. He looks alien in Arthur’s space, a dark blue shadow standing out between Arthur’s light coloured furniture and backdropped by Camelot’s skyline stretching out across the clear aluminium walls.
“All systems online. Room temperature is at 24°C and it is 00:18 hours. Do you wish to lock up?” Ebla asks.
Arthur rubs at his aching eyes, his voice muffled by his palms. “All doors on lockdown,” he confirms tiredly.
Merlin turns to him, his hood casting half of his face in shadow and his bare feet barely visible from underneath the hem of his robe. They look pale and somehow fragile against the polished floor of Arthur’s flat.
“She’s everywhere,” Merlin says, a little incredulous, glancing upwards as though expecting to find Elba hanging from the ceiling. “Does she control everything?”
Arthur, having dropped everything where he stands, rolls his shoulders and steps past Merlin.
“Not everything,” he says curtly, crossing the room with Merlin trailing in his wake. His bare feet barely make a sound. “It’s easier to only have one computer in charge, otherwise you’d have to constantly sync everything.” He stops and rounds on Merlin, who takes a hasty step back at Arthur’s glare. “I’m going to have a shower,” Arthur says, then raises a finger at him. “You stay here. Just,” The extended finger becomes an imperious wave of his hand. “Don’t touch anything.”
Merlin raises his eyebrows at him, looking far too human. Arthur doesn't wait for a reply, simply turns and stumbles into the direction of the bathroom.
He passes through his bedroom without paying attention, shedding the rest of his clothes as he makes his way towards his en suite.
The bathroom, just like everything else in Arthur’s flat, is wide and uncluttered.
There’s a sink above a low cupboard holding towels and other small utilities, a bathtub set into the transparent aluminium wall and a shower with an extra wide forcefield in the middle. Off to the side of the sink, a discreet panel separates the toilet from the rest of the room.
Arthur opts out of a regular shower, instead choosing the sonic function, too tired to be bothered with drying off afterwards. The central underfloor heating is pleasant against the bare soles of his feet and he almost falls asleep right there, standing up and with his hand braced against the shower. It’s silent apart from the low humming of the sonic setting and Arthur can feel some of the tense muscles in his shoulders loosening, when a sudden crashing sound from the kitchen suddenly cuts though the stillness like a gunshot. Arthur’s eyes snap open and his head jerks up.
Cursing, he shuts off the shower and grabs the first thing he finds, which happens to be his red dressing gown.
In the hallway off the kitchen, a vase lies shattered on the floor, the shards glinting in-between the water capsules that had kept the flowers hydrated.
“What the-” Arthur starts, then looks at Merlin's sheepish expression. “Merlin!”
Merlin, his hood finally off and pooling between his shoulders, throws his hands up, palms out - if in defence or surrender, Arthur isn't sure.
“I just wanted to know if they're real!”
Arthur feels his temples throb. “Of course they're real!”
“I know that now,” Merlin says indignantly, then pushes on, clearly defensive. “But how was I supposed to know that? Almost everything else is fake - even the fish!” He points an accusing finger at the aquarium separating the kitchen from the living area.
Arthur pinches the bridge of his nose and wonders if he’ll wear grooves into his skin after having done little else all day. “Did I, or did I not tell you not to touch anything?”
Merlin folds his arms, sticking his hands into the wide sleeves of the robes, and meets Arthur's gaze rebelliously. “I got bored.”
“Bored!” Arthur bursts out, incredulous. “You’re an android, you're not supposed to get bored!”
Merlin narrows his eyes at him. "Well, I'm sorry that my feelings have inconvenienced you, your highness!"
“I’m not royalty!”
“No,” Merlin says airily, but there’s a cutting edge to it. “You just act like you are.”
Arthur sputters. “I’m-”
“A prat,” Merlin cuts in. “I got that.”
Arthur stares at him, aghast. “You can't talk to me like that!”
“And why not?”
“Why-” Arthur starts, then takes a deep breath to stop himself from shouting. “Merlin, you're a computer, you're supposed to do as you're told and, above all, you're supposed to show some respect!”
“I don't see how that's fair,” Merlin says, unwavering.
Arthur throws his arms up. “This isn't about fairness!”
Merlin pushes at one of the water capsules with his toe. “Well it should be. There's no need to be a dick about it, human or no. Maybe it’s you that needs to learn some respect!”
Arthur stares at him for another moment, Merlin's words ringing unpleasantly in his ears. Then he does the only thing he feels capable of at the moment, and turns to go, once more leaving Merlin standing there.
“Where are you going?” Merlin calls after him, sounding every bit as though he isn't finished. Too bad.
“To bed,” Arthur says without stopping. “Clean up your mess. And if you break anything else, I will put you on standby.”
“Standby?” Merlin says incredulously. "You can't just switch me off because you don't like what I have to say!"
"Watch me,” Arthur barks over his shoulder.
Merlin doesn't reply to that and Arthur jabs a finger against the touchpad of his bedroom door, making it slide shut with a hissing sound of finality.
*
When Arthur stumbles out of bed the next morning and mumbles the order that turns the aluminium wall in his bedroom clear once more, it’s still dark outside. No surprise at this time of the year, but even so - Arthur is used to getting up at the crack of dawn, but that doesn’t mean he has to like it.
Still half asleep and clad only in his baggy sleeping pants, Arthur trudges out into the hall and into the kitchen; all sleek, impersonal lines and every counter spotless, white and almost mirror-like. Arthur hasn’t cooked in it once - except if you call microwaving foodpackets cooking.
The bluish glow of the aquarium reflects off the polished floor and mingles with the city lights outside. There is no need for additional light, despite the still dark sky outside, so Arthur has programmed it to remain turned off, unwilling to squint his way through his morning routine and instead preferring to wake up slowly.
It’s rare that he manages to make it through the night without waking up and the long hours of sleep have left him strangely dazed, his thoughts not quite as sharp edged as Arthur is used to. To this day, Arthur knows only of two ways to battle his insomnia; one is a hypospray filled with drugs to force him under - which never fails to make him feel lethargic and his head as though it’s been stuffed with cotton - and the second is excessive partying and enough alcohol to carry him over the line into complete inebriation. Neither are methods he likes to employ too often, but if he does, the latter usually wins out in the end.
Too lazy to switch on his high end coffee machine, Arthur instead grabs his portable coffee maker and switches it on. His movements are slow and automatic - flavouring capsules, water. While the flask whirrs quietly and the numbers indicating the temperature inside are climbing, Arthur absently taps around on one of the holographic counter tops. To his right, virtual clouds are gathering and a few snowflakes are billowing around the −15°C indicating the temperature. Arthur makes a face. He’s never been too fond of the cold.
He sweeps through the morning news articles, while his personal feeds have been rapidly multiplying to his left. He ignores them all, unwilling to read all the simpering emails which range from anything like asking him for a meeting or free gifts to having his babies. Most of them, Arthur knows, are reporters in disguise, trying to wheedle information about both his private and professional life from him. But Arthur has made that mistake once before and though he keeps telling himself that the wound from Sophia’s betrayal has long since healed, the scar is raw and fresh and best left untouched.
“Sleep well?”
Arthur jumps, graceless and sudden, hitting his knee against the counter and hissing out a curse. He whirls around.
“Merlin!”
Merlin gives him the same sheepish smile as last night when Arthur had found him between shards of glass. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to do that. You okay?”
Arthur glares at him, then looks him up and down carefully. The blue robe is still in place, but Merlin must’ve washed his feet, because the few dark smudges on his toes that walking around without shoes had left are gone. It’s a surprisingly considerate thing to do.
“What have you been up to all night?” Arthur asks suspiciously.
Considering that he’d left Merlin alone for barely ten minutes last night and he’d managed to break something, Arthur’s wary to learn what has happened while he’s been asleep.
Merlin shrugs and steps closer, slouching against the counter next to Arthur.
“Reading, mostly,” he says, his eyes flickering over the counters before coming to rest on Arthur once more. “You’ve got quite the collection of ebooks.”
Arthur crosses his arms. “You sound surprised.”
Merlin snags one of the clouds from the weather report and starts playing with it. “Didn’t have you down as someone who enjoys reading, that’s all.”
Arthur frowns and is about to ask what that’s supposed to mean, when the coffee maker bleeps. He presses his lips together and turns away to grab the flask.
“Pass me a cup,” Arthur orders, absently. “In the cupboard to your right.”
Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Merlin shooting him a look, before complying. As soon as Merlin’s hand comes close enough, the cupboard door slides open, the sensor inside having detected the movement. Merlin reaches past it, grabs the closest cup and wordlessly passes it over.
Arthur chucks a milk tablet in and pours the coffee, blinking when hot steam billows up into his face. The display along the side of the cup flares to life, warning Arthur of the temperature, two numbers glaring at him in bright red. Underneath, in a far more neutral colouring, the type of coffee is listed and a box that reads ‘dairy’ has been ticked.
When he turns, Merlin’s right there, close enough for Arthur to feel his artificial breathing on his face; warm and neutral. Arthur looks away.
“What’s going to happen now?” Merlin asks softly.
Arthur gives his cup an unnecessary swirl.
“Now, I’ll get ready for work,” he says. “And while I’m gone, you’ll tidy my bedroom, clean the flat, sort through my private emails and order a new vase to replace the one you’ve broken.”
Merlin gapes at him. “What?”
Arthur takes a sip. “You heard me.”
“I’m not doing that!”
“Merlin,” Arthur says slowly, as though speaking to someone particularly slow witted. “I think you’ve missed a very important point here. I’m the one giving the orders, and you’re here to follow them. If I’m supposed to find out what’s wrong with you, I need to test you.”
“Is that right?” Merlin says, the same rebellious fire in his eyes as the night before. “Is there a check-list, then? Treat Merlin like a servant - check, be a prat about it - check-”
“Merlin,” Arthur says sharply, cutting into Merlin’s tirade. “Shut up.”
“Yes, Sire.” Merlin rolls his eyes.
Arthur clenches his jaw. “Just do what I told you. And when I’m back I’ll hook you up to my computer.” And find out what the fuck’s going on, he doesn’t say. “And for heaven’s sake, don’t break anything else!”
*
Arthur has barely cleared the garage when Leon calls him, flooding Arthur with to-do lists and letting him know that his father wants to see him first thing to discuss the details about the M-RYS launch. Arthur retaliates with a to-do list of his own and some instructions in preparation for some of his meetings.
Usually Leon refrains from ambushing him like this, but Arthur prefers it to being swamped as soon as he steps into the building. At least this way he has a chance of working things out before he reaches HQ and doesn’t have to pretend not to be stressed when in reality he can already feel grey hairs growing from his temples.
As opposed to yesterday, Arthur is blissfully early and manages to clear the entrance hall before the first tourist groups have the chance to infiltrate HQ and take endless memographs of that bloody fountain. Pendragon Enterprises is the technology market leader, and then there’s people getting fixated on a glass dragon, when all one needs to do is to type dragon into any search bar and their fountain is the number one hit, right after the encyclopaedia entry dragon (extinct reptile).
Taking the ascender to the very top, Arthur quickly reviews the reports that he sent last night a final time, before taking a deep breath and squaring his shoulders.
“Ah, Arthur,” his father says in way of greeting, looking up at Arthur, unsmiling. Arthur’s stomach twists. “I see you have remembered the way to my office.”
Arthur clears his throat. “My apologies, father, I was quite busy yesterday-”
“Yes,” his father interrupts smoothly. “I imagine so. I received your reports on the M-RYS models. It was good work, but I expected no less. Especially after the liberties you allowed yourself.”
Arthur’s knuckles are white, his fingers digging painfully into his tablet. “I’m sorry, father.”
Uther steeples his hands atop the desk, his fingers framed by glowing reports and news feeds.
“All I ask is that your work doesn’t suffer and that you uphold the image of our family name, that is all,” he says. “But I didn’t call you here to discuss your rampant life style.” He shifts in his floating chair. “I trust Nimueh has relayed the change of schedule concerning the M-RYS launch.”
Arthur clenches his jaw, nodding.
“She did,” he says, tilting his chin defiantly. “But might I ask why I wasn’t included in the initial decision? The M-RYS project was assigned to me and I’ve been in charge of its progress. We’ve had several issues with the models last week, pushing the launch isn’t something I’d advise. Gaius-”
“Yes, yes.” Uther waves him off, dismissive. “I read through his concerns, but I don’t see how this is going to affect the launch date I’ve set.”
“Father,” Arthur says, barely keeping the strain from his voice. “Rushing the launch is a bad idea. We should put the models through another round of testing, at least.”
His father fixes him with a glare.
“According to your reports, there were no problems with the models when you ran them through the final testing phase yesterday,” he says, his voice as stony as his face - and was that a trace of suspicion in his eyes? “Is that correct?”
Arthur thinks about typing in hacks with slightly trembling hands, of erasing and manipulating data to cover his tracks. He thinks about the magnitude of the malfunction and the fact that one of said models is currently holed up at Arthur’s flat.
The tablet turns slippery beneath his sweating palms, his heart thumping wildly as he licks his lips and resists the urge to tug at his collar. He feels hot, the wide expanse of the office suddenly suffocating.
“Yes,” Arthur says and is shocked how easily it slips out, how unflinchingly he presents himself even as he lies right to his father’s face. The thought scares him.
His father visibly relaxes. “Then I see no problem and we’ll proceed as planned.” His words ring with finality.
“Father-” Arthur protests, because he’s always been bad to leave well enough alone in the face of his convictions.
Uther cuts him off with a harsh gesture. “Enough,” he says coldly. “We have no more to discuss.”
Arthur bows his head, the tendons in his neck tense enough to feel as though they might snap.
“Yes, father.”
*
That evening, after for once having been able to leave at a reasonable time, Arthur arrives home to an already brightly lit flat and Merlin sprawled out in one of the floating settees. Holding one of Arthur’s ereaders at a weird angle, Merlin is visibly engrossed and doesn’t even look up when Arthur comes in. His robe has ridden up one arm and gotten tangled around his legs, one long, pale thigh visible where it sticks out between the dark fabric. Arthur tries not to stare.
“Welcome home, Mr Pendragon,” Elba greets him belatedly, making Arthur jump a little in surprise and Merlin finally look up, startled.
“Oh,” he says. “You’re here.”
Arthur rolls his eyes and flings his suit jacket into the general direction of the couch.
“Brilliant assessment, Merlin.”
Loosening his tie, Arthur strides past the aquarium and into the kitchen. It looks as untouched as he’d left it. He walks back into the living room.
“Where’s dinner?” he asks, looming over Merlin in what he hopes is a threatening manner.
Merlin glances up at him though thick lashes; lashes, Arthur thinks firmly, that he’s been intimately familiar with for the past months and have absolutely no right to look so captivating. He must be seriously losing his mind.
“Is that a trick question?” Merlin asks drily.
Arthur glares. Definitely losing his mind.
“No, you idiot. I left you with a set of instructions before I left, didn’t I?” he snaps. “Don’t tell me you’ve been lying here lazing about all day!”
Merlin blinks at him and finally, finally lowers the stupid ereader.
“Of course not!” he says, indignant. “I did everything you told me to, but you never said anything about dinner!”
Arthur throws his hands up, exasperated. “It was implied!”
Merlin glowers at him. “How was I supposed to know that? I can’t read your mind, you know.”
Arthur pinches the bridge of his nose. “Do you know how long I spent fine tuning your settings?”
Merlin sits up, then, and has the audacity to roll his eyes at him. “Oh, please enlighten me.”
“One year, thirteen months to be exact,” Arthur bites out. “Which means that you should have at least enough common sense to realise that general housework includes cooking a meal.”
“Or, you know,” Merlin says drily. “You could do what normal people do and actually say what you want. Ever tried that? Communication?”
Arthur stares at him, incredulous. “Did you just instruct me on human behaviour?”
Merlin shrugs. “Apparently someone has to. You seem a bit rusty.”
“Merlin!”
Merlin, hair slightly rumpled from rolling around Arthur’s settee all day - and no, Arthur is not picturing that - and every inch as unimpressed by Arthur’s irritation as ever, puts the ereader aside and stands. He’s closer than Arthur expects, but Arthur refuses to budge, even though the proximity makes something hot unfurl in his stomach. He clamps down on it, hard.
