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thalialunacy2SO HERE'S THE FIC THAT ONLY EXISTS BECAUSE OF CAFFEINE. I worked at a car dealership for three years in between degrees, and the boss's son was a DICK. A well-dressed, smart dick, but a dick nonetheless. And since I like to fix my real life with fic... this got written. XB
[oi, Merlin fandom, where should I post this? >.>]
Title: Dealer Takes All
Fandom: Merlin
Pairing: Arthur/Merlin
Genre: AU rom-com
Rating: NC-17, yar
Length: 3,552 words
Cheerleader:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
tourdefierce
Brit-babe:sangueuk
Summary: In which Arthur’s the prat son of a car dealership owner and Merlin’s the lowly title/wholesale/billing clerk. (And then there’s sex. And possibly feelings. Oh who am I kidding, there’s so much schmoop in here you will need a damn dentist.)
Notes: THEY SAY WRITE WHAT YOU KNOW. Except my GM’s son wasn’t half this awesome. Or attractive.
Merlin first saw Arthur directly after his interview, at which point he was too busy wallowing in the surety that he’d again failed at face-to-face interaction and would end up yet another basement-dweller with a useless degree and a few cats-- so all he’d noticed was a very smart suit and a flash of blond hair, and then he’d been outside and it’d been raining and that tiny glimpse had faded away.
Two weeks later when he’d come in for his first day (oh thank fucking god and fate and ponies and rainbows JOB), Cindy, the round-but-not-yet-waddingly-pregnant office manager, had explained the empty but clearly waiting separate-and-bigger cubicle nearest to the door. “Oh, that’s Arthur’s. He’s Uther’s—that’s the owner—son. He was here when you interviewed, but you probably didn’t see him.” At this, she smiled, that smile of middle-aged church ladies when they’re talking about Prince William or Josh Groban. “If you’d’ve seen him, you’d remember.”
“…uh-huh,” Merlin said politely. “And where is he now?” he asked. But only to be polite.
“He’s at uni,” Cindy answered, “getting his MBA, but he’ll be back.” She patted her belly. “He’ll be back to help out while I’m away taking care of this.”
So, three months later, Merlin found himself stuck in an office with a bit of a motley crew: a receptionist that had been a mother of two by age eighteen and had the mouth of a sailor, a part time and mostly-deaf AP/AR specialist, and a blond totally-not-Prince-William-handsome fledgling businessman named Arthur, who would grow to have many names in Merlin’s head: Arthur the Prat. Arthur the Arsehole. Arthur the Big Blond Sod.
At first, it was merely distracting, this broad-shouldered dapper-dressed bloke who rustled a lot of papers and shook a lot of hands. Then Arthur decided to take in ~interest in office proceedings, despite having zero experience IN said office, and it went from distracting to downright annoying.
No, Merlin didn’t think that changing database programs would be good idea. No, Merlin did not think Casual Fridays would boost morale. A pay rise would boost morale, but did Arthur ever bring that up? Of course not. But Arthur did spend an inordinately large amount of time performing random spot checks on Merlin’s job performance. ‘Why are you doing it that way?’ ‘What about if you took this one and did it first?’ One day Merlin even came in to find his desk quite literally rearranged: Amongst other things, his stapler was in the wrong place, his computer monitor’s brightness had been tampered with, and who knew where his 10-key had gone. And Merlin was not mad enough to have a go at payroll without his 10-key. He about blew his top that day, for sure; only Cindy’s calm presence kept him from walking out in a juvenile huff.
Apparently Merlin didn’t hide his feelings on the situation well at any point, huff-suppression notwithstanding, because it escalated. At some point, Arthur took to criticizing things other than his work habits, and Merlin took to snappy comebacks he considered above Arthur’s level of intelligence.
Example A, during a quiet morning: “What is this music?” To which Merlin responded, “Baroque choral music, mostly Italian.” Arthur made a face and left, and Merlin celebrated with little dance. In his head, at least.
Example B, during lunch break: “What are you reading?” “Thomas Wolfe.” “Thomas who?” “A Faulkner contemporary.” Arthur was silent for a moment. “Alright, then.” Then he left, and Merlin may or may not have done an actual dance. The canteen was otherwise empty, okay.
Example C didn’t work out so well:
“What is with that…” Arthur gestured vaguely to his neck, where his tie was tied just as perfectly as always. “Kerchief thing.” He tskd, and Merlin’s teeth ground together. “We really should have our tailor come in and have a look at you.”
Merlin did not look away from his work, and he really did try to keep his tone neutral. “Thanks, but I couldn’t afford that.” And you know it, he thought viciously. Because your dad’s a tightarse and no one around here’s gotten a raise in practically a decade.
“Yes, well,” Arthur continued, blissfully unaware of Merlin’s simmering anger, “that’s unfortunate, because he really could work wonders.” Arthur’s eyes lingered for just long enough that Merlin began to think he had something on his face. “And make life easier for all of us with you not looking so unkempt all the time.”
Then he waltzed out. Merlin threw his stress ball—which, oh yeah, had been a gift from Arthur, everyone in the office had got one—at the door.
It got particularly weird a month before Merlin’s birthday.
First: “It’s your birthday soon, yeah?” Merlin nodded, eyeing him warily, wondering how the hell Arthur’d found out. “Huh,” Arthur said, and when Merlin didn’t respond, the matter was dropped. But apparently just for the moment.
Next: “Birthday next week. Any big plans? Poetry readings? Cutting parties?” At Merlin’s sound of disgust, Arthur shrugged. “Sorry, too far?” And he wasn’t sorry at all, the bastard.
Last, and most telling:
“Birthday tomorrow. Mum giving you breakfast in bed?”
Merlin did not live with his mother, okay. And Arthur knew it. But Arthur was a dick.
Merlin finally decided to hell with it, and turned to face Arthur full on. “Yes. She cuts the crusts off my toast and everything.” Arthur tried to open his mouth again, but Merlin steamrolled him. “And she leaves them on for my boyfriend, because he likes it that way. May I get back to work now?”
There was a kind of gurgling sound, and Merlin smirked. Arthur had gone a strange sort of red. “Tie too tight for you, Arthur?”
Arthur cleared his throat once, adjusted said tie, and tilted up his chin like nothing had been amiss. “Never. I’m a man that knows how to tie a tie.”
And then he left. And Merlin stared at his computer screen, wondering why he’d just made up a fictional boyfriend for the express purpose of shocking his not-boss. Who was not attractive at all. Well, not attractive enough to overcome the fact that he was a total fucking prat.
Not even nearly.
---
Of course, on the actual day of his actual birthday, they were busy as one-armed paperhangers. Merlin had deal after deal come across his desk, and a wholesaler showed up JUST as he was about to leave for lunch—and he’d been going to treat himself to sushi, too, God damn it, the one day of the bloody year he afforded such extravagance for himself---so he had titles and cheques and inspections to deal with and ended up settling for something equal parts unhealthy and unfulfilling out of the vending machine while he posted line after line until his eyes kind of blurred.
He was near the point of asking Gary the Diesel Tech (Merlin just couldn’t think of him without using the whole title) for a fag, just this once, when his desk phone lit up. He could see from the tiny screen that it was an internal call from the owner’s office. An office which should have been, by all accounts, unoccupied, seeing as the owner Himself (also couldn’t think of that without an illuminated first letter) was at a Chrysler to-do in Vegas.
Arthur, then.
He picked the receiver up with two fingers, as if that would help him ignore the fact that his palms were suddenly slightly sweaty. “Merlin,” Arthur drawled without letting Merlin say a word, “please come in here as soon as convenient.”
“Well, I’m actually rather--”
“And by that I mean now.”
Merlin tilted the received down and blew out his breath between pursed lips in an effort to not let out a string of expletives instead. “Yes, sir.” And if he didn’t hold back on the sarcasm in the title, he’d just blame it on the fact that it was his bloody birthday, and he deserved it.
He put the receiver down and stood, looking forlornly at his stuffed intray (not a metaphor; he really wanted to get through those deals so he could have a good birthday night out without any lingering feelings of guilt about unfinished work; he had a crazy stupid work ethic like that). He shrugged, reminded himself that there was only so much in life he could control, and headed out and around to the front door of the owner’s office. (There was a backdoor, again non-metaphorically, but that was only for Mr Pendragon to come out of, yet again non-metaphorically, or bring people through on very, very rare occasions. Occasions that never seemed to end well. Merlin didn’t even want to be party to it, ever, really.)
Arthur was sat at his father’s huge mahogany desk, in Uther’s dark leather chair, surrounded by dark, manly colours and virile plaques, and looking completely comfortable and completely-- Merlin cursed internally when he realized the next word in that thought was meant to be gorgeous, because that was simply unacceptable.
Arthur glanced at him, then went back to the papers laid out before him. “There’s a card for you.”
Merlin’s mouth opened and closed once. “There is?”
Arthur’s gaze flicked to the front of the desk with a raised eyebrow as if to say, ‘You’ve got eyes, haven’t you?’ “Yes. There is.”
“Oh. Well.” Merlin hedged forward, tried not to grab at the card as is if there were also a snake on the desk coiled to bite, and returned to a safe distance away and opened the envelope.
It was quite a sweet card, really; clearly Cindy had had the foresight to get it and get it signed before she’d left, which meant Uther’d left a grand statement that took up half of one side of the thing, and then all the sales guys and techs had scribbled ribald things where they could find space. There was even a thumb print of diesel grease next to a scrawl that read ‘Gary’.