“So you want me to make you dinner?” Merlin asks, his legs thankfully hidden once more.
Arthur shoots him an angry look.
“No need,” he snaps. “I’ll microwave something.”
Merlin throws his hands up. “If it’s so easy, why’d you need to have a go at me, then?”
Arthur tilts his chin up, before turning to stalk back into the kitchen.
“It’s the principle,” he throws over his shoulder as he brushes the touchpad on one of the drawers. It glides open soundlessly and Arthur reaches inside to pluck out the first foodpacket he finds. He throws it into the microwave without looking what it is. “You’re supposed to make people’s lives easer, not give them grey hair.”
When Arthur turns back around, Merlin is leaning against the counter opposite him and looking at Arthur as though it’s him that’s behaving strangely.
He doesn’t say anything and Arthur does his best to ignore him, instead turns his attention towards the microwave. Peering inside, he sees that he’s apparently chosen pizza, the foodpacket having unfolded into a round shape. When the soft beeping sound indicates that the required time is up, Arthur grabs a plate and deposits the steaming pizza on it.
Merlin’s eyes follow him, watching him as though he is the most interesting thing on the planet. Arthur finds it unnerving, unused to sharing his space with anyone, least of all someone who’s paying him this much attention. To Arthur’s horror he feels almost…flustered. His face feels hotter than usual, a strange flush crawling up the back of his neck.
This is ridiculous, Arthur thinks viciously as he holds the pizza under the laser-cutter. He doesn’t get flustered, not ever and certainly not because of something that isn’t actually alive.
“C’mon,” he says gruffly, jerking his head into the direction of the living room. “Let’s get you hooked up so I can see what’s wrong with you.”
Merlin gives him an unreadable look, but follows on silent, bare feet as Arthur leads the way to his holo-desk, the plate with the now perfectly sliced pizza in hand.
“Sit down,” Arthur orders, taking his own seat behind the desk.
“On the floor?” Merlin asks. “Don’t I at least get a cushion?”
Arthur huffs. “Don’t be such a girl, Merlin.”
Merlin glares and sits down.
Taking one bite out of one of the slices to appease his growling stomach, Arthur fishes around for the pin-cable and bends down, towards Merlin.
“Tilt your head forward a little.”
Merlin throws him a suspicious look, but complies. When Arthur pushes his fingers into the thick, black hair at the back of his head, Merlin jumps beneath his touch.
“What are you doing?”
Arthur holds him still, his touch firm but not unkind. His fingers brush the nape of Merlin’s neck and Arthur can feel him shiver slightly. He tries not to think about it.
“I’m looking for the pin-port,” Arthur says, and barely catches one of his thumbs before they can draw a sooting caress against the curve of Merlin’s neck.
“The what?” Merlin splutters.
Arthur sighs, exasperated. “It’s a physical port to connect you to a main computer.”
Merlin glances up at him, frowning. “Isn’t that a bit outdated? I thought people didn’t use physical ports anymore.”
“They don’t, usually,” Arthur says. “But it’s safer this way. We’ve had some problems with people hacking into our androids from the TET-RYS line, so I wanted to avoid that. Hence the physical port. Ah!” He adds, triumphant, when his fingers finally brush the tiny ridge that indicates he’s finally found what he’d been looking for. With a careful flick of his fingernail, Arthur puts the right amount of pressure along the hair-fine edge and feels the small latch slide open.
He plugs the cable in and feels Merlin flinch sharply. Arthur’s hand slides down, reflexively cupping the side of his neck in reassurance, his thumb pressed against one of Merlin’s collarbones.
“You alright?” Arthur asks, frowning. “You weren’t supposed to feel that.” Or anything else for that matter.
“Oh, really,” Merlin shoots back testily, but his body still tilts, leaning into Arthur’s touch. Arthur tries not to think about that either. “Well, you can put that on your list of malfunctions, then, because that was just…weird. And I mean really weird.”
Arthur gives Merlin’s shoulder a gentle squeeze, before letting go. “I’ll be more careful next time.”
Merlin looks up at him as Arthur turns his attention towards his holo-desk, opening windows and readying his workspace.
“What do you mean next time?” he asks. “Does that mean we have to do this again?”
“Of course we’ll have to do it again,” Arthur shoots back as he studies the line of code in front of him, but finding nothing out of the ordinary at first glance. “I’m good, but not that good. It’ll take me a few goes to find out what’s going on and I can only do this properly if I can check all of your stats as we go.”
Merlin leans back against the rounded edge of the table leg, mindful of the wire sticking out of the back of his head, and apparently resigns himself to his fate.
“Fine,” he mutters. “Get on with it, then.”
Arthur shoots him a look. “You’re still not the one giving the orders, you know.”
Merlin’s glare is his only answer.
*
An hour later the pizza is gone and the now empty plate on the floor, for there isn’t a single inch on the holo-desk that isn’t overflowing with data. Windows are stacked over each other unevenly and some more are hovering over the desk-top, scattered around Arthur; a virtual wall separating him from the real world.
Merlin hasn’t moved from his place, his head still tilted backwards and resting against the desk. He’s been watching Arthur, his eyes following Arthur’s fingers as they tap and type and shift around windows. He hasn’t said anything else and his lack of movement and unwavering stare should be unnerving, except for the fact that they aren’t.
Arthur finds himself oddly at peace, sinking into his work and wading through endless lines of code. It’s only the few times that he emerges, when a process is finished and the force of the frustration at having come up with nothing cuts through his concentration, that Arthur even remembers that he isn’t alone.
Despite every evidence to the contrary, Arthur is surprised to find out that Merlin can be surprisingly quiet. At first, Arthur had almost thought that Merlin was finally acting like the android he was supposed to be, but Merlin’s expression hadn’t been vacant, but intent and attentive; his lips twitching ever so often and making it hard for Arthur to keep from smiling back.
The whole thing leaves Arthur decidedly unsettled - an emotion he’s become frighteningly familiar with in connection to Merlin.
“And?” Merlin says, and even though his voice is quiet, Arthur starts a little when the silence that seemed so complete just a moment ago is suddenly gone. “Have you found anything?”
Arthur clears his throat, then scowls a little when he looks back at his latest results.
“Nothing,” he says glumly. “Except the snag with your memory components, which is obviously due to the lag in your hard drive. But then again, your speech processing and production components seem fine, otherwise you’d have trouble understanding and communicating, which you don’t. Obviously.” Arthur twists his ring thoughtfully. “It must be an error in accessing your stored information.”
“So what now?”
“Now we’re calling it a night,” Arthur says, rubbing at his tired eyes. The time in the right corner of his desk, half-buried beneath some other window, reads almost three in the morning. “I’m wiped out and I’ve got work in the morning.”
Reaching down with tired fingers, Arthur gently tugs out the pin. Merlin flinches, but doesn’t protest and Arthur barely keeps himself from giving Merlin’s shoulder another gentle squeeze. He clears his suddenly dry throat.
“And just in case it isn’t clear,” he says, stiff and as impersonal as he can make it. “I expect you to have breakfast ready for me tomorrow at seven.”
Merlin rolls his eyes and when Arthur finally makes his way towards his bedroom after finishing recording tonight’s results, he finds Merlin already back on the floating settee from before, ereader once again in his hands and his toes tucked neatly between the white folds.
*
That night is one of those nights.
Nights filled with twisted sheets and frustrated sighs that border on desperation, nights where the hours drag endlessly and no matter how resolutely Arthur keeps his eyes pressed shut, sleep eludes him at every turn.
It’s a fight he never seems to win, at least not like this.
Arthur thinks about getting up, of stumbling to the living room and curling up on the couch. Sometimes it helps, if only for the fact that the empty space beside him isn’t quite so vast and the distant babbling of late night broadcasts melding with the flickering lights of the holo-projector lulls him into a restless sleep.
But tonight is different, because Merlin is out there. And it’s stupid. So very stupid, but Arthur doesn’t want to show that kind of weakness, doesn’t want Merlin to see him rumpled, desperate for sleep and so, so tired. Because it’s during these hours, when dawn is still too far off and Arthur’s spent too long locked inside his own head, that are the most dangerous.
Arthur knows he’s vulnerable like this. There has been stretches of time, days where even partying and drinking himself into oblivion hadn’t been enough, when he’d resorted to the child that used to crawl into Morgana’s bed, her comforting arms and scent enveloping him safely and carrying him over into the land of dreams.
Morgana had first come to them when Arthur had just turned four. Her mother and stepfather had died in a shuttle crash, leaving Uther as the only living relative.
Arthur doesn’t remember a lot from back then, but he does remember Morgana, nine years old and already so beautiful. He remembers thinking that she must be some sort of doll and Morgana, ever vicious, had twisted his ear for saying it aloud. Arthur, unused to being manhandled, had promptly burst into tears. Morgana had been horrified, immediately crushing him to her chest and petting his hair.
For a month after that, Arthur deliberately forced himself to cry just so Morgana would hug him again, until she found him out and told him to stop being stupid. Hurt, Arthur had hidden away in his room for the rest of the day, until Morgana sneaked in after dark, well after his bedtime, and crawled under the covers with him. She’d curled around him and told him that this was their little secret and when she’d woken up crying in the middle of the night, Arthur had hugged her tightly, daring to reach for her for the first time.
Their father doesn’t know about it, never found out about how Arthur had used to sneak into his sister’s room and let her gentle hands on his brow ease him into sleep. And Arthur is glad because he knows that he would’ve forbidden it.
And then things started to change and there came a time when the times that Morgana sought Arthur out outweighed the ones where Arthur sneaked into her room. She would wake up, shaking and screaming, babbling incoherently and clutching at Arthur’s shoulders. It had been better, with Arthur there to hold her, with his fingers combing steadily through her thick, dark hair until his hand ached with the motion, but still he would keep going lest the change in rhythm plunged his sister into yet another nightmare.
And then it wasn’t just about nightmares anymore, it was about Morgana’s insistence that there was someone calling for her, that they needed help and she was determined to see it done. Arthur had listened to her, had tried reasoning with her and, when that had failed, had started playing along for her sake. He never breathed a word of it to their father.
But Uther isn’t stupid, he could tell that something had been up.
The day their father finally found out about the extent of Morgana’s illness, it had been bright and sunny. Arthur had just received his end of the year report and had been ready to start his long anticipated summer holidays. But when he’d come home, excited and in high spirits, he’d found their father pale and grim-faced waiting for him at the dining table.
And Arthur had known, right then and there, he had known. But he’d asked anyway.
What happened?, he’d said, voice as tight as his chest. Where’s Morgana?
And his father had looked at him, calm and stone-faced, and said, She’ll be staying at a special facility for a while.
Arthur had stared at him. You sent her away? Just like that?
It had to be done. I know this is hard for you to understand, but your sister is very ill. She needs professional help of the sort that we can’t provide for her here. Believe me, it was just as hard for me as it is for you.
Arthur’s nails had dug bright red moons into his palms. Can I see her?
But his father had shaken his head. Not for a while. It’s important that she gets settled in first.
And Arthur had clenched his jaw and nodded, swallowing down all the bitter words burning on his tongue. His father’s hand, when it had landed on Arthur’s shoulder, had been stiff and unfamiliar, but his expression had been as soft as Arthur had ever seen it.
I am sorry, Arthur.
And Arthur had believed him.
So even now, when sometimes being with himself becomes just that little bit too unbearable, Arthur gives in and sneaks downstairs into Morgana’s flat and into her bed - a bed that isn’t too big and where there’s someone’s breathing other than his own filling the stillness of the night.
And Morgana doesn’t say anything, not ever, simply takes Arthur’s hand, or curls against his side, and they sleep like this - not always sound and far from perfect, but together and so much less alone.
But for tonight, Arthur shifts and turns and buries his head beneath his pillow, eyes closed but wide awake.
*
Breakfast is, of course, not ready when Arthur emerges from his bedroom the next morning. It really shouldn’t surprise him.
“Do you know what time it is?” he says sharply, folding his arms as he watches Merlin rummage around the cupboards.
Merlin, whose malfunction clearly includes his inability for propriety, lifts his shoulders in an unconcerned shrug. He holds up a tin of egg-powder. “Eggs okay?”
Arthur clenches his jaw, pressing a “Fine” past his teeth and tries very hard not to let his temper flare.
He grabs a cup and activates the coffee machine himself, giving his hands something to do that isn’t smacking Merlin across the head. Behind him, Merlin has gotten out a pan and is now carelessly throwing egg-powder into it, managing to cover not only the pan but also the surrounding area in yellowish dust.
“I don’t have to remind you that it’s you who’ll be cleaning up that mess,” Arthur says coolly, taking his coffee to the breakfast bar and sliding onto a stool with practised ease.
Merlin rolls his eyes, grabs a cooking capsule from the rack above the heating platform and chucks it into the pan with a flick of his wrist. Arthur tries his best not to stare at it, pale and finely boned. Not real, he reminds himself firmly. No bones, simply an excellent artificial skeleton and artful wiring.
Grabbing a stirrer, Merlin ups the platform’s heat with a brush of his ridiculously graceful fingers and Arthur silently curses each and everyone who’d been involved with the M-RYS models’ design.
“Could you hurry it up,” he demands, and he knows it’s petulant, but it’s the only way he knows to distract himself. “I have to leave in half an hour.”
Merlin shoots a dubious look at the barely lightening sky, hand never faltering as he mixes the now melted capsule with the powder, creating the dense yellow consistency that are slowly morphing into scrambled eggs.
“Who gets up at this ridiculous hour anyway?” Merlin asks, winkling his nose a little as though the notion is particularly distasteful. Considering it’s coming from a computer that doesn’t even need to sleep, the whole thing is rather ridiculous. “I thought you were the CEO, or something. Doesn’t that mean you get to sleep in? Come in when you want?”
“Assistant CEO,” Arthur corrects automatically. “And of course you’d think that. I can see how seriously you take your duties.” He pointedly narrows his eyes at the mess on his countertops and the unhurried way in which Merlin is stirring the eggs.
Merlin scowls at him. “I’m not your servant.”
Arthur wishes he had something to throw at him. “You are whatever I say you are,” he snaps. “Remember the conversation we had about standby?”
Merlin visibly clenches his jaw and gives Arthur a hateful stare, looking not in the least threatened. Grabbing a plate from the cupboard above him, he artlessly dumps the steaming eggs on it and very nearly throws it down on the counter in front of Arthur.
“Here you are, Your Royal Prattishness,” Merlin bites out. Then adds a sickeningly pleasant, “Enjoy your meal.” Which rather sounds as though he hopes Arthur would choke on it.
Arthur can feel the flush of anger burning hotly all the way from his nape to his face, but before he can say anything else, Merlin has brushed past him and disappeared down the hall.
He doesn’t scream in frustration, but it’s a very near thing. His ring digs sharply into his skin as he squeezes his fork in a punishing grip.
*
Arthur throws himself into his work, guilt nagging at him every step of the way. He’s not used to lying; can’t stand it, in fact, and his dishonesty feels like a physical itch beneath his skin.
Thankfully, putting together the preparations for the M-RYS launch party is keeping him harried enough to at least take his mind off his personal dilemma most of the time. Even so, Nimueh is trying his patience and his nerves are stretched thin over the next two days between being forced into Nimueh’s presence and his father’s unspoken, but all too familiar, demands. Usually, Arthur at least has some time to himself in the evenings to, if not unwind, then at least wind down, but now his home isn’t his own anymore and there’s Merlin with his stupid smile and ridiculous ears and those bloody cheekbones-
He wants to hate Merlin, wants it so much - and Arthur tries, he really does. Tries so hard to focus on the unpleasant way in which Merlin’s suddenly shoved his way into Arthur’s life, on how he can never do as Arthur tells him to. Arthur thinks about the messes Merlin makes and the way he touches Arthur’s things and then forgets to put them back, on the rebellious fire in his eyes and how there must be so much passion simmering right there, beneath the surface, and the way his lips sometimes quirk just the tiniest bit when Arthur is being particularly sarcastic, on what these lips would feel like on-
Arthur shuts down on that line of thought with enough force to make him dizzy. No. No, no, no, not going there, not even anywhere near there, not at all.