Merlin couldn’t help but smile. Then he absolutely did not spend ten unnecessary seconds searching for Arthur’s name, and the feeling he had upon finding it missing was relief, not disappointment.
Absolutely not.
“So,” Arthur’s voice reappeared and Merlin’s gaze snapped up. Arthur was still focused on his papers, but—but he kept talking. “There ‘tis, happy birthday and all that.” And kept talking. “I suppose you’ll be going to a posh place after this, wherever—“ At this, Arthur waved a hand at Merlin’s general person. “—attractive young people go.”
Somehow, Merlin’s mind latched onto only part of that. “I’m only two years younger than you.”
“Yes, well, that’s two important years when you’re… in my position…”
Arthur stopped suddenly, and Merlin froze, his free hand on his neckerchief he’d been needlessly adjusting. “No,” Arthur said, rather bizarrely, before standing. “Fuck it.”
And then he started round the desk towards Merlin. “What--” was all Merlin got out before Arthur was right in front of him.
“I had this whole plan,” Arthur said, his voice hitched a little, his eyes running—hungrily? Not possible, Merlin thought—over Merlin’s form, “but I can’t even bear it.” His eyes finally met Merlin’s, and the look in them was surprisingly earnest. “Have you really got a boyfriend?”
Merlin felt the tips of his ears heat up with a blush. “I don’t see how that’s any business of--”
Arthur cut him off with, “That’s a no, then.” Merlin was about to huff, until he continued: “Thank God. Because I don’t think I can stop myself today,” –he was far too few inches from Merlin at this point—“and I wouldn’t want to have to meet the guy for pistols at dawn or something.”
Merlin’s mouth was admittedly open. “Pistols at dawn?” he said, probably too loudly considering he could feel the words reverberate off Arthur. Who was so warm. “Have you lost your mind?”
Arthur paused, and the corner of his mouth tilted up. “Why, yes, Merlin. I do suppose I have.”
And at the touch of his lips to Merlin’s, Merlin was forced to re-evaluate the situation. Because there was definitely hunger there. There was also precision, yes, and skill, and wet warmth—all expected, if Merlin had ever imagined what kissing Arthur would be like, which he most definitely had not ever done—but there was also a definite sense of urgency—which was unexpected. And unnecessary, strictly speaking, considering Uther’d be out for the whole week. Which meant they could try all sorts of things in here, on the desk, in the leather chair, against the—
Holy shit, Merlin thought. “Mfph,” he said eloquently against Arthur’s mouth. Arthur hummed in response and proceeded to gather Merlin closer, his hands smoothing down and rucking up and Merlin couldn’t help it, his hands found themselves sliding round, one to Arthur’s back and one to his neck. When the kiss finally ended, he stayed where he was, Arthur’s lips a whisper away. “What are we doing?” he asked quietly.
Arthur gave him a look as though he were a favourite yet slightly slow student, and, not put off by conversing while snogging, continued to explore the planes of Merlin’s clothes and mouth. “I would’ve thought it’d be rather obvious.” He nipped at Merlin’s lower lip.
Merlin inhaled. Or tried to, at least. “No, I mean— I thought you hated me. You’re always being such a--” Arthur’s palm managed a particularly wonderful pass across the front of Merlin’s trousers. “God, a dick, you were always such a dick.”
Arthur’s hand retreated, and Merlin had one cold second of being sure it was all a joke and he was about to get incredibly fired and possibly sued. Until Arthur’s gaze met his, and Merlin could see his reddened skin and plumped lips, not to mention the insane affection in his expression.
“Oh, Merlin,” Arthur said almost quietly, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “Have you never had someone pull on your pigtails?” His hand moved up to trace the shell of Merlin’s right ear.
And Merlin was absolutely pole-axed.
“Well,” he finally stammered, trying to think around the huge rush of heat coming from where parts of Arthur were touching parts of him, “not as such, no, and I certainly never expected it at work.”
Arthur snorted. “This isn’t work to me. I live here.” Merlin raised an eyebrow. Arthur waved his free hand a bit. “You know what I mean. I’ve known nothing but this place since I was a little kid, unless you count the years I went off and got degrees in running a business so I could come back here and run this one. Someday. Eventually.”
“Yeah, right,” Merlin said without thinking. “Uther’s going to do like the Queen and hold out for the record.”
“Probably, yeah. So here I was, all angry and casting about… And then you showed up. With your kerchiefs and your strange music and your ears and your cheekbones…” It was like a catalogue of Merlin, and Arthur’s hand moved under Merlin’s sweater in tandem, and Merlin breathed in raggedly. “And your absolute cheek.”
Arthur’s grin caught up with Merlin’s slightly fogged brain, and he instinctively tightened his grip on Arthur’s neck, kissing him once, smackingly. “Oi, don’t even! It was a natural reaction to your priggishness.”
Arthur hm’d agreeably, clearly occupied by exploring Merlin’s normally-ticklish bits. Merlin felt each stroke like lightning. “Funny, my priggishness has never brought out that reaction in anyone else.”
“Yeah, well—“ Merlin gripped at Arthur with a groan when his hand dipped below the waistband. “--that’s because everyone else is too scared of you.”
Arthur regarded him, but didn’t stop the motions of his hand. “But you’re not.”
“No.” And Merlin suddenly wanted to show how much he wasn’t. His lips on Arthur’s, tit for tat, he started untucking Arthur’s perfectly tucked shirt.
Arthur made a pleased noise. “And why not?”
Merlin occupied himself with the activity of his hands. He got under the shirt and undershirt, then started on the belt. Prevaricating was a good skill to have. “Well, because.” Arthur just raised an eyebrow at him. “Because I just—I—You—” And a skill he apparently lacked.
So he tried a different tack, instead. “Oh, just shut up, you clod, and let’s do this.” And he captured Arthur’s lips just as his hand closed around Arthur’s cock.
Arthur made a choked sound into his mouth, but recovered quickly, and the next few moments were stark with grunts and fabric sounds and beading sweat and that thing when you’re feeling so much, so focused on coming that you can’t quite remember how to kiss. And it was awkward and a bit too dry and they both tasted of lunch, but after a tremendous pair of orgasms, his forehead leaning stickily against Arthur’s, Merlin wasn’t so much inclined to run away. And neither, it seemed, was Arthur.
“Happy birthday,” he murmured into Merlin’s skin, and Merlin let out a laugh.
“Not what I expected.”
Arthur pulled back a little, his eyes darting to Merlin’s lips and back. “But…”
“But perhaps,” Merlin allowed, “what I’d wished for.”
Arthur’s smile was stupidly huge. “Oh?”
Merlin let himself be kissed, tongues lazily tangling. Definitely tasted like lunch. “I’ll never tell.”
“Oh,” Arthur said as he started to slowly clean up and tuck in them both, “I think you already have.”
Merlin swatted at him, and they managed to get put sort of to rights, and Merlin fiddled with his scarf and tried not to look too discombobulated. “So…”
Arthur kissed him one last time, then headed back to the desk. “So, dinner for your birthday. Today if you’re free, but you’re probably not, so I figured we could—“
“I’m free.”
Arthur looked up at him, then looked inordinately pleased. “Well, then. I’ll see you at end of day, yeah?”
Merlin couldn’t help it, he grinned. “Yeah, all right.”
“Good.” Arthur sat down in that amazing leather chair and Merlin’s thoughts went all sexily haywire for a moment. He swallowed.
“Oh, and Merlin,” Arthur said just as Merlin was reaching for the handle. “You can come through the back door next time.”
It took Merlin a second to catch the devilish glint in his eye. He immediately blushed, and cursed, and slammed the door behind him.
And couldn’t focus worth a shit for the rest of the day.
---
some weeks later…
“Cindy!” Merlin said, delighted. “And mini-Cindy!”
Cindy laughed, and the baby’s face scrunched up red. For a moment, Merlin held his breath; he’d never been all that great with babies. They were like little aliens. Little drunk aliens.
Then Arthur came over and swooped the baby out of the carrier into the air with a whoop, cradling her tiny head correctly and everything. “Who’s a lovely lady? You are!”
And the baby, much to Merlin’s utter astonishment, unscrunched her face and let out a huge peal of gorgeous baby laughter.
Merlin had to close his mouth.
Cindy sidled up next to him, watching Arthur and the baby with a small smile. “How’d the birthday go? Did you go out on the pull?” She waggled an eyebrow, and Merlin blushed.
But he was also an abominable liar. “Not exactly.” He eyed Arthur and the baby, and (hopefully) squelched a surely dumb smile.
But Cindy’d seen it. “Ah,” she said softly. “I rather thought so.” She leaned in. “It was the card, wasn’t it?”
Merlin looked at her, startled. “The card? You got me that card.”
Cindy laughed right in his face. “Oh, no I didn’t. He did. Came round day after day asking what he should do for you. Like a puppy, that one. Uther’s forever moaning that he’s never going to be ready to take the place over, he’s got such a head in the clouds.” She regarded Merlin closely, and her tone softened. “But he’s got you now, doesn’t he? He’s got you to do the books and make the place actually run while he shakes hands and does the adverts and wears the suits and acts the part.”
“What? You’re coming back soon, I don’t—“
But Cindy was shaking her head. “No, I’ve decided to take a couple years with this one. Just feels like the time, you know? And Uther finally started drawing up the papers to transfer ownership to Arthur, the old sod. So it’s your game now. And you’ll be brilliant. It’ll be brilliant.”
And Merlin, amazingly, thought yes. Yes, that could be good. He suddenly had visions of programs and pricings emphasizing environmentally friendly cars and practices, expanding the family benefits programs, getting more involved in the community. Getting actual food in the vending machines. Getting rid of the damn paisley-patterned waiting-room chairs. Arguing with Arthur until they were both blue in the face and forced to have glorious makeup sex on that great big mahogany desk.