His head is throbbing and he brings his hand to his face, rubbing it roughly before pinching the bridge of his nose for good measure.
“You look like hell,” Lance says from the door to Arthur’s office and when Arthur checks the time on his holo-desk, he finds that lunch time has somehow creeped up on him while he wasn’t looking.
Lance takes a step inside, the door sliding shut behind him, and sets down a clear pod in front of Arthur - salad again, because he’s known Arthur long enough to know that he hates heavy food while he’s working.
“I’m fine,” Arthur says, a lingering edge of sharpness in his voice. Stress has done little in tempering his mood.
Lance raises a pointed eyebrow, but thankfully refrains from commenting as he settles into the chair opposite Arthur’s desk and pulls out a sandwich.
“There’s a get-together at Elena and Mithian’s tonight,” he says instead, unwrapping it. “You should come. Elyan and Percy are in as well.”
Arthur thinks about Merlin, then about Morgana, who he hasn’t had time to visit since this whole thing had started.
He presses his lips together. “I don’t know…”
“Arthur,” Lance says, for once unrelenting. “You need a breather. Come to dinner, relax a little. You don’t have to stay long, just…give yourself a break, alright?”
Arthur traces his ring, pushing the pad of his index finger into the ridge where gold meets platinum.
“I wanted to visit Morgana tonight,” he says, feeling his forehead folding into an increasingly unhappy frown.
Lance sighs and puts down his half-eaten sandwich as he leans forward in his seat.
“Morgana can wait for another night,” he says mildly. “We can visit her together, tomorrow.”
Arthur gives him a look. “You mean you want to visit Gwen.”
Lance looks suddenly very red and Arthur can’t help but laugh at him a little, feeling himself relax for the first time today.
“You know I care about Morgana,” Lance says, almost wounded. “She’s my friend. I worry about her and I want to see her.”
Arthur smiles at him, pats his arm as he finally relents and picks up that stupid salad. “I know.”
And he does. Other than Elyan, who frequently drops by Morgana’s flat to see Gwen, Lance seems to be handling the whole thing the best. His natural charm and altogether unthreatening presence appear to have a soothing effect on Morgana and so, despite her usual reluctance towards strangers, she’d quickly warmed to Lance after Arthur had introduced him when they’d met in second grade. Which is also the epic story of how Lance fell in love with Gwen at first sight when she’d become Morgana’s nurse two years ago and then proceeded to do Arthur’s head in by going all starry eyed every time her name was mentioned. It still had taken him and Gwen, who’d clearly been equally besotted, over a year to finally confess to each other.
Arthur had mostly reacted to the whole thing with some teasing and a lot of eye rolling.
“Fine, I’ll come,” Arthur finally relents with a sigh, their food now gone.
And Lance gives him one of those bright smiles of his that are enough to charm the socks off everyone within his radius and brings a hand down on Arthur’s back in a friendly clap. “Great, I’ll come up in the evening and we can go together.”
*
Percy and Elyan are already there when Lance and Arthur arrive. Elena opens the door with a blinding smile and squeezes them both in a hug that Arthur swears has his bones grinding together. Elena’s always been a lot stronger than she looks, a fact that quite a few people have found out the hard way over the years. There’s a reason why she’d instantly hit it off with Percy, turning them into the terror of every bouncer. There isn’t a brawl in the entertainment district that Elena and Percy haven’t at least marginally been part of, both of them far too eager to hand out punches to those they deem in need of some.
Mithian, who Arthur’s known since he was little and been friends with just as long, is Elena’s opposite in a lot of ways - possibly the reason why they complement each other so flawlessly. They met on one of the rare nights where Arthur and Percy convinced her to come out with them and it had more or less been love at first sight for them - or at least for Elena, who’d started pursuing a somewhat reluctant Mithian rather relentlessly until she’d finally agreed to give her a chance.
Best decision I ever made, Mithian had admitted to Arthur after they’d started dating officially, hearts practically shining from her eyes.
“Arthur,” Mithian greets him warmly, her hug much gentler but no less sincere. “I’m so happy you made it. I haven’t seen you in weeks.”
“I’m sorry,” Arthur says and means it. He gives her a squeeze, then lets go with a rueful smile. “Work’s been kind of insane lately.”
Mithian nods. “So I’ve heard.” She looks at Arthur, then, and he already knows what her next question will be. People tend to get a certain look about them when talking to Arthur about his sister, a strange mix between sympathetic and a forced neutrality that never fails to make Arthur’s defences flare up, sharp and instinctive. “How’s Morgana?”
Arthur presses his lips together and tries very hard to look unaffected. “She’s well, thank you.” Still insane, he doesn’t say. Still drugged to the gills most of the time and babbling nonsense, thank you very much for asking.
“Good,” Mithian says, giving him a slightly nervous smile. “That’s good.”
And when she turns away to address the others, calling them to the table, Arthur lets himself breathe a sigh of relief. He’s never liked airing his personal matters, not even to his closest friends, and out of all of them, his sister is a particularly sore spot. If only for the reason that Arthur feels so very helpless whenever he thinks about her and the fact that there’s nothing, nothing at all, that he can do for her.
It’s unfair, he knows. Mithian cares, all his friends do, and it must be difficult for them, especially Mithian who’d known Morgana before. Even so, Arthur has always known that they rub each other the wrong way, Morgana’s decent into insanity notwithstanding. Still, Mithian had made an effort to visit a handful of times until Morgana made Arthur promise to keep Mithian out of her hair from now on.
Elena and Percy had been a little more successful in their attempts to befriend Morgana, but Arthur can tell that Morgana makes Elena uneasy and that Percy has trouble figuring out how to act around her - though neither of them would ever say anything like that to Arthur’s face.
Shaking off his morose train of thought, Arthur follows everyone to the table.
It’s laden down with bowls and platters, each of them hovering above their designated spot at the centre of the table; brightly coloured vegetables and potatoes freshly picked from their growing pods, rice, pasta in all shapes and colours. In-between, neatly presented, are the chemically grown meat and fish bases, pre-cut into sensible, mouth-sized pieces with an abundance of different flavouring capsules held by little ornate vases.
The sight alone makes Arthur’s previously silent stomach growl traitorously.
“Eat up,” Elena says cheerfully.
Which prompts everyone into motion. Not a moment later, the room is filled with the sound of chatter and the clattering of plates and cutlery. Dishes are passed around, exchanging hands as everyone puts a little bit of everything on their plates, the rims bursting to life as they’re filled, descriptions and temperatures flashing up, ignored.
Arthur, after piling a small amount of each side-dish and a handful of diced meat base, chooses a chicken flavoured capsule and then, feeling particularly indulgent for once, a few general flavour enhancers.
Elyan and Mithian struck up a conversation about the health care system and Lance joins in, while at the other side of the table Percy and Elena regale Arthur with a tale about their last brawl. No one brings up his family or work again and Arthur finally feels himself relax for the first time in days, laughing and eating so much he thinks he might never be able to get up off his chair again.
Afterwards they settle in front of the entertainment system and battle each other in various holo-games. It’s only much later, after he’s beat Mithian at chess for the third time in a row that he finally manages to force himself to bid everyone goodnight and braves the freezing night outside.
*
The drive home is mercifully short and Arthur is ready to just go to bed, maybe finally get round to continuing the book he hasn’t managed to finish in a month because of his busy schedule. But when he comes home, Merlin is waiting for him, leaning against the wall just off the hall, his arms folded and his face set into something grim and unreadable.
“Would it have killed you to let me know that you’d be home late?” he asks quietly.
Arthur feels a twinge of guilt, but forces himself to clamp down on it. He sincerely wishes that he could just ignore him, but there’s something about Merlin - he can’t quite put his finger on it; something that never fails to bypass all of his meticulously erected barriers and go straight under his skin.
“I didn’t know I had to announce my plans to you,” Arthur says, going for cool and dismissive as he slips out of his coat and suit jacket.
“I was worried, you prat,” Merlin snaps and there’s nothing Arthur can do about the sudden warmth flooding his chest. It’s terrifying. “I know you’re stressed about the launch and everything, and I understand it must be weird to suddenly have someone in your space, but that doesn’t mean that you have to be such a clotpole about everything.”
“Clotpole?” Arthur asks, momentarily side-tracked.
Merlin gives him an exasperated look. “Listen, I know this whole situation is a little messed up, but I thought it might help if we actually talk to each other. Maybe get to know each other a little, spend some time together or something.”
Panic seizes Arthur, sudden and overwhelming, each of his walls slamming down instinctively. A sneer tugs at his lips, cruel in his desperation to defend himself from the inexplicable longing to say yes, yes I’d like that. Arthur ruthlessly clamps down on all of it.
“What is this?” he snaps harshly. “Are you going to ask to braid my hair and paint each other’s nails next?”
And just like that, every bit of softness on Merlin’s face disappears. Arthur bites the inside of his cheek and tastes blood.
“You’re a right arsehole, you know that?” Merlin bites out.
“Oh, I know,” Arthur scoffs. “I’m also the one in charge here, which you seem to keep forgetting.” He lifts his finger and Merlin glares at it viciously. “I’m only going to say this once, so listen carefully. I don’t owe you anything. You’re not my friend, you’re a computer, Merlin - and for all intents and purposes, until I give you back, you’re my computer. So you’ll do as I tell you; nothing more, nothing less. Are we clear?”
Merlin’s face is shuttered, a hard edge to his jaw and his eyes, if possible, somehow even bluer than usual. It hurts a little to look at him, but Arthur forces himself to hold his gaze, not backing down.
“Crystal,” Merlin hisses, voice tight and angry. And it almost looks as though that’s all he’s going to say, makes as if to leave Arthur standing there, but then he turns back once more and fixes him with a look that traps the breath in Arthur’s chest. “You know, when you took me with you- when you stopped disassembling me because I asked you to, I thought,” His eyes flicker away, before resettling on Arthur, heavy and full of hurt. “I thought you did it because you cared. Clearly, I was wrong.”
He does go then, leaving Arthur with the feeling as though he’s swallowed an entire chunk of ice.
*
Merlin isn’t talking to him and Arthur tells himself that that’s exactly the way he likes it.
He tries checking his emails, but keeps catching himself as he steals glances at Merlin aggressively making him breakfast. Arthur stubbornly convinces himself that he’s only looking because he enjoys the fact that he’s finally managed to shut Merlin up for good, but that lie is too big, a round peg trying to fit into a square hole and failing, no matter how hard Arthur shoves at it.
Merlin, who manages to turn even his silence into something rebellious and belligerent, plonks down Arthur’s french toast in a way that almost has it toppling over the edge of the plate. That done, he stomps off, retreating to his usual place on the floating settee with Arthur’s ereader without so much as a glance in Arthur’s direction.
Arthur scowls at his food, but he really can’t be arsed dealing with another argument at this hour; when the times spent throwing himself from one edge of the bed to the other are still closer than not, the desperate need for sleep still lingering, clinging to him in a way that has Arthur’s lids feel heavy and his mind sluggish.
He barely tastes the food as he shovels it into his mouth, eating only about half and cutting up the rest into tiny pieces which he then spreads artfully across his plate.
Merlin doesn’t look up once, no quiet word of goodbye drifting into the hall as Arthur puts on his shoes.
Good, Arthur thinks stubbornly, even as his chest feels too tight and he has to swallow a few times to make his throat feel less constricted. He got the message.
*
Work is hectic and Arthur spends most of his time fending off Nimueh and sending Leon list after list of things that still need to be done. And if that wasn’t enough, later that evening his father drags him out for a last minute get-together with some special VIPs and business partners.
By the end of the night, Arthur’s cheeks are aching from overly-bright smiles and the weight of his exhaustion has turned the sweet taste of the many desserts into something sickly in his mouth. The abundance of food that had been served lies heavily in his stomach and Arthur feels ill with it.
He finally slips away just after another bottle of wine has been opened, making his excuses to the inebriated VIPs and his not entirely sober father, who waves him off good-naturedly.
Setting his car on auto-pilot, Arthur dozes the entire ride back to the flat and can hardly make himself exit it once he’s arrived. He honestly considers simply going to sleep right then and there, but manages to somehow scramble out in the end.
The movement of the ascender, though smooth and steady, is enough to make him press his lips together as his stomach roils. He barely catches a passing glance of Merlin, tucked into his usual place with only the blue glow of the aquarium and the pale light of the ereader’s screen making him look faintly ghostly, before he’s stumbled past and straight into his bedroom, falling face-first into his sheets.
When he wakes some hours later, his windows have been darkened to block the busy city lights and there’s a glass of water on his bedside table. Next to it, a loaded hypospray is laid out, ready for use.
Arthur tries very hard not to care, tries to ignore the gesture for something any domestic android would do. He almost succeeds, if it weren’t for the fact that Merlin hasn’t ever behaved like a true domestic android, not once, and Arthur very much doubts that he’s started now. Guilt niggles at him, but he pushes it down, firmly reminding himself of the fact that Merlin is just a temporary thing and that getting attached to an android is never a good thing. Getting attached to anyone isn’t a good thing.
I thought you did it because you cared. His ceiling seems to be telling him, his inner eye supplying the gut wrenching image of Merlin’s beautiful face twisted with hurt. Clearly, I was wrong.
Arthur blanches, decides that he must still be drunk and shakily reaches for the hypo, wincing a little as he administers it. Praying that the lingering feelings of exhaustion and the remaining alcohol in his system is still high enough to drug him into sleep, Arthur rolls over and closes his eyes.
He ends up sleeping until noon.
It’s Saturday, so he doesn’t have to get up, half-heartedly promising himself that he would go to the office later tonight, or maybe tomorrow.
He wishes he could say that he’s forgotten all about his argument with Merlin, that the bitter taste in his mouth is from something other than the cutting words he’d so viciously thrown about.
Merlin, of course, is still ignoring him and makes no sign of even having noticed Arthur’s presence as he enters the kitchen. Throwing a series of surreptitious glances at Merlin’s profile through the aquarium, Arthur’s eyes unwittingly linger on the edges of Merlin’s face, softened by the reflections of the water.
The fish almost look as though they’re mocking him. Arthur scowls at them and turns away.
On the counter behind him, he finds a cold cup of coffee, a plate with eggs that have dried and shriveled up a little since this morning, and an equally cold plate of a meagre lunch. All of this is set out in an obnoxious row, right there for Arthur to find. Little else has ever spelled out fuck you quite like this before. Arthur doesn’t know what makes him feel worse, the lingering guilt or the fact that he’s feeling guilty in the first place.
Not knowing what else to do with himself and dreading leaving the safety of the kitchen, Arthur chucks the food into the recycling tube and the coffee into the sink, before starting up the coffee maker and rummaging through the cupboards in the search for some toast. He digs out some jam and slaps that on as well, before steeling himself and carrying everything off to his working area.
Across the room, Merlin doesn’t stir.
Arthur hovers next to his desk chair like an idiot, before squaring his shoulders in decision. Clearly, this isn’t about to go away and leave him in peace and Arthur can’t stand leaving things unresolved.
He takes a deep breath. “Merlin,” he says, a little stiff and a lot awkward. “Come over here, please.”
And Merlin does look up, then. Maybe it’s the ‘please’ that does it. It all makes Arthur feel even more of an arsehole - something that despite frequent claims to the contrary, he doesn’t enjoy in the least.
Merlin manages to project a rebellious air even as he complies, glaring at Arthur all the way through his march across the room. He folds himself into his usual spot by the holo-desk next to Arthur’s chair and Arthur sits down as well, muscles tight with tension.
He powers up the holo-desk and fishes the pin-cable from where it’s dropped to the floor. When he goes to reach for Merlin to plug it in, however, Merlin jerks away from his touch before Arthur’s fingers have the chance to so much as brush him. Instead, he gives Arthur another vicious glare and yanks the cable from his hand, deftly slotting it into place himself.
The rejection leaves Arthur oddly hollow, something clenching painfully in his chest that Arthur refuses to believe is his heart.
He swallows and looks away, turning towards the glowing surface of the desk and staring down at it, unseeing. He brings up the window with Merlin’s code, but it all bleeds into lines of gibberish and Arthur has to clear a throat that feels as though its coated in sandpaper.