Yeah, Merlin thought as his eyes caught Arthur’s, which were sparkling with delight as he swayed cheek to cheek with the beautiful baby girl in his arms. This could work.
At the very least, he found he was more than ready to give it a go.
FIN
[oi, Merlin fandom, where should I post this? >.>]
Title: Dealer Takes All
Fandom: Merlin
Pairing: Arthur/Merlin
Genre: AU rom-com
Rating: NC-17, yar
Length: 3,552 words
Cheerleader:
tourdefierceBrit-babe:
sangueuk Summary: In which Arthur’s the prat son of a car dealership owner and Merlin’s the lowly title/wholesale/billing clerk. (And then there’s sex. And possibly feelings. Oh who am I kidding, there’s so much schmoop in here you will need a damn dentist.)
Notes: THEY SAY WRITE WHAT YOU KNOW. Except my GM’s son wasn’t half this awesome. Or attractive.
Merlin first saw Arthur directly after his interview, at which point he was too busy wallowing in the surety that he’d again failed at face-to-face interaction and would end up yet another basement-dweller with a useless degree and a few cats-- so all he’d noticed was a very smart suit and a flash of blond hair, and then he’d been outside and it’d been raining and that tiny glimpse had faded away.
Two weeks later when he’d come in for his first day (oh thank fucking god and fate and ponies and rainbows JOB), Cindy, the round-but-not-yet-waddingly-pregnant office manager, had explained the empty but clearly waiting separate-and-bigger cubicle nearest to the door. “Oh, that’s Arthur’s. He’s Uther’s—that’s the owner—son. He was here when you interviewed, but you probably didn’t see him.” At this, she smiled, that smile of middle-aged church ladies when they’re talking about Prince William or Josh Groban. “If you’d’ve seen him, you’d remember.”
“…uh-huh,” Merlin said politely. “And where is he now?” he asked. But only to be polite.
“He’s at uni,” Cindy answered, “getting his MBA, but he’ll be back.” She patted her belly. “He’ll be back to help out while I’m away taking care of this.”
So, three months later, Merlin found himself stuck in an office with a bit of a motley crew: a receptionist that had been a mother of two by age eighteen and had the mouth of a sailor, a part time and mostly-deaf AP/AR specialist, and a blond totally-not-Prince-William-handsome fledgling businessman named Arthur, who would grow to have many names in Merlin’s head: Arthur the Prat. Arthur the Arsehole. Arthur the Big Blond Sod.
At first, it was merely distracting, this broad-shouldered dapper-dressed bloke who rustled a lot of papers and shook a lot of hands. Then Arthur decided to take in ~interest in office proceedings, despite having zero experience IN said office, and it went from distracting to downright annoying.
No, Merlin didn’t think that changing database programs would be good idea. No, Merlin did not think Casual Fridays would boost morale. A pay rise would boost morale, but did Arthur ever bring that up? Of course not. But Arthur did spend an inordinately large amount of time performing random spot checks on Merlin’s job performance. ‘Why are you doing it that way?’ ‘What about if you took this one and did it first?’ One day Merlin even came in to find his desk quite literally rearranged: Amongst other things, his stapler was in the wrong place, his computer monitor’s brightness had been tampered with, and who knew where his 10-key had gone. And Merlin was not mad enough to have a go at payroll without his 10-key. He about blew his top that day, for sure; only Cindy’s calm presence kept him from walking out in a juvenile huff.
Apparently Merlin didn’t hide his feelings on the situation well at any point, huff-suppression notwithstanding, because it escalated. At some point, Arthur took to criticizing things other than his work habits, and Merlin took to snappy comebacks he considered above Arthur’s level of intelligence.
Example A, during a quiet morning: “What is this music?” To which Merlin responded, “Baroque choral music, mostly Italian.” Arthur made a face and left, and Merlin celebrated with little dance. In his head, at least.
Example B, during lunch break: “What are you reading?” “Thomas Wolfe.” “Thomas who?” “A Faulkner contemporary.” Arthur was silent for a moment. “Alright, then.” Then he left, and Merlin may or may not have done an actual dance. The canteen was otherwise empty, okay.
Example C didn’t work out so well:
“What is with that…” Arthur gestured vaguely to his neck, where his tie was tied just as perfectly as always. “Kerchief thing.” He tskd, and Merlin’s teeth ground together. “We really should have our tailor come in and have a look at you.”
Merlin did not look away from his work, and he really did try to keep his tone neutral. “Thanks, but I couldn’t afford that.” And you know it, he thought viciously. Because your dad’s a tightarse and no one around here’s gotten a raise in practically a decade.