“I might have been a bit…harsh,” he says abruptly, the words tumbling from his mouth without him even remembering putting them together. He clears his throat, again, then adds stupidly, “The other night.” As if there’d been any doubt as to which timeframe he’d been referring.
Merlin looks up at him sharply. “You think?”
Arthur deflates a little, pushing the breath from his lungs, and twists his ring. Left, right, then left again.
“I’m just,” he starts, then stops again, fumbling for words. “I’m not used to- this. Sharing my space, having someone else here. My father wasn’t around much and I moved out years ago, and my sister-” he clamps down abruptly, suddenly aware of how much he was just about to lay bare. The growing horror of how easy it feels to just blurt these things out to Merlin, when Arthur usually has trouble sharing even the most basic information about himself, makes Arthur recoil - his battered little thing of a heart shrieking in silent mortification and crawling into some hidden corner in his chest while beating so hard Arthur fears it might never calm down again.
Fingers curling inwards, Arthur mercilessly presses his fingernails into the flesh of his palm as he carefully draws his tattered self-control around himself once more.
“What I’m trying to say,” he says then, relieved when it comes out appropriately hard-edged. “Is that it’s going to take a while to get used to this- you. And I’d appreciate you not asking any questions about me or my family. I’m not big on sharing.”
Merlin gives him a long look, apparently unfazed by the tone of his voice. And when Arthur dares to meet his eyes, he doesn’t look angry anymore, which, stupidly enough, makes Arthur breathe just that little easier.
“You could’ve just said so, you know,” Merlin says, quiet now and oddly intimate. It makes Arthur’s skin feel tight and too hot. “I wasn’t trying to make you tell me anything you don’t want to, I- I don’t want to make you uncomfortable.”
Arthur twists his ring again, looks away. “I know.”
*
Despite his initial optimism about the discovery of the malfunction, Arthur soon realises that there’s no way he’ll be able to return Merlin in time for the other models to be shipped out. Clearly, he should be chagrined about that. Instead, he catches himself with something that feels a lot like relief spreading through his chest and easing a knot there he hadn’t even been aware of. And really, between rushing from one interview to the next, dealing with the ongoing preparations for that blasted launch party and having his father breathing down his neck at every turn, Arthur could really do without having even more to add on top. Especially not a malfunctioning android that he’s currently illegally harbouring in his flat and - because such is Arthur’s life - he’s apparently developing some sort of twisted obsession for.
Because yes, that’s all it is. Obsession, unhealthy infatuation- definitely not anything involving his stupid heart, which quite clearly is bent on making horrible decisions for him and hasn’t managed to get the message that it’s better left where it is after the last time it’d tried to get involved in Arthur’s life.
Lance knows something’s up, of course he does. Arthur can see it in his eyes, hear it in the cadence of his voice when he asks Arthur if he’s alright. He doesn’t press, which Arthur expects but is no less grateful for. For someone like Arthur, who’s used to bottling things - and by things he means feelings - up and carefully shelving them to be ignored as best he can, not telling Lance about Merlin turns out to be far harder than he’d thought.
Two weeks after he’d encountered the mystery that is Merlin, Arthur is beyond frustrated and caught in a helpless limbo where nothing seems like he hasn’t been over it at least a dozen times before. At a dead end and tired of his own, uselessly spiralling thoughts, Arthur carefully proceeds to not talk about Merlin with Lance during their customary lunch break.
He dives into the topic with as much apparent detachment as he possibly can which, in retrospect, is probably exactly what tips Lance off in the first place. Arthur’s acting skills, as award winning as they are to the rest of the world, have never been much good with Lance - which is probably the reason why he’d ended up in the sorry position of Arthur’s best friend in the first place.
“How likely is it,” Arthur starts his carefully prepared sentence, never taking his eyes off his lunch. “That a glitch with the memory components affects only the stored information on the hard drive without affecting the personalisation process and speech patterns?”
Lance looks up with a frown, taking the time to swallow before he answers.
“Incredibly unlikely,” he says, wiping his hands on a stray napkin. “In fact, it’s pretty implausible if you ask me. As you know, our hard drives work entirely on interlocking partitions - a glitch with the memory components would stand in direct line with the behavioural settings.”
Arthur taps his fork against the edge of the pod. It’s nothing he doesn’t already know, but hearing it confirmed only highlights how out of his depth he really is.
“What about a delay, then?”
Lance tilts his head in thought. “Possible,” he says slowly, before shaking his head. “But usually that leads to hang-ups in the entire system and could lead to the android freezing or missing bits of data while the system is busy catching up. And it’d show in the code, wouldn’t it?”
Arthur sighs and rubs his face, suddenly feeling impossibly tired. “Yeah,” he says, defeated. “It would.”
Lance gives him a long look and Arthur knows that face, knows that he’s failed his performance.
“Why’re you asking?” Lance asks, still studying him intently in a way that makes Arthur want to squirm. He doesn’t, but it’s a near thing. “Are you having problems with one of the androids?”
“No,” Arthur says, but even to his own ears it sounds unconvincing.
Lace raises his eyebrows. “Arthur,” he says in his I-know-you’re-trying-to-bullshit-me-so-try-again voice. “You know you can tell me anything, right?”
Arthur does know that, but even now, with all the things weighing heavily on his mind, he can’t bring himself to say anything.
“I’m fine,” he lies. “Really.”
Lance doesn’t look convinced. At all. But thankfully, he lets the topic drop and doesn’t stop Arthur from changing the subject.
When Arthur returns to work a few minutes later, he tries very hard not to think about Merlin, and fails miserably.
*
Taking a deep breath, Arthur rings the doorbell for propriety’s sake, before waving his chip at the scanner and entering his sister’s flat.
It’s the opposite from Arthur’s own preferences, old fashioned and full of colour. Curtains adorned with expensive lace frame the windows and Arthur isn’t even sure where she’s got them from - they’re probably custom made. An unnecessary amount of pillows is artfully arranged on a squishy couch that looks like something out of an antique shop - which, knowing Morgana, is probably where she got it from. Physical books are lined along an ancient looking shelf and real plants stretch towards the windows from all over the room.
Arthur makes it past the clutter and through a wooden sliding door leading into the kitchen, which easily rivals the size of the main living room. Having been forced to spend most of her life at home, Morgana has taken up cooking and baking as her hobbies. Her doctors confirmed that it would benefit her, saying that regulated and organised activity would help distract her from what’s going on inside her head and instead make it easier to concentrate on something rooted in the real world.
Arthur is just happy to see Morgana lucid enough to do anything, really. Not to mention that, before Merlin, she’d been the only reason he ever ate anything other than ready meals.
Today, however, Morgana isn’t standing behind a counter, whisking or stirring furiously. Instead, she’s curled up on the sofa in the corner with a book. Ariadne, her demon of a cat, is resting in her lap and Gwen, on the opposite end, is flicking her fingers across the screen of the tablet in her hands. When she catches sight of Arthur, she greets him with a smile and puts down her tablet, standing up to meet him.
“How’s she doing?” Arthur asks quietly, his eyes flickering to his sister who serenely turns a page in her book. Too serenely.
As if sensing his gaze, Ariadne opens one of her golden eyes and gives him a thoroughly unimpressed look, before closing it once more. She looks, once more, deeply asleep. Arthur doesn’t buy it for a second.
“She’s alright,” Gwen says, casting a sympathetic look in Morgana’s direction before turning back to him. “We had a bit of a rough night. She kept waking up, screaming, so I had to double her dose again. She eventually settled when the sun came up.”
Arthur frowns. “You should’ve called me.”
Gwen gives him a soft look and touches his arm. “You need your rest, Arthur. It wasn’t that bad, all things considered. She’s been doing really well these past few weeks.” It was bound to get worse again soon, she doesn’t say, but Arthur knows that that’s what she’s thinking.
He looks away, studying Morgana’s apparent passivity. The distant look in her eyes is all too familiar and even after years of the same, it still makes Arthur’s heart clench painfully in his chest.
“Yeah,” is all he can bring himself to say, jaw tight.
Gwen gives his arm a gentle squeeze, before letting go and retreating to the living area to give them some privacy. Arthur appreciates the thought.
Gwen is by far the best nurse Morgana’s ever had and Arthur’s endlessly grateful for her presence. She’s the first person living with Morgana that Arthur doesn’t feel like throttling every time he has a conversation with them. After Katrina, Arthur had seriously considered taking Morgana in and caring for her himself, but his father had wanted to hear nothing about it. He insisted that Arthur was in no position to provide the appropriate care, that there were professionals for ‘this sort of thing’ who wouldn’t be sacrificing their careers in the process.
But while it’s true that Arthur lacks patience in most areas and that caring for Morgana is a 24/7 job, he’s sure that for Morgana, he could’ve done it - even if it had meant going crazy right alongside her. When the topic had come up, however, Morgana - in one of her more lucid phases - had refused and told Arthur that there was no way she would live with him under the same roof. She’d been convinced that she’d kill him within the first week and Arthur really couldn’t bring himself to contradict her, because he’s pretty sure that it’s true.
Sucking in a breath, Arthur takes a step forward. Ariadne’s ears twitch, as does her tail.
Sleeping my foot, he thinks as he eyes the black cat warily. She’s probably fantasising about clawing my eyes out right now.
Arthur doesn’t understand why Morgana had insisted on getting an actual cat. At least with a zoondroid they could’ve programmed her to be something other than a vicious little beast. But Morgana has always loved old things and has kept herself apart from most of Pendragon’s tech as long as Arthur can remember. The only things she’s allowed into her home are a communicator and tablet - of which both models are terribly outdated - and an ebook reader for when she can’t find something in print. When she listens to music, she does so over a clunky sound system from the previous century that Arthur refuses to call an antique; she doesn’t own an entertainment unit and Arthur can’t remember the last time he’s seen her actually watch something on a screen. Due to her frequent headaches, vivid nightmares and her type of medication, Arthur knows that Morgana has trouble focusing, especially if it involves rapid movements and flashes of light.
Mindful of Adriane’s flexing paws, Arthur carefully lowers himself to sit by Morgana’s folded legs.
“Hey,” he says softly. “How’re you feeling?”
It takes a moment for Morgana to acknowledge him, but when she does it’s with a dopey smile, blurry around the edges and lacking any of her natural sharpness.
“Arthur,” she says, her lips stretched wide.
Arthur forces his lips to curve. “Hey,” he repeats lamely. It’s unlikely that anything he says will get through to his sister when she’s like this.
When she grasps his hand a moment later, sudden and tight, Arthur jumps a little and Ariadne’s eyes snap open to glare at him, her tail whipping back and forth twice.
“You have to keep looking,” Morgana says, smile gone and eyes alight with frantic intensity.
Arthur swallows, but covers Morgana’s hand, gently pressing it between both of his own. He’s had years to get used to this, but even so the display never fails to make a shiver crawl up his spine. There’s something about Morgana when she gets like this, something that makes the hairs at the back of his neck stand on end.
“Look for what?” Arthur asks quietly.
“Questions,” Morgana says firmly, as though it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “You have to start looking for the questions.”
Arthur sighs, knowing better than to engage her and unable to keep from pressing even so.
“What questions, Morgana, what are you talking about?”
She squeezes his hand, hard, grinding the bones of his knuckles together in a painful grip.
“The questions that will lead to the answers.” She’s a little breathless now, clearly agitated. “But you haven’t started asking.”
Arthur holds her gaze, but it’s hard to recognise his sister beneath the madness.
“I’m asking now,” he says intently, rubbing soothingly at her fingers despite his sister’s crushing grip. “Morgana, what do you mean?”
But Morgana’s eyes have already flitted away, fixing back on her book. Her grip goes slack and her eyes don’t move away from the words on the page before her, almost as if she hadn’t stopped reading in the first place.
“Morgana?” Arthur asks, careful.
Morgana doesn’t answer and Arthur lowers his head, feeling suddenly defeated. When he pinches the bridge of his nose, Morgana slips her hand out of his grip and starts stroking Ariadne’s shiny black fur - the rhythm uneven, almost jerky. Arthur presses harder, his fingers digging into his skin, but it does nothing to ground him.
A hand lands on his shoulder, giving a reassuring squeeze, and Arthur looks up at Gwen’s sad smile.
“Why don’t you come back tomorrow?” she says gently. “She’ll be better then.”
Arthur nods and rises wordlessly, letting Gwen’s hand slide away.
“I’ll do that,” he says, suddenly tired. “Please call me if she gets worse.”
Gwen nods and gives Arthur another smile. “I will.”
Arthur means to return it, but his lips won’t co-operate. He instead opts for another nod and, with one last look at Morgana’s vacant stare, he leaves.
*
When he steps into his own flat a minute later, the lights are on and so is the holo-projector, turned onto a random music channel. Merlin is puttering around in the kitchen, humming along to whatever song is currently playing, his voice nearly drowned out by the speakers. For a moment, Arthur simply lets himself look, taking in the way the blue robe undulates with Merlin’s movements, his hips swaying to the beat and his long fingers quick and nimble as he stirs whatever he’s cooked tonight. It smells delicious, though the mere thought of food is enough to turn Arthur’s stomach.
“Oh!” Merlin says when he catches sight of him after a particularly vigorous twirl. “There you are. Dinner’s ready.”
“I’m not hungry,” Arthur says.
Merlin huffs, annoyed. “Did you eat out again? Seriously, Arthur, is it too much to ask-”
“Just put it in a pod,” Arthur cuts him off, voice harsh and sharper than intended. Merlin snaps his mouth shut and Arthur wants to take it back, follows it up with a weak, “I’ll eat it tomorrow.” Before making his escape. He’s in no state to deal with anything right now, least of all this convoluted thing with Merlin.
In his bedroom, Arthur yanks off his tie and shrugs out of his suit jacket, throwing both across the room without looking. Usually he’s very particular about keeping his street clothes off the bed, but today he can’t bring himself to care. He collapses on the mattress still in his dress shirt and slacks and pulls the closest pillow over his head.
Arthur knows he shouldn’t have gotten his hopes up, everyone always tells him not to, but Morgana had been so well. She’d been coherent and happy, baking Arthur muffins and snarking at him when he’d told her about work and his friends’ various escapades. A few weeks ago, Gwen had agreed to lower Morgana’s dose a little, seeing as there hadn’t been a screaming fit in almost two months and Arthur had really, stupidly, thought that it was a sign that things were getting better. But now Morgana is back to being vacant and unresponsive, babbling nonsense and losing herself within her own mind.
Despite all reassurances, Arthur knows all too well that sooner rather than later, he’ll get a call in the middle of the night from a concerned Gwen, asking him to come down and help a hysteric Morgana calm down. And it isn’t fair, Arthur thinks - not caring how childish it sounds even in the privacy of his own head - not fair at all. Morgana is a good person, she deserves better than this. If there was any way, any way at all for Arthur to make her better, he’d do it in a heartbeat, no matter what it is. But Morgana has been seen by the best psychiatrists in the country, if not the world, and all of them said the same thing. Delusion, disconnection from reality - treatable yes, but incurable.
Pressing the pillow tighter to his face, Arthur lets out a sound of frustration.
“Arthur?” Merlin’s asks softly from the vicinity of the door.
Arthur stiffens. “Get out,” he says, impossibly tired, his voice muffled and barely audible.
Merlin either doesn’t hear, or chooses to ignore him. Arthur’s pretty sure it’s the latter.
His bare feet are quiet, but Arthur can feel the warm presence of his body when he stops at his bedside.
“Do you want to talk about it?”
What Arthur wants is to yank Merlin down and into bed with him, which is exactly the reason why he needs him to get the hell away from him. He takes the pillow off, his fingers digging into it hard enough to hurt.
“Are you deaf?” he snaps. “Get. Out.”
Merlin regards him silently for another moment, before turning away and leaving without another word. Arthur almost calls him back, but bites down on his tongue instead.
He doesn’t know how long he just lies there, staring at the ceiling, but eventually he manages to scramble up and drag himself into the bathroom, chucking off the rest of his clothes and taking a quick shower before slipping into something more comfortable. When he gets back, Merlin is perched at the edge of his bed, dark blue fabric pooling around his legs and baring a pale calf. Arthur stares at him, aghast. He very much wants to scream, or rip that thing off him - preferably both.
“Wasn’t I clear enough before?”
“I brought you something to eat,” Merlin says, unruffled, pointing at a plate with food on the bedside table next to a glass of water.
Arthur scowls and folds his arms in front of his chest. “Fine. Is that all?”
“You know,” Merlin says slowly. “Sometimes it’s hard talking to people you’re close to and I get that you’ve got this thing about not appearing weak-”
Arthur bares his teeth, snarling.“I don’t have a thing!”
Merlin rolls his eyes, apparently completely unimpressed by Arthur’s temper.
“Whatever.” He makes a vague gesture with his hand. When he speaks again, it’s quieter, something soft about the way he looks at Arthur, making Arthur’s heart promptly go into over-drive. “What I’m trying to tell you is that if you need someone to talk to, I’m here. Okay? It’s practically in my job description.”
Arthur snorts, his fingers digging into his own arms as he presses them tighter to his chest like a shield. “Since when do you care about anything remotely to do with your ‘job description’?”
Merlin shrugs. “I don’t. But I thought it might get you to tell me what’s bothering you.”
“I don’t need to talk about my feelings,” Arthur scoffs, feeling his lips twist into something hard and mean. “I’m fine.”
“Sure,” Merlin says in that way that Arthur knows means exactly the opposite.
He holds Arthur’s gaze, sharp and intent as though he can see straight into him, reading all the things Arthur so carefully guards there. It makes Arthur’s skin itch and he’s forced to fight down the heated flush creeping up from his neck towards his face.
Merlin sighs. “Arthur, seriously. I’m no one. I’m not even human. When you’ve found out what’s going on, you’ll wipe my hard drive and I won’t even remember any of this. So if you ever need anything, if you’d like to show just a little weakness, for once. With me. Then that’s okay.”
The words sting. Like a slap to the face - or rather a stab in the gut. He deserves them, of course he does, after all the things he’s thrown at Merlin, all these vehement reminders of his place in Arthur’s life - not matter how untrue they actually are. It shouldn’t hurt so much that Merlin actually believed him.
Arthur keeps his face carefully blank, while inside he feels like a ship being beaten by a storm. He wants to tell Merlin No, I couldn’t and other stupid, stupid things like I wouldn’t want you to forget me.
He wavers, balancing precariously on a wall that feels as though it’s crumbling out from beneath his feet. He sucks in a deep breath, then lets it back out and folds himself onto the bed beside Merlin, defeated.
“It’s my sister,” Arthur says quietly. “You know hat she’s…ill.”
“Yeah,” Merlin says, shifting a little and ending up facing Arthur properly. It’s intimate, them sitting on Arthur’s bed, in a space where no one but Arthur has ever been, not even Sophia. “But I don’t know any details.”
Arthur presses his lips together. “There’s not a lot about it on the official sites, my father’s tried to keep it all as quiet as possible, but if you dig a little you should be able to find all the juicy details. Sophia,” Arthur swallows, the name tasting bitter and foreign on his tongue after avoiding it for so long. “She had quite a bit about it in her exposé.”
“It isn’t your fault, you know,” Merlin says softly and Arthur’s chest tightens painfully. He doesn’t know how they got from Morgana to Sophia, didn’t know how badly he’d needed to hear those words until Merlin said them just then. “She played you, you couldn’t have known.”
“I shouldn’t have trusted her, I-” He shakes his head.
“You made a mistake,” Merlin’s voice is firm, his eyes intent and soft all at once. “Everyone’s allowed to make mistakes, Arthur. You can’t be perfect all the time.”
“No,” Arthur mutters. “I’m not perfect at all, but I have to be. It’s what’s expected of me. I have this image that I need to uphold, this box where I have to fit.”
“Says who?”
Their hands are so close now, resting side by side on the coverlet, and Arthur wants to badly to reach out-
He curls his fingers inwards, digs them into the bedding, and doesn’t move.
“Everyone.”
Merlin lets out a breath. “Well they’re stupid and you shouldn’t listen to them,” he says firmly. “Arthur, this is your life. You only have one, don’t waste it on other people’s expectations of you.”
Arthur does’t know what to say to that, can’t say anything until the lump in his throat isn’t trying to choke him anymore. But the silence that stretches between them is somehow comfortable, devoid of expectation or awkwardness.
He glances at Merlin and finds him already looking, eyes steady and still nerve-wreckingly intense. Arthur quickly looks away again, clears his throat as he casts about for something to say, desperate to break the heavy mood.
“You know,” he says eventually. “You almost sounded…wise. Just then. I’m not sure if I’m not dreaming.”
Merlin snorts. “And you almost sounded like a decent human being,” he says, dry as dust. “Careful there, or I’ll think you’re losing your touch.”
Arthur glares at him, even as he feels something inside him ease and settle.
“Shut up, Merlin,” he snaps. “And what’s that supposed to mean, anyway?”
Merlin shakes his head. “You know, between your general emotional constipation and your feeling of entitlement-”
Arthur bristles. “I’m not-”
“You are,” Merlin insists, but there’s a softness to his mouth and in his eyes. “But you have a good heart, Arthur. Seems I wasn’t wrong, after all.”
Arthur has trouble concealing the hitch in his breathing, has to swallow before he can reply.
“You don’t know me.” He means for it to come out sharper, more defensive, but instead it’s hoarse and far too vulnerable.
“No,” Merlin says softly. “It’s kinda hard to, with you trying so much not to let anyone close enough to try.”
Arthur looks away. And when exactly has he become quite so truly fucked?
“Alright then, I’ll leave you to your dinner. You know where to find me if you need anything else.”
*
By the end of the week, Arthur’s nerves are worn so thin he fears he might snap any second with no provocation at all. He’s tired and overworked and his head is aching like hell. Unsurprising, seeing as the entire seven days have been filled with barely restrained shouting, ironing out other people’s mistakes and had culminated in a visit to his father’s office for a lecture on how he expected Arthur to prove himself better than his uncle and stressing, for the umpteenth time, how important this launch was for the company.
As if Arthur hadn’t known that.
That day after dinner, Arthur drags himself to his holo-desk and Merlin follows without complaining for once, which Arthur’s pathetically grateful for. His head still feels as though someone’s banging against his brain and his temples are throbbing in tandem. He dims the lights as he settles into his chair and Merlin tilts his head forward without prompting, letting Arthur gently ease the pin-cable into place.
“Why do you do it? Work yourself into the ground like this?” Merlin asks quietly and Arthur can feel Merlin’s eyes on him. He refuses to meet his gaze, keeping his own fixed onto the code in front of him. “It’s not like you need the money.”
“It’s not about the money.” Arthur unnecessarily moves around a few windows. He glances at Merlin out of the corner of his eye, taking in his intent gaze and the way his head is tilted backwards to better look at Arthur; his long, pale neck bared. Arthur wants to know what it feels like beneath his fingers, his mouth. He looks away quickly, trying to remember what they’d been talking about. He clears his throat. “I do it because it’s my duty.”
“Your duty to who? Your father?”
Arthur can practically hear Merlin’s frown in his voice. He sighs, too tired to fight the ridiculous and ever growing urge to talk to Merlin, to confide in him in a way that Arthur usually doesn’t feel comfortable with, not with anyone, least of all someone who he hasn’t even known that long…or something. Does programming someone count as knowing them?
In many ways, Arthur knows Merlin better than he’s ever known another person, but then again Merlin isn’t actually acting like any of the other M-RYS models, so maybe Arthur doesn’t know him at all. It’s rather frightening to realise that he wants to know him, really know him and what’s even more terrifying is that Arthur wants Merlin to know him, too. He just doesn’t know if he’ll ever be able to actually let himself do it - put himself out there like this again after the one and only time it’d gone so horribly wrong.
It’d never been like this with Sophia, though. She’d been interested in him alright, coaxing information out of him in a sort of subtly relentless way. And Arthur had been blind and stupid and told her everything she wanted to know until there had been nothing left to tell and she’d dumped him to run off and publish her article. Arthur hadn’t known until he’d seen the headlines, had just about wrapped his brain around the fact that the person he’d considered someone special in his life had just left him with no other reason than I’m sorry, it’s just not working for me anymore.
But in that moment, standing shaky and sleep-deprived in his kitchen and clinging to the closest counter as he watched notification after notification flood in, Arthur had realised the extent of what had happened. Things that Arthur hadn’t deemed important enough to pay any attention to at the time suddenly made an awful lot of sense, in retrospect. All the times Lance had given him this sort of pinched smile, or Mithian had worried her lip with her teeth, or Elyan had said things like She’s a bit of a bitch, yeah? in that honest way of his that he shares with his sister, and no one had contradicted him.
With Merlin, though, it’s different - bone-deeply frightening in its simplicity. And he doesn’t just want to tell Merlin anecdotes, or a list of things that have happened to him at some point, but things like this, here, now. Simple things like I hate lying and gut wrenching things like I think my father can’t stand the sight of me because I look like my mum or Morgana used to be the only person in the world that gave me hugs and then she went mad and my father locked her away.
“Yes, my father,” Arthur says finally, throat raw and his tongue struggling to form the right sounds, weighed down by the honesty of his words - both said and unsaid. He swallows, laps at lips that feel chapped and hard to move. “But also our customers. The people buying our tech…We’re responsible for it, we tell them that it’s the best and they believe us. They rely on us to give them the best we can and I don’t want to disappoint that. I want my word to count for something, so that when my assurances are plastered all over the media I don’t feel like a liar. I want to be sure that when people read them, when they buy what I worked on, that I’ve given it all I have and done the best possible job.”
Merlin’s staring at him, Arthur can feel the weight of his gaze, and when he turns to meet it, Merlin’s eyes are wide and shining with something Arthur can’t identify. Something that makes his heart constrict and beat wildly in his chest.
“That’s…” Merlin starts, then trails off, visibly fumbling for words.
And suddenly Arthur feels too exposed, his ears ringing with what he’d said and his chest seizing with the familiar panic. What the hell is he doing?
“Never mind,” he says abruptly and Merlin starts a little at his harsh tone. “It’s stupid, forget I said anything.”
“No.” Merlin shakes his head and rushes on, all the while looking at Arthur as though he’s something marvellous. “No, Arthur, it isn’t stupid at all. It’s a good reason…honourable.”
Arthur clenches his jaw and even if he could’ve forced anything past his throat, he wouldn’t have known what to say to that. It’s enough that his heart feels ready to burst, tendrils of warmth spreading through his body and making him feel slightly dizzy.
“But Arthur there’s more to life than work,” Merlin goes on softly. “It’s important you don’t forget that - that you allow yourself to have it.”
Arthur’s stare is fixed somewhere on his desk, the floor, anywhere but on Merlin. “Last time I tried that it didn’t work out so well.”
And when he feels the tentative touch of Merlin’s hand, a warm palm curving around the top of his socked foot, he all but stops breathing. Arthur doesn’t think anyone’s ever touched him there before - certainly not like this, with such an air of deliberate gentleness and for nothing other than to form a connection. Arthur feels hot with it, helpless and desperate with how much he wants, but he doesn’t let himself. He can’t.
Taking a deep breath, Arthur stands abruptly, shaking off Merlin’s touch and even though he’d steeled himself for the loss, it’s still like a punch to the gut. He clears his throat, again, but his voice still comes out hoarse.
“Maybe we should continue this tomorrow,” he says. “I’m tired, I think I’ll turn in early.”
Merlin doesn’t say anything and Arthur can’t bring himself to look at him, doesn’t want to know what he’ll find on his face. Instead he flees like a coward, and when he slips between his sheets half an hour later, he lets himself think about the sensation of Merlin’s hand, of what it would’ve felt like if he hadn’t stopped there, but inched his palm upwards along Arthur’s calf and to the inside of his thigh. And when he grips himself, already hard and dripping and his fingers punishing and almost tight enough to hurt, it’s to the thought of Merlin’s warm hands, the artificial skin soft and dry against his own.
His orgasm is ruthless, shaking him to the core and forcing him to turn his head to bite into his pillow to stifle his desperate sounds. When he wipes away the evidence, his fingers are still shaking and he fervently tells himself it’s because it’s been ages since he’d last had sex, it’s because he’s stressed and wound tight and it has nothing at all to do with how it was the first time he’d let himself think about Merlin. It makes him feel like a liar.
*
It doesn’t get any better after that.
Merlin, who’s suddenly displaying a considerable amount of empathy for Arthur’s stress levels, is unusually obedient. He serves Arthur’s food hot and on time and settles next to him while he eats, giving him these sweet smiles that have Arthur swallow largely without chewing and trying very hard not to look at Merlin’s disgustingly beautiful face.
After having given in this one, damnable time, it’s even worse to keep up the constant flow of arguments inside his head. Merlin is right there, all the time, appearing so very human and more real than anything else in Arthur’s life. Is Arthur projecting, could he be going insane? Sometimes, Arthur’s sure that he can see something in Merlin’s eyes, something that looks so very much like the feelings Arthur’s struggling with. Other times he’s entirely convinced that it’s all in his head, that Merlin is an android, despite all behaviour to the contrary, and that nothing good could ever come of this.
And it would be easier if living with Merlin weren’t so ridiculously comfortable.
But within only a few weeks, Merlin has managed to clutter Arthur’s coffee table, has re-arranged Arthur’s floating settees and managed to somehow carve a cut into one of Arthur’s counter tops in the kitchen - something that will ever be a mystery to Arthur, seeing as they are practically indestructible. Arthur tries very hard not to let his facade slip, careful to project mostly the instances where he wants to strangle Merlin’s very pretty, very long neck - not that it’d do him much harm, but Arthur is certain that at least it’d make him feel better. But the truth is that most of the time Arthur is content. He’s so unfamiliar with the feeling that it’s taken him almost a month to finally realise that that’s what it is.
He likes the fact that his flat is no longer just a wide, empty space, likes the feeling that he isn’t alone. He enjoys eating proper meals and the fact that instead of his mind-numbing routine, he now has Merlin who always somehow manages to do something unexpected. He loves having Merlin sitting beside him while he works, his even breathing relaxing some of Arthur’s achingly tense muscles - and though he’s careful to scowl every time, he loves watching Merlin dance and sing in his kitchen, the holo-projector blasting sounds and colours in the living area.
And Arthur wants it, wants all of this. Wants more of it.
He’s also used to not getting the things he wants, so why is abstaining so incredibly hard?
*
“Merlin!” Arthur finds himself yelling on the evening before the launch party, upper body all but submerged between shelves as he rummages around in his dressing room. Freshly showered and irate that he’s in here instead of in front of his holo-desk, Arthur yanks his head out from between stacks of clothing and directs his hollering at the open door. “Merlin!”
Merlin appears a moment later and, for whatever bizarre reason, seeing him standing right there in the space Arthur uses to dress and undress himself and clad in nothing but his blue robe, is startlingly intimate. Arthur thinks, a little dazedly, that it might actually be a good idea to get Merlin some proper clothes, that maybe it would help Arthur to stop thinking about how easy it’d be to part that stupid robe and slide it clean off Merlin’s slender frame.
Arthur clears his throat, fighting down heat and forcing his jaw into something tight and ill-tempered.
“What happened to my favourite jumper?” he asks, relieved when his voice comes out crisp with command.
Merlin blinks, visibly taken aback. “Which one’s that?” he asks.
“The grey one,” Arthur says, then realises that that information might not actually be as helpful as he’d first thought. “With the high collar.” He adds impatiently.
For a moment it looks as though Merlin hasn’t the faintest idea which jumper Arthur’s referring to, but then his expression shifts and his mouth twists in that certain way that Arthur knows is a bad sign.
“Uhm…I might have, you know, burned it?”
Arthur stares at him, splutters, “What? How on earth-”
“I’m sorry!” Merlin cuts in hastily, but Arthur’s not in the mood to acknowledge his obvious contrition.
“You burned it?”
“It was an accident!” Merlin exclaims, clearly scandalised that Arthur had dared to imply anything different. “I was about to sort through the washing, but then something boiled over in the kitchen and when I went to look I was still holding the jumper, yeah?” He makes a vague gesture that could mean a whole range of related or unrelated things. “So when I lowered the temperature on the hob, the sleeve caught fire.”
“Caught-” Arthur sucks in a sharp breath, stopping himself from parroting back the words like an imbecile. He tries to breathe through the initial urge to grab the closest thing and throw it at Merlin’s head. “When did this happen?”