“Yes, well,” Arthur continued, blissfully unaware of Merlin’s simmering anger, “that’s unfortunate, because he really could work wonders.” Arthur’s eyes lingered for just long enough that Merlin began to think he had something on his face. “And make life easier for all of us with you not looking so unkempt all the time.”
Then he waltzed out. Merlin threw his stress ball—which, oh yeah, had been a gift from Arthur, everyone in the office had got one—at the door.
It got particularly weird a month before Merlin’s birthday.
First: “It’s your birthday soon, yeah?” Merlin nodded, eyeing him warily, wondering how the hell Arthur’d found out. “Huh,” Arthur said, and when Merlin didn’t respond, the matter was dropped. But apparently just for the moment.
Next: “Birthday next week. Any big plans? Poetry readings? Cutting parties?” At Merlin’s sound of disgust, Arthur shrugged. “Sorry, too far?” And he wasn’t sorry at all, the bastard.
Last, and most telling:
“Birthday tomorrow. Mum giving you breakfast in bed?”
Merlin did not live with his mother, okay. And Arthur knew it. But Arthur was a dick.
Merlin finally decided to hell with it, and turned to face Arthur full on. “Yes. She cuts the crusts off my toast and everything.” Arthur tried to open his mouth again, but Merlin steamrolled him. “And she leaves them on for my boyfriend, because he likes it that way. May I get back to work now?”
There was a kind of gurgling sound, and Merlin smirked. Arthur had gone a strange sort of red. “Tie too tight for you, Arthur?”
Arthur cleared his throat once, adjusted said tie, and tilted up his chin like nothing had been amiss. “Never. I’m a man that knows how to tie a tie.”
And then he left. And Merlin stared at his computer screen, wondering why he’d just made up a fictional boyfriend for the express purpose of shocking his not-boss. Who was not attractive at all. Well, not attractive enough to overcome the fact that he was a total fucking prat.
Not even nearly.
---
Of course, on the actual day of his actual birthday, they were busy as one-armed paperhangers. Merlin had deal after deal come across his desk, and a wholesaler showed up JUST as he was about to leave for lunch—and he’d been going to treat himself to sushi, too, God damn it, the one day of the bloody year he afforded such extravagance for himself---so he had titles and cheques and inspections to deal with and ended up settling for something equal parts unhealthy and unfulfilling out of the vending machine while he posted line after line until his eyes kind of blurred.
He was near the point of asking Gary the Diesel Tech (Merlin just couldn’t think of him without using the whole title) for a fag, just this once, when his desk phone lit up. He could see from the tiny screen that it was an internal call from the owner’s office. An office which should have been, by all accounts, unoccupied, seeing as the owner Himself (also couldn’t think of that without an illuminated first letter) was at a Chrysler to-do in Vegas.
Arthur, then.
He picked the receiver up with two fingers, as if that would help him ignore the fact that his palms were suddenly slightly sweaty. “Merlin,” Arthur drawled without letting Merlin say a word, “please come in here as soon as convenient.”
“Well, I’m actually rather--”
“And by that I mean now.”
Merlin tilted the received down and blew out his breath between pursed lips in an effort to not let out a string of expletives instead. “Yes, sir.” And if he didn’t hold back on the sarcasm in the title, he’d just blame it on the fact that it was his bloody birthday, and he deserved it.
He put the receiver down and stood, looking forlornly at his stuffed intray (not a metaphor; he really wanted to get through those deals so he could have a good birthday night out without any lingering feelings of guilt about unfinished work; he had a crazy stupid work ethic like that). He shrugged, reminded himself that there was only so much in life he could control, and headed out and around to the front door of the owner’s office. (There was a backdoor, again non-metaphorically, but that was only for Mr Pendragon to come out of, yet again non-metaphorically, or bring people through on very, very rare occasions. Occasions that never seemed to end well. Merlin didn’t even want to be party to it, ever, really.)
Arthur was sat at his father’s huge mahogany desk, in Uther’s dark leather chair, surrounded by dark, manly colours and virile plaques, and looking completely comfortable and completely-- Merlin cursed internally when he realized the next word in that thought was meant to be gorgeous, because that was simply unacceptable.
Arthur glanced at him, then went back to the papers laid out before him. “There’s a card for you.”
Merlin’s mouth opened and closed once. “There is?”
Arthur’s gaze flicked to the front of the desk with a raised eyebrow as if to say, ‘You’ve got eyes, haven’t you?’ “Yes. There is.”
“Oh. Well.” Merlin hedged forward, tried not to grab at the card as is if there were also a snake on the desk coiled to bite, and returned to a safe distance away and opened the envelope.
It was quite a sweet card, really; clearly Cindy had had the foresight to get it and get it signed before she’d left, which meant Uther’d left a grand statement that took up half of one side of the thing, and then all the sales guys and techs had scribbled ribald things where they could find space. There was even a thumb print of diesel grease next to a scrawl that read ‘Gary’.
Merlin couldn’t help but smile. Then he absolutely did not spend ten unnecessary seconds searching for Arthur’s name, and the feeling he had upon finding it missing was relief, not disappointment.
Absolutely not.
“So,” Arthur’s voice reappeared and Merlin’s gaze snapped up. Arthur was still focused on his papers, but—but he kept talking. “There ‘tis, happy birthday and all that.” And kept talking. “I suppose you’ll be going to a posh place after this, wherever—“ At this, Arthur waved a hand at Merlin’s general person. “—attractive young people go.”
Somehow, Merlin’s mind latched onto only part of that. “I’m only two years younger than you.”
“Yes, well, that’s two important years when you’re… in my position…”
Arthur stopped suddenly, and Merlin froze, his free hand on his neckerchief he’d been needlessly adjusting. “No,” Arthur said, rather bizarrely, before standing. “Fuck it.”
And then he started round the desk towards Merlin. “What--” was all Merlin got out before Arthur was right in front of him.
“I had this whole plan,” Arthur said, his voice hitched a little, his eyes running—hungrily? Not possible, Merlin thought—over Merlin’s form, “but I can’t even bear it.” His eyes finally met Merlin’s, and the look in them was surprisingly earnest. “Have you really got a boyfriend?”
Merlin felt the tips of his ears heat up with a blush. “I don’t see how that’s any business of--”
Arthur cut him off with, “That’s a no, then.” Merlin was about to huff, until he continued: “Thank God. Because I don’t think I can stop myself today,” –he was far too few inches from Merlin at this point—“and I wouldn’t want to have to meet the guy for pistols at dawn or something.”
Merlin’s mouth was admittedly open. “Pistols at dawn?” he said, probably too loudly considering he could feel the words reverberate off Arthur. Who was so warm. “Have you lost your mind?”
Arthur paused, and the corner of his mouth tilted up. “Why, yes, Merlin. I do suppose I have.”
And at the touch of his lips to Merlin’s, Merlin was forced to re-evaluate the situation. Because there was definitely hunger there. There was also precision, yes, and skill, and wet warmth—all expected, if Merlin had ever imagined what kissing Arthur would be like, which he most definitely had not ever done—but there was also a definite sense of urgency—which was unexpected. And unnecessary, strictly speaking, considering Uther’d be out for the whole week. Which meant they could try all sorts of things in here, on the desk, in the leather chair, against the—
Holy shit, Merlin thought. “Mfph,” he said eloquently against Arthur’s mouth. Arthur hummed in response and proceeded to gather Merlin closer, his hands smoothing down and rucking up and Merlin couldn’t help it, his hands found themselves sliding round, one to Arthur’s back and one to his neck. When the kiss finally ended, he stayed where he was, Arthur’s lips a whisper away. “What are we doing?” he asked quietly.
Arthur gave him a look as though he were a favourite yet slightly slow student, and, not put off by conversing while snogging, continued to explore the planes of Merlin’s clothes and mouth. “I would’ve thought it’d be rather obvious.” He nipped at Merlin’s lower lip.
Merlin inhaled. Or tried to, at least. “No, I mean— I thought you hated me. You’re always being such a--” Arthur’s palm managed a particularly wonderful pass across the front of Merlin’s trousers. “God, a dick, you were always such a dick.”
Arthur’s hand retreated, and Merlin had one cold second of being sure it was all a joke and he was about to get incredibly fired and possibly sued. Until Arthur’s gaze met his, and Merlin could see his reddened skin and plumped lips, not to mention the insane affection in his expression.
“Oh, Merlin,” Arthur said almost quietly, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “Have you never had someone pull on your pigtails?” His hand moved up to trace the shell of Merlin’s right ear.
And Merlin was absolutely pole-axed.
“Well,” he finally stammered, trying to think around the huge rush of heat coming from where parts of Arthur were touching parts of him, “not as such, no, and I certainly never expected it at work.”
Arthur snorted. “This isn’t work to me. I live here.” Merlin raised an eyebrow. Arthur waved his free hand a bit. “You know what I mean. I’ve known nothing but this place since I was a little kid, unless you count the years I went off and got degrees in running a business so I could come back here and run this one. Someday. Eventually.”
“Yeah, right,” Merlin said without thinking. “Uther’s going to do like the Queen and hold out for the record.”
“Probably, yeah. So here I was, all angry and casting about… And then you showed up. With your kerchiefs and your strange music and your ears and your cheekbones…” It was like a catalogue of Merlin, and Arthur’s hand moved under Merlin’s sweater in tandem, and Merlin breathed in raggedly. “And your absolute cheek.”
Arthur’s grin caught up with Merlin’s slightly fogged brain, and he instinctively tightened his grip on Arthur’s neck, kissing him once, smackingly. “Oi, don’t even! It was a natural reaction to your priggishness.”