Merlin bites his lip and Arthur wants to hit him. With his tongue. Preferably horizontally and without any clothes on.
Arthur takes another deep breath and wonders if anyone would miss him if he crawled into a corner and never left his dressing room ever again.
“Last week?” Merlin phrases it like a question, as if Arthur had in any way been involved in this ridiculousness.
Arthur clenches his jaw, tight enough to make his teeth ache in protest. “And you didn’t think it necessary to mention this to me?”
Merlin looks suddenly indignant, the expression at home on his face after appearing time and time again.
“I didn’t think you’d notice!” he says and Arthur doesn’t know if it’s a good thing that he actually seems to believe that. “You’ve got, like, a hundred jumpers in here!”
Arthur scowls at him. “I do not!”
“You’re right,” Merlin bites out. “It’s probably two hundred!”
“Merlin!”
“Yes, yes, I know.” Merlin waves a hand in a poor imitation of Arthur. “Shut up.”
“You-” And Arthur can’t even bring himself to finish that sentence, too riled to even try and bother at something coherent. He throws a hand out, pointing at the door. “Get out. Out of my sight, right now.”
Merlin’s expression is stormy, his full lips pressed into an unhappy line, but he goes, free of protest for once. He also doesn’t sit with Arthur as he eats and stubbornly refuses to look at him when Arthur settles down at the holo-desk.
But when, after two hours, Arthur’s ready to fall face-first into his holograms and his eyes feel so gritty that he’s surprised his corneas haven’t started peeling off yet, Merlin appears at his side with his face set into something firm and determined.
“Okay that’s it,” he says. “No more work for you tonight.”
Arthur looks at him, tired and worn to the core. “The launch is tomorrow, I need to go over the running order one last time.”
Merlin doesn’t budge. “No, you don’t,” he insists. “What you need is to pick a movie and sit down with me so we can watch it. Take your mind off things for a while.”
Arthur shakes his head, or at least that’s what he means to do. It ends up being more of a weird head-roll. “I’m not watching a movie with you.”
Merlin brushes a hand along the holo-desk, switching it off and banishing the legion of windows and holographs.
“If you’re not picking, then I am,” he says, and it’s clear that this isn’t something that’s up for discussion, no matter how much Arthur intends to protest. Arthur, though, suddenly finds himself not wanting to anymore, and so when Merlin makes a shooing gesture in the direction of the couch, Arthur sighs and heaves himself up on tired legs, stumbling a little as he goes.
Arthur ends up sprawled out over the cushions, his head resting barely an inch from Merlin’s thigh, soaking up his warmth. He keeps thinking about that little space between them, wishes he was brave enough to close it and almost misses when Merlin softly asks whether it really had been-
“- your favourite? The jumper?”
And Arthur, because he’s sleepy and comfortable and drunk on exhaustion and Merlin’s proximity merely mutters a, “Don’t worry about it.”
In the movie, something explodes, the sound of it reverberating through the floor. Arthur closes his eyes, tells himself just for a minute, just to stop them from aching.
“I’m sorry,” Merlin says, somewhere above him, and Arthur wants to ask what for? because it’s a bit hard recalling what they’d been talking about in the first place.
And then he’s dreaming already, feels the softest, most tentative something against his temple and brushing at his fringe. He leans into it, or at least he thinks he is, but his head feels very heavy all of a sudden so he can’t be sure.
When he next opens his eyes, groggy and disorientated, the blue-grey cover that usually rests, unused, on the back of his couch is tucked in around him and Merlin’s still right there next to him, reading. He feels good, Arthur realises, well rested and unusually light. He closes his eyes again, anyway. Just for a minute.
*
The launch, thankfully, goes without a hitch.
Arthur gives his speech without a hitch and keeps his lips stretches into a wide smile that has his cheeks aching after the first hour. He carefully divides his attention between all the guests present and does his best not to let his facade falter even for a moment, knowing that the reporters would immediately latch onto it if he did.
There’s enough schmoozing to make Arthur feel ill and he gets so tired of his own voice he fears he’ll never want to say another word. He gets through the official memograph shoot with his father and manages to painfully smile his way through the dozens of interviews where he answers the same questions over and over and over again. The reporters manage to keep it clean enough, having been paid off by his father in advance to keep them from asking any personal questions - namely about Morgana or Sophia.
When everything finally wraps up around midnight, Arthur is knackered and wants nothing more than to get out of that blasted suit and stop smiling.
Despite his tiredness and the staggering feeling of relief that it’s finally over, he already knows that sleep is still a long way off. He hadn’t dared get drunk and his nerves feel far too frazzled to even attempt going to bed yet.
So instead of condemning himself to endless tossing and turning, Arthur makes his way back into the living area after a shower and plops down on the sofa, barely stifling a groan as he tries to get rid of some of the tenseness in his shoulders by rolling them a few times.
Merlin is watching him and Arthur meets his eyes.
“I think it’s your turn to pick a movie,” he says.
Merlin’s smile is bright enough to be blinding.
*
With the launch finally out of the way, Arthur slips back into a more familiar routine.
He meets Lance somewhere that isn’t his office, goes to a football match with Elyan, a poetry reading with Mithian and eventually gives into Elena’s nagging and accompanies her and Percy to the party of a friend’s friend’s cousin or whatever. He reasons that some time away from Merlin might do him good and maybe turn out to be exactly what he needs to get over his weird fixation - because, no, Arthur isn’t pining, not at all.
Instead, he finds himself thinking I need to tell Merlin about this or I wish Merlin were here to see this. And somehow, with the promise of a relaxed evening on the couch with Merlin, watching a film or sometimes just whatever crap is currently on, making himself leave the flat is a lot harder.
Arthur tells himself it’s because he’s bored of partying - and, while marginally true, has nothing to do with the fact that the next time his friends ask if he wants to come out with them, Arthur tells them some nonsense about a queasy stomach and instead spends his night throwing popcorn at Merlin while they argue over what films to watch.
He’s also finally found the time to get back to a regular training schedule.
Arthur had been six when he’d first held a sword - albeit a very short one.
After Morgana had joined the football club at their school, leaving Arthur with endless boring hours to kill at home before she came back, he’d decided that he might as well join one as well. He’d liked football well enough, but didn’t want to seem like he was imitating his sister - Morgana would’ve never let him live it down.
So one afternoon, he’d sat down on his bed with all the serious air a six year old can master and carefully went through all the options.
He’d never much cared for swimming and most of the team sports sounded a little intimidating - though Arthur had very stubbornly kept that bit of reasoning to himself. Archery had sounded boring and, though Arthur enjoyed reading, he’d recently started borrowing Morgana’s books and he very much doubted that anything the school had to offer would be as interesting. His father already had him specially tutored in computer science, so he definitely hadn’t wanted to spend more time on that.
The most intriguing of them all had definitely been the magic club - full of exciting things like learning the runic alphabet and studying magical artifacts. But of course, Arthur’s father would never have agreed to that and so Arthur settled for sword fighting instead.
He’d been surprisingly good at it and by the time he was ten, he’d partaken in his first tournament. Morgana and Gaius had been there to cheer him on; his father had been unable to come.
Since having started working full time at Pendragon Enterprises, Arthur hadn’t had enough time to participate in any of the yearly tournaments, but he’d made a point of coming down to his training rooms every day to do some exercise and practice his drills.
When he’d fist set up the lower floor of his penthouse into training rooms complete with a personal gym and second bathroom, Arthur hadn’t really expected to spend this much time in it. Before his complete integration in the family business, Arthur had preferred to train in the martial arts centre of his university - sword fighting always more fun with an actual opponent. But after graduation and starting his job in earnest, there suddenly hadn’t been time for it anymore. There hadn’t been time for a lot of things, but Arthur had learned a long time ago that shutting up and getting on with things is the best way to go about life.
*
Another opponent - the only remaining one, Arthur knows - pops up seemingly out of nowhere, faceless and unrelenting, advancing on Arthur with a set of skilled, lightning fast movements. The faceless projection raises its sword, but Arthur recognises it for the feign that it is and doesn’t fall for it. Instead, he darts out of the way of the actual blow and swings his own sword in a wide arch, hitting the projection squarely in the shoulder.
After that, its easily dispatched and Arthur slices through it with a final burst of energy. The projection flickers and falls apart and Arthur grins, twirling his wrist - and his sword by extension - to ease the small ache of strained muscles there.
Wiping the sweat from his brow with his left hand, Arthur brushes his thumb across the touchpad along the quantic sword’s side and deactivates the forcefield that had formed his blade. He tucks the handle back into his belt and turns, surprised to find Merlin there, a glass of water in his hands. Arthur makes his way over, trying to gauge Merlin’s reaction to the demonstration and feeling instantly ridiculous at the unbidden desire to impress him.
Merlin grins at him, all bright eyes and dimples and Arthur melts a little. He accepts the glass, quickly gulping down half of it in one go, grateful for the excuse to look away and gather his wits.
“So this is where you disappear to when you feel like hitting things,” Merlin says, his eyes taking in the training room.
“Be glad it’s not you,” Arthur says, feeling droplets of sweat sliding down the back of his neck and dampening his collar. He takes another greedy sip.
“Believe me, I am,” Merlin says, then nods towards the handle sticking out from Arthur’s belt. “So is this what you win all your tournaments with?”
Arthur hands the now empty glass back to Merlin and walks over to the bench where he left his towel.
“It’s my weapon of choice, yes.”
Merlin follows him, sitting down next to Arthur, his robe pooling around him on the low bench.
“Where’s all the trophies, then?” There’s gentle teasing in his voice, his eyes soft in that way that always makes Arthur a little breathless. “I expected a whole shelf full at least.”
Arthur shrugs, uncomfortable, not quite able to meet Merlin’s eyes.
“They’re somewhere in my dressing room,” he says and then, because apparently he can’t help himself around Merlin. “It’s not like anyone’d be interested in them, anyway.”
It comes out far too bitter and Arthur thinks he might just hit himself for his stupidity.
Merlin studies him intently from the side, but Arthur refuses to meet his gaze.
“I’d like to see them sometime,” he says softly and Arthur’s heart all but leaps from his chest and his head snaps up.
“Why?”
Merlin gives him another intent look, before his lips quirk. “Obviously I want to see what the fuss is all about. Why would anyone still want a sword when there's phasers?"
Arthur scowls, secretly relieved at being back on more familiar ground.
“I’ll have you know, that sword fighting is a very respectable martial art.”
Merlin’s grin widens. “Or just a fancy way of saying that you want to hit stuff.”
Arthur gives him a glare, but it’s hard to hold on to it.
“It’s more than just hitting stuff!” he says. “Sword fighting is about form and durance. It’s about controlling and planning your moves and predicting what your opponent will do. It's strategy!"
Merlin raises his hands, laughing a little.
“Fine, I get it,” he says airily. “It's about being able to tell yourself you’re clever while you’re hitting stuff!"
"Merlin!" Arthur says, outraged, even as he can feel his lips twitching into an answering smile.
He shoves at Merlin's shoulder, easy and without thought. It's the sort of physicality usually only reserved for his friends, not something he does thoughtlessly and certainly not something he should be doing with Merlin. Not human, he reminds himself for the millionth time, but the words have become stale and meaningless and Arthur can’t bring himself to care one way or another.
He can feel his face shutter.
“Get dinner ready,” Arthur says, and it comes out sharper than he’d intended, edged with the desperate need to protect himself. “I’ll go and have a shower.”
When he stalks off, he can feel Merlin’s eyes following him, burning into his back and leaving his skin hot and tingling. In the shower, set to the water setting and as hot as he can make it, Arthur’s knees all but buckle as he comes, biting the back of his hand as the rush of water drowns out his chocked off moans.
*
When sleep eludes him that night, Arthur grabs his tablet from the bedside table and spends an hour browsing through his favourite fashion websites. He orders a ridiculous amount of new clothes, all of them in Merlin’s size, and tries very hard not to think about what the fuck he’s doing.
Sleep doesn’t necessarily come any easier after that, but it does come eventually and Arthur manages at least a few, fitful hours.
In the morning, Merlin greets him with a smile and Arthur seriously considers going straight back to bed. His heart thumps pathetically in his chest and he wishes he could shut it up somehow.
“I ordered you some clothes,” Arthur blurts out and promptly puts on his most haughty expression, as though it’s what he’s been meaning to say all along. “They should arrive today, so you can have a look what you like. We can send the rest back.”
Merlin blinks at him, bewildered. “Clothes?”
“Yes, clothes, Merlin,” Arthur snaps, angry at himself and Merlin and the universe at large. “You know, the things people wear so they don’t walk around naked. I can’t very well have you traipsing around in that ridiculous robe all the time.”
“So you aren’t sending me back?”
Arthur looks away, jaw clenched. “It looks like it’s going to take some time to find out what’s going on.”
Merlin’s hand on his arm is so unexpected it nearly sends Arthur flying off the stool in an undignified heap.
“Thank you,” he says, softly.
Arthur can only nod, voiceless in the face of the warm pressure against his skin, tingling even through the fabric of his shirt. He wants to shake it off, wants to clamp his own hand over Merlin’s and press his long, pale fingers so tightly to Arthur’s skin that they leave a mark that never fades again.
It’s terrifying and Arthur hasn’t a clue what to do with himself, so he stays as still as possible and does nothing at all.
*
He makes the decision while still high on the memory of Merlin’s touch - but, really, it’s not really a decision at all.
He files the report with as little hacking as he can get away with, manipulating Merlin’s product code and ID, before getting the confirmation that he’s now officially an owner of an M-RYS android. He doesn’t say anything to Lance about it, even though he knows he should. When he sees his father in the afternoon for a personal report, Uther already knows, which really shouldn’t come as such a surprise. His father always knows everything that goes on within the kingdom of his business and having someone like Nimueh as his PA only makes it easier to always be on top of things.
“I’ve seen that you’ve taken an M-RYS model for your personal use,” Uther says, drops it into conversation when Arthur has finished delivering endless sales numbers and a list of planned updates.
Arthur freezes a little, but does his best not to let it show. He clears his throat and pastes on a smile.
“You always said that it’s important for people to see us using our own tech,” he says.
His father nods and there’s this glint in his eye, the one he always gets when Arthur repeats his pearls of wisdom back at him in a from that means he’s living by his father’s philosophies. The hand that lands on his shoulder is heavy and unfamiliar, a little rough as it pats him firmly.
“I’m glad to see you’re learning,” his father says, smiling widely. “You’ll make a great CEO one day.”
Arthur thinks about all the times he’s craved his father’s praise, times where he worked himself into exhaustion with his studies or the projects of the company. He wonders if all the years of having this longing digging deeper and deeper into his chest has formed a hole so big that one simple remark in passing just isn’t enough to fill it. Or maybe it’s just become numb, because as hard as Arthur tries, he just doesn’t feel anything right now.
“Thank you, father,” he says, but it sounds as hollow as he feels.
His father doesn’t seem to notice and Arthur tries very hard to discern if the something that’s coiling in his chest is relief or anger.
After leaving his father’s office, Arthur makes his way down to the labs, seeking out Gaius to retrieve the android chip for Merlin, which would allow him access to the basic facilities in the city.
Gaius is deeply invested in what looks to be a minor crisis, at least five or six white-coated scientists flocking around him, all of them flapping their mouths and trying to talk over each other. Unwilling to get into the crossfire, Arthur leaves them to their discussion and crosses the room to Gaius’ work station.
Sure enough, the bracelet with the freshly pressed chip bearing Merlin’s ID on the packaging is waiting for him. He picks it up and is about to turn away and return to his office, when he catches sight of one of the open windows on the holo-desk.
It’s a list of chemicals, most of which Arthur struggles and fails to recognise, but enough to identify it as an order to the pharmaceutical firm in Escetir where they always purchase their chemicals. The order itself is unremarkable, if it weren’t for the half-hidden window beneath it. Carefully glancing about the room, Arthur quickly checks if anyone’s looking at him, but finds the few present employees either busy with their own tasks, or focused on the ever heating discussion in the middle of the lab. Convinced that he’s unobserved, Arthur tabs the other window and brings it to the front.
At first, he thinks it’s just another oder like the first one and he’s ready to snort at his strange gut feelings, when he realises that the order he’s looking at isn’t issued on the usual Pendragon crested template, but featuring an unknown business ID and a much shorter list of drugs. Frowning, Arthur risks another look around, before quickly whipping out his communicator and snapping a memograph, not daring to risk sending it for the fear that it might be discovered.
Stuffing the communicator back into his suit jacket, Arthur quickly tabs the window into the background.
“Can I help you, Arthur?”
It’s a testament to Arthur’s iron control that he doesn’t jump, merely straightens himself and flashes his token smile. Gaius raises his eyebrow, but not enough to be considered alarming. Arthur holds up the package with the chip.
“I just came to get this,” he says, carefully casual. “It looked like you had your hands full, so I didn’t want to disturb you.”
“That’s quite alright, my boy,” Gaius says, throwing a mildly annoyed glance at the still bickering group of scientists. “Do you need anything else?”
“No, that’s all,” Arthur says. “I’ll see you in two days for the meeting about the skin upgrades and the results on the newly tested retinas.”
Gaius waves him off. “Of course. Have a nice evening, Arthur, and remember not to overwork yourself.”
Arthur keeps his smile firmly pasted on his face as he reassures him he won’t, before finally making his escape, his communicator feeling as though it suddenly weighs at least ten times as much.
*
He finds Merlin in the kitchen, singing softly as he moves to the music while rinsing his hands. The blue robe is gone, and instead Merlin is clad in tight jeans and a simple tshirt, making Arthur’s mouth run dry at the way the clothes hug his form.
For a moment, Arthur wonders what would happen if he just stepped up to him and wrapped his arms around him. Would Merlin startle? Push him away? Or maybe…lean into him?
Merlin turns, and promptly jumps.
“Gods, Arthur,” he says, pressing a hand to his chest. “Warn a guy, will you?”
Arthur clenches his jaw and stalks further into the kitchen, grabbing a glass and filling it with water to give his hands something to do.
“Sorry,” he mutters, belatedly.
Merlin frowns at him. “You alright?”
Arthur puts the glass down on the counter, the sound loud now that the last song has finished and no new one starts playing.
“I need your help with something,” he says.
Merlin turns to him fully, his body close enough for Arthur to feel his warmth. He tries very hard not to stare at Merlin’s legs, unused to being subjected to them now that the robe is gone - the tight jeans leaving little room for imagination.
“You? My help?” Merlin says, a little incredulous. “Can I get that in writing?”
Arthur gives him an exasperated look, forcing his eyes to meet Merlin’s gaze. “Don’t be a clotpole.”
Merlin’s eyes widen a little. “That’s my word!”
“And it suits you perfectly,” Arthur shoots back, digging out his communicator and pulling up the memograph he’d taken before. “I need you to look at this list and tell me what these drugs are. Obviously I could do it on my own, but it’s quicker this way.”
Merlin just rolls his eyes, but obediently scans the list, his eyes going blank in that way they always do when he’s actively accessing his hard drive. Arthur has to look away, somehow unable to take seeing Merlin’s gaze so flat and glassy.
Barely a moment later, Merlin blinks and Arthur breathes an internal sigh of relief to see the fire back in his eyes, that spark that made him Merlin and not just some other android. He hands back the communicator and Arthur returns it to his pocket.
“They’re all sedatives,” Merlin says, brow furrowed in confusion. “What does that mean?”
Arthur shakes his head, frowning. “I don’t know.”
*
The discovery about the sedatives lies heavily on Arthur’s mind.
Last night, he’d wanted to give Merlin his chip, wanted him to know that Arthur doesn’t want him gone. That he wants Merlin to stay with him, with or without a resolution concerning his strange technical make-up.
But after Merlin’s analysis, Arthur had felt his mood plummeting and somehow the moment just hadn’t seemed right then.
Arthur despises secrets, the strain of having to keep some already having put his stomach in knots, but it’s even worse knowing that someone is keeping them from him and not do anything about it. He’s not one for lying quietly in wait and cunningly uncover everything behind people’s backs. Arthur has always preferred head-on confrontation and would like nothing more than to storm down to the labs and demand an explanation.
And, really, there’s a great chance that there’s a perfectly plausible explanation for it all and that Arthur is just being stupid. Gods, he hopes that’s what it is.
But he also knows that alerting Gaius and his father that he knows something which he obviously isn’t meant to has the potential to end in a hefty reprimand and an explanation that’d possibly just be a well crafted excuse, while the truth is being pushed into a corner so remote that it’d take Arthur forever to find it.
Arthur trusts his father, of course he does, and there is even the small possibility that his father doesn’t know anything about the sedatives - though Arthur has to grudgingly admit that that’s rather unlikely. It’ll probably end up being nothing more than an experiment down in the labs, kept quiet until it proves successful, but it rather feels like a blow - not just to his pride, but his heart as well - that his father obviously doesn’t trust him enough to share this type of information with him. If there’s something going on in the company, then as assistant CEO Arthur has a right to know what it is. He knows his father is overprotective of both Morgana and Arthur himself, but this is not just personal, they’re running a business together - a business empire, really. How are they supposed to benefit Pendragon Enterprises if they don’t work together properly, as a team? After all the years being groomed for it, the fact that he’s given his life for the company just as his father had when he’d been Arthur’s age, does that not count for anything? Is that not worth his father’s trust?
After being promoted and put in charge of the M-RYS project, Arthur had really thought that his father finally considered him, if not an equal, then at least a worthy heir. Apparently, he’d been wrong.
*
When he comes home later that afternoon, it’s apparent that his day isn’t about to get any better.
Stepping into the living area, Arthur finds Merlin in his usual spot, reading. The novelty of seeing him in proper clothes hasn’t quite worn off yet. Dressed in dark jeans and a tshirt, he looks painfully human and Arthur wants nothing more than to peel him out of both and trace every newly exposed patch of skin with his lips. Arthur blinks and clears his throat, silently cursing himself.
“Merlin,” Arthur asks with forced patience. “Why are there fifteen crates of pineapple juice in the hall?”
Merlin looks up. “Uhm, you ordered them?”
Arthur fixes him with a look.
“You didn’t?” Merlin tries, his brow furrowing, visibly thinking intently. “But-” Then, as quickly as the expression appeared it clears, wiped away by sudden realisation, his full lips forming a perfect oh. “Ah…I think I know what happened.”
By now, Arthur is very familiar with Merlin’s sheepish-face. Much, much more familiar than he would like.
“Well?” Arthur prompts sharply, trying very hard not to stare at Merlin’s mouth.
Merlin shifts uncomfortably and the fact that he’s practically squirming beneath Arthur’s glare is a dark source of pleasure for Arthur. It makes him feel better, somehow, knowing that he’s not the only one wishing to crawl out of his own skin.
“I was sorting through your personal emails the other day, so…” Merlin shifts again. “There might’ve been one about how drinking pineapple juice affects…you know-” Here, Merlin inserts a fumbling and entirely indiscernible hand-wave. “And there was this link and I just- But I didn’t know it’d do that!”
“Merlin!” Arthur roars, the anger that had been simmering inside him ever since he’d found out that his father is apparently keeping secrets from him - and not to mention the ridiculous amount of sexual frustration and emotional…whatever he’d been going through lately - all of this finally seems to erupt out of him in one, thunderous rush.
“I’m sorry!” Merlin says, somewhere halfway between sincere and defensive. “How was I supposed to know that would happen by just clicking on it!”
“Fifteen crates!” Arthur is still shouting, unable not to. “Crates of 25 bottles, Merlin! That means that there are 375 bottles of fucking pineapple juice in my hall!”
Merlin ducks his head and Arthur wants to strangle him and kiss him stupid and that very fact is enough to make him even angrier.
“Can’t you just, you know, send them back?” Merlin asks, and it sounds almost meek.
“No, Merlin, I can’t!” Arthur snaps, his voice barely lowering before rising once more. “And if you’d taken the time to read the bloody small print you’d know that too!”
“I’m sorry,” Merlin says again, soft and completely sincere this time.
And Arthur still wants to kiss him, wants to throw him down on that damned settee and-
Terrified at his own thoughts and the knowledge that despite his anger he’s incapable of not wanting Merlin, Arthur uses the lingering rage as an opportunity to turn on his heel and storm off into the direction of his bedroom.
*
“Arthur?” Merlin says later, looking up at him from his position on the floor next to Arthur’s desk chair through those ridiculous lashes of his.
Arthur wants to reach down and sink his fingers into his hair, instead he gives him a withering look. “Fifteen crates, Merlin.”
Merlin visibly deflates and doesn’t say anything else.
*
One would think that because of Arthur's inability to sleep like a normal person, the little sleep he does get would be something akin to a coma where his body tries to take back all the rest its been denied. But that's not how it works. At all.
Arthur's sleep is light and easily interrupted, his mind immediately switching into alertness at the smallest of sounds.
Years ago, Arthur had bought all these books on sleep schedules and dreams, had tried to find out a reason or a cure. There's nothing he hadn't considered from quack ideas of being the reincarnation of a medieval warrior, always ready to fight, to scientific explanations about the subconscious. But in the end it all came down to genetics; having a father with his own set of sleeping disorders and a sister whose madness manifests mainly through nightmares, it really isn't much of a surprise that Arthur is an insomniac.
So when his communicator goes off in the middle of the night, just after - it feels - Arthur has finally manages to fall asleep, it’s enough to make Arthur jerk awake and upright in one, dizzying move. Heart pounding, he scrabbles for the communicator, snatching it off the bedside table. Dread immediately pools in his stomach.
“Arthur,” Gwen says immediately after he picks up. Her voice is strained and in the background, Arthur can hear Morgana, can hear her flailing and shouting. “Can you please come down?”
“I’m on my way,” Arthur says, curt and rough with sleep, already up and across the room.
“Hurry,” Gwen says, then disconnects.
Snatching up the first tshirt he can find, Arthur tugs it on over his head. He doesn’t bother to change out of his sleeping pants.
Merlin jumps a little when Arthur comes rushing into the darkened living area.
“Are you alright?” he says, rising to his feet and looking ready to come to Arthur’s side. “What happened?”
Arthur doesn’t have time to explain, simply says, “It’s Morgana. I’m going down to see her.”
“Do you want me to come?” Merlin asks, following Arthur into the hall.
Arthur shakes his head as he calls for the ascender. “No need.”
He can feel Merlin’s eyes on him, but when he turns to meet them with his own, the ascender door has already closed.
Morgana is a mess, her long braid dishevelled and her eyes wild. She’s screaming nonsense, struggling against Gwen’s hold and her face is contorted and wet with tears. Arthur rushes over, sliding onto the bed behind his sister and wrapping his arms around her, both to restrain and soothe her.
“Hey,” he murmurs, straight into Morgana’s hair. It smells as it always does, fresh and flowery. Arthur hugs her closer. “Morgana, hey. It’s alright. It’s alright now, calm down, love.”
Morgana makes a sound like a wounded animal, struggles against his hold, before sagging in his arms.
“Arthur?” she asks, her voice thin and small like a child’s.
“Yeah,” Arthur says softly, daring to loosen his hold enough to be able to stroke her hair. “Yes, it’s me. It’s alright.”
Morgana shifts and Arthur lets her turn in his arms. Her face is pale and frantic and when she grips Arthur’s shoulders, her nails dig sharply into his skin.
“Keep looking!” she says, a little shrilly and as though they are in the middle of a conversation that Arthur has missed the beginning of. “You have to keep looking. Promise me! Arthur, you have to promise, will you promise? You have to, have to!”
“Alright,” Arthur says, trying to keep his voice as calm as possible. He puts his palms on her trembling back, rubbing it gently, if a little jerkily. “Alright, I promise. I’ll keep looking.”
Morgana scrabbles against him, her nails sharp on his arms as her fingers flitter across his skin, never quite settling.
“They’re sleeping,” she babbles. “So many of them, all asleep- asleep but not really resting. You need to wake them.” Her gaze whips back up, fixing Arthur with a wide-eyed stare. “Arthur, you have to wake them. Find them, wake them, find them, find- it’s down, you have to go down and wake them up. It glows and it’s cold and you have to, you have to…”
She’s shaking now and Arthur pulls her close, folding her into his arms and hiding his stinging eyes against her shoulder.
“I will,” he promises, blinking heavily. “I will.”
When he gently tips them onto the mattress and into a lying position, Morgana doesn’t protest. She’s more or less limp in his arms by now, but her fingers are white-knuckled where they’re holding onto Arthur’s shirt. He strokes her hair, murmuring nonsense in her ear, promising over and over things that he doesn’t understand the meaning of. And even when Gwen appears with a loaded hypospray, even after Morgana has gone still in his arms - her breathing evening out and her hold going slack - Arthur doesn’t stop his petting, curling around her as though that alone is enough to keep her safe from her own mind.
*
When Arthur finally stumbles back into the flat a mere hour or two before dawn, Merlin is waiting for him, his face pinched in concern. His eyes widen when he catches sight of Arthur and he sucks in a sharp breath. He tiredly watches Merlin come closer, meeting Arthur halfway.
He knows he must be quite the sight, exhausted and heavy limbed, unable to focus on anything. There’s a scratch along his jaw, red half-moons in the shape of Morgana’s fingernails scattered along his arms. Arthur hardly feels them at all.
“Arthur,” Merlin says, whispers, and his fingers brush the burning line on his face, it’s as unexpected as a touch as soft as this one can be.
Arthur wants to jerk away for the simple fact of how much he wants to press closer, wants his skin to know the feel of Merlin’s hands in a way that leaves an invisible imprint right beneath the surface - never letting Arthur forget it, ever. He shouldn’t but he’s too tired, too sick of pretending and so he simply closes his eyes, lets Merlin trace the angry scratch and allows himself to sink into the tingling feeling of Merlin’s touch.
“C’mon,” Merlin murmurs, then, and Arthur follows, even though he has no idea where to.
Merlin’s fingers slip away and Arthur barely has the time to feel their loss, before they wrap around his wrist instead, warm and soft and secure.
They make it to the bedroom and Arthur lets himself be pressed down onto the bed. He can’t find the energy to say anything, not when his throat is still sore from all the frantic soothing he’s been doing these past few hours. Merlin squeezes his shoulders, a gentle press of comfort, and then he’s gone. Arthur blinks, slow and confused, but by then Merlin’s already back and sliding easily onto the mattress next to him.
“Lie back,” Merlin says and Arthur does, falling rather than sinking into the pillows.
Something cool presses against his arm, runs along each angry mark with a gentle hum, and it takes Arthur an embarrassingly long time to realise that Merlin is applying a dermal regenerator to his skin.
“Merlin you- It’s just a few scratches. You don’t have to-” Arthur protests feebly, then runs out of steam.
“Shut up and let me do this,” Merlin says, but his tone is gentle and without heat. “Not everything has to be a fight, you know.”
Arthur feels his lips twitch, involuntary and almost senseless.
“Have you still not got it?” he says, the words running together into something far less crisp than his usual tone. It makes him sound almost as vulnerable as he feels, but in his current state it doesn’t seem to matter. “I decide whether we’re having a fight or not.”
Merlin huffs, but by the way it lilts slightly at the end Arthur knows that it’s a sound of amusement more than anything else. He absently wonders when exactly he’s gotten this good at reading Merlin.
“You’re such a muppet,” Merlin mutters, heavy with affection and making warmth burst inside Arthur’s chest. He tilts Arthur’s chin, urges it gently to the side with a soft, tingling press of his fingertips. Arthur doesn’t even think, just follows the movement, feeling the familiar prickling sensation of the dermal regenerator against his jaw a moment later.
“Who even says that anymore?” Arthur asks, too tired to laugh but still feeling it clogging his throat a little. “I seriously need to revise your dictionary if that’s the best you can come up with.”
Merlin shifts the regenerator into a better position. “Would you prefer supercilious ass?”
Arthur feels his lips twitching stupidly. “That’s a big word, Merlin.”
“Isn’t it?” Merlin agrees easily, leaning a little closer to reach Arthur’s other arm and trapping the air in Arthur’s lungs at the warm feel of his body right there, pressed against Arthur’s side. “I chose it especially for you. Thought it might fit your ego.”
Arthur snorts. “Merlin-”
“Shut up?” Merlin cuts in and Arthur can hear the cheeky grin in his voice.
Arthur smiles, a little dopey and quite possibly a lot besotted, eyes still closed. “You guessed it.”
The soft sound of the regenerator being placed on the bedside table is almost drowned in Arthur’s sleepy haze and when he feels Merlin’s hand brush against his arm, he hardly registers reaching out his own - his fingers sliding against Merlin’s in a way that sends a hot shiver down his spine, his fingertips tingling as they press into Merlin’s soft skin.
“I really am sorry about the pineapple juice,” Merlin says, almost inaudible over both their breathing.
In a whisper-soft touch, Merlin brushes back Arthur’s fringe and Arthur leans into it without thought.
He falls asleep with the feeling of Merlin’s hand in his own.
*
The next morning, Arthur tries very hard to tell himself that nothing happened.
Which, of course, doesn’t explain why he can think of nothing but the feel of Merlin’s fingers around his own, or at the curve of his jaw or down the length of his arm. His skin is alight with the memory, buzzing with Merlin’s phantom touch and nothing Arthur does seems to get rid of it.
He also very vehemently tells himself that he and Merlin aren’t dancing around each other, even though Arthur catches Merlin staring more than once and he himself has to hastily jerk his gaze away a few times in the hopes that Merlin won’t notice he’s being observed in return.
The whole atmosphere is so loaded, that by the time evening rolls around, Arthur is all but vibrating with tension.
So when Merlin finally breaks the silence between them, saying something that isn’t an awkward combination of Heys and yeahs and What do you want to eat? - I don’t care or Can’t you see I’m busy, Merlin?
“Arthur,” he says, cutting right through Arthur’s efforts of looking busy as he taps away at his holo-desk. “What’s this?”
And Arthur looks up and finds Merlin standing there, just off the hallway, Arthur’s suit jacket in one hand and the still wrapped chip in the other and what is he even-
But then Arthur remembers Merlin’s I’m going to do laundry, yeah? Have anything specific you want washing? and Arthur, so very intent on making himself seem uncaring and immersed in his work, had just mumbled and absent No. Which is why Merlin is now holding the chip and Arthur isn’t ready, he isn’t ready to tell him, not yet, not-
“It’s a chip,” Arthur says, because he’s just that type of arrogant arsehole, unwilling to back down from anything. He clears his throat. Be casual. “Your chip, actually.” He shrugs and the movement makes his shoulders ache from how tightly his muscles are wound. “I meant to give it to you yesterday, but…”
He trails off stupidly, averts his eyes.
“My-” Merlin sounds breathy and Arthur can’t not look at him, needs to know what he looks like right then. “You registered me?”
And there’s no way that Arthur’s throat would work right now, so all he does is give a jerky nod.
“You-”
But Merlin doesn’t finish and Arthur isn’t sure he wants him to and when he takes a step towards him, Arthur all but bolts upright, off his chair. But then he’s just standing there and it’s even more ridiculous and Arthur curses himself every kind of idiot, tries to change the whole action into a deliberate thing by walking over to the couch. Of course, then Merlin follows, draping the suit jacket over the back of the couch in a careless move that has it sliding off again a moment later, pooling into a dark heap on the floor.
Arthur hardly notices it, too busy trying to keep breathing as Merlin comes close, closer, sinks down next to him onto the cushions, all the while looking at Arthur as though he’s the only thing in the world.
And it’d be so easy, Arthur realises, so easy to just give in - to lean forward and bridge the distance and finally feel Merlin’s lips against his own. So easy to map out the shape of them, to press into Merlin’s mouth and let himself drown in him. And Arthur wants, wants so badly and so desperately that his skin is thrumming with it and his lungs are so tight each breath is a painful, shuddery thing scraping his throat raw.
Merlin’s eyes are wide and very blue, and he tilts his head, his body tipping that tiny bit closer as though he can’t help it-
His breath fans out over Arthur’s face, warm and neutral and enough to slam home all the reasons Arthur has so carefully listed why this is such a terrible, terrible idea.
The barest brush of Merlin’s fingers leaves a burning trail on Arthur’s knee and Arthur shoots off the couch, barely missing the coffee table as he scrambles away, away, away. It’s a move born from panic, from the instinctive urge to protect a heart that he knows is disgustingly weak and far too fragile. A heart that he knows he wouldn’t be able to ever retrieve once he gives it away.
He’d thought it gone before, once with Sophia, only to find out that it was still there, right where it always had been - if slightly worse for wear and with a lingering scar or two. But this, here, Merlin - it’s different. Different and so much more dangerous, if only for the fact that when Arthur sees the hurt on Merlin’s face, when he sees the fingers that had tried to touch Arthur only moments before clench into the cushions until they turn white-knuckled and shaking, Arthur can’t bring himself to care about anything else. Right now, Arthur would gladly hand over his useless heart and have it shattered right in front of his eyes, if only to keep that horribly devastated look off Merlin’s face.
And that, right there, is the most dangerous thought of them all.
“I’m going out,” Arthur says curtly, past a tight jaw. It comes out harsh and angry, anything better than letting Merlin see how terrified he is right now; how terrified he always is when it comes to Merlin.
Merlin’s eyes are wide, overly bright, and he rises, gets to his feet and reaches out a visibly shaking hand towards him. “Arthur-”
But Arthur doesn’t listen, can’t and instead flees like the coward he is. Rushes from the room, the flat, the building and just keeps on going. He thinks putting some distance between them might be enough to make him at least feel like he can breathe again, but his heart won’t stop hammering and his chest doesn’t ease and all he can think about is Merlin, Merlin, Merlin.
*
In retrospect, going out and getting drunk in his state might not have been the best idea after all.
The lights are blinding, the music deafening and the club hot despite the excellent environmental controls. There are smiling faces everywhere, people greeting him with enthusiastic squeals and firm claps to the back. Arthur doesn’t even recognise half of them, but grins back all the same, bright and false. He makes his way through the room, following instinct rather than sight, his view blocked by the hundreds of wildly dancing people flailing and jumping on the dance floor.
In the centre, the virtual singer of the current song is undulating to the beat, her hips moving suggestively as she towers over the club’s patrons. Along the edges of the dance floor, equally lager than life projections are performing complicated choreographies - some alone, some writhing against their holographic partner. Arthur skilfully avoids hands armed with drinks and takes a shortcut by passing through the legs of one of the projections, finally spotting his friends crowded around their usual table.
Percy and Elena are dancing wildly at the edge of the dance floor, Elena singing along at the top of her lungs as she flails about. Mithian and Elyan are seated at the table, apparently trying to have some sort of conversation that seems to mostly consists of a lot of invented sign language and whats shouted in each other’s ears. Even Lance is there, apparently Arthur had sounded desperate enough to warrant his presence.
He slings an arm around Arthur’s shoulders when he comes to stand at his side.
“You okay?” Lance asks, leaning close enough to be heard over the thumping beat of the music. “Gwen told me what happened.”
Arthur gives a terse nod, not willing to elaborate. Lance gets the message and doesn’t ask again, instead tugging Arthur towards the bar.
With every drink, Arthur tells himself that he’ll stop thinking about Merlin. It never ends up happening.
Sometime later, when Arthur’s shirt has glued itself uncomfortably to his sweaty back and he’s sure that his fringe must be sticking up at an odd angle from all the times he’s brushed his damp hair from his forehead, he decides that now is as good a time as any for a break.
He makes his way towards one of the outside platforms, his legs no longer quite steady. Lance comes with him, because he’s a hopeless mother-hen, but Arthur doesn’t protest his presence. Being alone with his thoughts is not the best thing at the moment.
The air outside is biting with the lingering chill of winter, but spring is not as far off as it had been a few weeks ago. They stand together in silence for a while, looking out at the busy entertainment district, watching several hover-cars fly by, filled with people screaming the kind of imagined wisdom that only comes with too much drink out of their open windows.
“What do you do,” Arthur says suddenly, drunk enough for the words to squeeze past his dry throat, but not drunk enough to regret them in the morning. “When you want something you know you’re not supposed to?”
Lance considers him, his eyes clear of drink and his air of thoughtfulness unchanged even after hours of deafening music and blinding lights.
“I’d ask myself who it is that’s judging me,” he says softly. “Who’s to say what one can and cannot have?”
“I think that if I told anyone, they’d think it wasn’t real,” Arthur says quietly, the words hurting with how true they are. “They’d say it’s impossible and that I’ve lost my mind.”
“Does it feel real?” Lance asks, mild and simple.
“Yes,” Arthur says. “It’s,” he breathes in sharply, and that hurts too. “Nothing’s ever been so real before. Not even…not even back then, when I’d been so sure. But that’s just it, isn’t it. Maybe this isn’t the last stage, maybe it’s all meant to fall apart again like it did then. What if it’s another a lie?”
“What if it isn’t? Are you ready to throw away a chance at it on speculation alone?” Arthur doesn’t answer, his fingers clenching around the bannister in front of him. Lance studies him, picks up the thread of conversation again a moment later when it’s clear that Arthur won’t be forthcoming. “I know you thought it was real back then, but was it right? Did it feel right, in your heart?”
Arthur tightens his hold on the cold metal, feels like it’s the only thing holding him up at this point. His knees feel weak and his lips are chapped and dry as he laps at them.
“I thought it did,” he whispers. “At first I thought, but- no. No it’s never been like this before.”
Lance gives him a small smile, his voice mild when he says, “I think you’ve just answered your question.”
And Arthur thinks that yes, yes he has and then wonders, desperately, why that doesn’t seem to have changed anything. A sudden wave of longing crashes over him, staggering in its intensity, and all Arthur can suddenly think about is that he wants Merlin, wants him here with him right now. And it’s too much, too-
“Let’s go back inside,” Arthur says abruptly, voice raw but firm. “I need a drink.”
Lance gives him a look that speaks volumes, but doesn’t protest, obediently following Arthur back in and all the way to the bar.
*
It’s too silent, Arthur decides as he stumbles from his car towards the private ascender.
Without the deafening music and thumping beat of the club, Arthur’s thoughts are far too loud inside his head and there’s just…too many of them.
Arthur curses, the words coming out slurred and barely audible through the lingering ringing in his ears. He waves his hand in the vague direction of the scanner, misses by a great arch and instead bangs his knuckles against the metal door. It hurts, but at the same time its somehow the most hilarious thing ever and Arthur is laughing before he even knows what he’s doing. Pawing at the scanner, Arthur finally gets the ascender’s door to open and staggers inside. It’s cool, the door, all smooth and metal-y and Arthur presses his face against it, snickering stupidly-
Until the door slides out from under him and he falls into his flat, arms flailing and feet unsteady, barely catching himself from smacking face-first onto the floor. And ha, that- that’s hilarious as well. The momentum carries him forward and more breathless giggles escape his throat, until it’s suddenly hard to stop and find his footing, the coatrack so much closer than a moment before. Arthur wonders, dazed and maybe a little cross-eyed, if he’s going to crash into it when a pair of arms catches him, saving him from being brained by the coatrack.
Arthur flails some more, surprised.
“Arthur,” Merlin’s voice says. It’s quiet, but alert and Arthur tries to turn towards it, but the arms around him tighten and hold him in place with surprising strength. “Stop it. Gods, how much did you have to drink?”
Arthur stops, then tries to give that question serious consideration. “I had something pink - actually there was a lot of pink - lots and lots! Elyan thought it was funny, he was laughing a lot. So was Percy. And I think there was something green as well? Something green and-” he breaks off, his train of thought suddenly lost. He blinks, then picks up a different one instead. “It’s all your fault, anyway.”
Merlin is warm, a solid presence pressed all along his side and his arms locked in a secure hold around Arthur’s waist. Arthur can feel his breath and shivers a little. Merlin’s grip tightens and Arthur leans into him, unthinking. It makes the world spin just a little less.
“How is you getting pissed my fault?” Merlin asks, more warm breath washing over Arthur’s ear.
Arthur wonders what it would feel like against his lips, wonders what it would be like to inhale just as Merlin exhales - would that mean having a little bit of Merlin inside him? Arthur shivers again and turns his head, wanting so much he’s aching with it.
Merlin’s eyes are wide and intense, even in the dimness of the room and Arthur realises, for the first time since coming in, that the lights haven’t switched on. He frowns.
Outside, in front of the living room windows, a hover car passes by, briefly illuminating the space between them, before they are plunged back into darkness.
“Arthur?” Merlin asks softly, his gaze never leaving Arthur’s face. “Why is it my fault?”
This time, when Arthur tries to turn, Merlin lets him. Arthur steadies himself clumsily, fitting his fingers around Merlin’s slim hips. He can feel the hem of his tshirt and only barely stops himself from sliding his hands beneath it, his palms itching with the need to touch Merlin’s skin.
Arthur tries to remember what Merlin just asked him, but his brain isn’t cooperating. It feels like slush - very gooey, fuzzy slush.
The greenish glow of the hover-tracks outside create strange, shadowy patters along Merlin’s cheekbones, his jaw, the long curve of his neck. Arthur follows them, traces them with his eyes and, once he’s started, somehow can’t make himself stop again. His gaze is drawn in by the soft dip right above the collar of Merlin’s tshirt, where the shadows indicate the beginning of his collarbone. Arthur wants to put his lips there.
And right now, he really, really can’t think of a reason why not to.
He takes a step closer, shuffling and clumsy, and ends up walking straight into Merlin’s chest. Merlin lets out a surprised sound and they’re both stumbling now. Arthur, who is far from a lightweight and lacking every bit of his usual grace, crashes into Merlin and ends up pressing him into the wall just off the hall. His nose is pressed in close to Merlin’s neck, the skin soft and warm. Arthur nuzzles even closer and takes a deep breath, taking in the smell of his detergent on Merlin’s clothes.
“Arthur,” Merlin says and it sounds breathless. There is a fluttering touch to Arthur’s left shoulder. “You’re drunk. I- We should get you into bed.”
Arthur shifts and angles his body, aligning them in a way that fits them together like two pieces of a whole. Arthur likes the thought. Maybe that means that Merlin is as lost without Arthur, as Arthur is without him. Would serve him right, Arthur thinks petulantly.
“What would?” Merlin asks, clearly confused and Arthur realises that he’s slurred that last bit into Merlin’s skin.
“If you couldn’t live without me,” Arthur mumbles and feels Merlin suck in a sharp breath. It’s even darker now- and oh, that’s probably because his eyes have closed. Can he go to sleep here? “Can I sleep here?”
The fluttering touch at his shoulder is back, then firms into the press of a palm fitting against the curve there. And then there’s fingers in his hair, cradling his head and holding it in place against Merlin’s skin. Arthur sighs and presses his lips where a pulse should be beating, but there is nothing but warm smoothness there. He doesn’t care.
“It wasn’t supposed to be this way,” Arthur mutters and it’s not meant to sound as desperate as it does. “You weren’t mean to- I can’t-” He breaks off, the air in his lungs stuttering on the next exhale. The next part is nothing more than a pitiful mumble. “I think about you all the time. All the time, it’s- Why can’t you stay out of my head?” And then, just because he wants to, because right now there are no reasons why he can’t, he says Merlin and then again, and again, loving the feel of it on his lips, the shape of the syllables in his mouth. Merlin against the soft warmth of Merlin’s throat, his tongue heavy and his heart even heavier. Merlin.
And Merlin’s chest expands, pressing against Arthur’s as he takes another deep breath. The fingers in Arthur’s hair shift, burying deeper, and something brushes Arthur’s cheek, soft and fleeting along with a warm rush of breath.
“I’m here,” Merlin whispers, pressing him close, hugging tightly. “Arthur.”
Arthur sighs and doesn’t say anything else. It’s suddenly far too much effort. His lids are so, so heavy, far too heavy to try and peel them from his eyes again and the world is spinning, even here in the dark - and Arthur is convinced that if he lets go of Merlin, he’ll spin away somewhere and never find his place in this world ever again. His place, which is right here in Merlin’s arms. Merlin who’s so close, so warm and Arthur has never felt safer in his life and he never, ever wants to move again.
And even though there is no pulse beneath his lips, the beat of Merlin’s QuanticHeart is steady and real and right there, against his own, human one.