Arthur hm’d agreeably, clearly occupied by exploring Merlin’s normally-ticklish bits. Merlin felt each stroke like lightning. “Funny, my priggishness has never brought out that reaction in anyone else.”
“Yeah, well—“ Merlin gripped at Arthur with a groan when his hand dipped below the waistband. “--that’s because everyone else is too scared of you.”
Arthur regarded him, but didn’t stop the motions of his hand. “But you’re not.”
“No.” And Merlin suddenly wanted to show how much he wasn’t. His lips on Arthur’s, tit for tat, he started untucking Arthur’s perfectly tucked shirt.
Arthur made a pleased noise. “And why not?”
Merlin occupied himself with the activity of his hands. He got under the shirt and undershirt, then started on the belt. Prevaricating was a good skill to have. “Well, because.” Arthur just raised an eyebrow at him. “Because I just—I—You—” And a skill he apparently lacked.
So he tried a different tack, instead. “Oh, just shut up, you clod, and let’s do this.” And he captured Arthur’s lips just as his hand closed around Arthur’s cock.
Arthur made a choked sound into his mouth, but recovered quickly, and the next few moments were stark with grunts and fabric sounds and beading sweat and that thing when you’re feeling so much, so focused on coming that you can’t quite remember how to kiss. And it was awkward and a bit too dry and they both tasted of lunch, but after a tremendous pair of orgasms, his forehead leaning stickily against Arthur’s, Merlin wasn’t so much inclined to run away. And neither, it seemed, was Arthur.
“Happy birthday,” he murmured into Merlin’s skin, and Merlin let out a laugh.
“Not what I expected.”
Arthur pulled back a little, his eyes darting to Merlin’s lips and back. “But…”
“But perhaps,” Merlin allowed, “what I’d wished for.”
Arthur’s smile was stupidly huge. “Oh?”
Merlin let himself be kissed, tongues lazily tangling. Definitely tasted like lunch. “I’ll never tell.”
“Oh,” Arthur said as he started to slowly clean up and tuck in them both, “I think you already have.”
Merlin swatted at him, and they managed to get put sort of to rights, and Merlin fiddled with his scarf and tried not to look too discombobulated. “So…”
Arthur kissed him one last time, then headed back to the desk. “So, dinner for your birthday. Today if you’re free, but you’re probably not, so I figured we could—“
“I’m free.”
Arthur looked up at him, then looked inordinately pleased. “Well, then. I’ll see you at end of day, yeah?”
Merlin couldn’t help it, he grinned. “Yeah, all right.”
“Good.” Arthur sat down in that amazing leather chair and Merlin’s thoughts went all sexily haywire for a moment. He swallowed.
“Oh, and Merlin,” Arthur said just as Merlin was reaching for the handle. “You can come through the back door next time.”
It took Merlin a second to catch the devilish glint in his eye. He immediately blushed, and cursed, and slammed the door behind him.
And couldn’t focus worth a shit for the rest of the day.
---
some weeks later…
“Cindy!” Merlin said, delighted. “And mini-Cindy!”
Cindy laughed, and the baby’s face scrunched up red. For a moment, Merlin held his breath; he’d never been all that great with babies. They were like little aliens. Little drunk aliens.
Then Arthur came over and swooped the baby out of the carrier into the air with a whoop, cradling her tiny head correctly and everything. “Who’s a lovely lady? You are!”
And the baby, much to Merlin’s utter astonishment, unscrunched her face and let out a huge peal of gorgeous baby laughter.
Merlin had to close his mouth.
Cindy sidled up next to him, watching Arthur and the baby with a small smile. “How’d the birthday go? Did you go out on the pull?” She waggled an eyebrow, and Merlin blushed.
But he was also an abominable liar. “Not exactly.” He eyed Arthur and the baby, and (hopefully) squelched a surely dumb smile.
But Cindy’d seen it. “Ah,” she said softly. “I rather thought so.” She leaned in. “It was the card, wasn’t it?”
Merlin looked at her, startled. “The card? You got me that card.”
Cindy laughed right in his face. “Oh, no I didn’t. He did. Came round day after day asking what he should do for you. Like a puppy, that one. Uther’s forever moaning that he’s never going to be ready to take the place over, he’s got such a head in the clouds.” She regarded Merlin closely, and her tone softened. “But he’s got you now, doesn’t he? He’s got you to do the books and make the place actually run while he shakes hands and does the adverts and wears the suits and acts the part.”
“What? You’re coming back soon, I don’t—“
But Cindy was shaking her head. “No, I’ve decided to take a couple years with this one. Just feels like the time, you know? And Uther finally started drawing up the papers to transfer ownership to Arthur, the old sod. So it’s your game now. And you’ll be brilliant. It’ll be brilliant.”
And Merlin, amazingly, thought yes. Yes, that could be good. He suddenly had visions of programs and pricings emphasizing environmentally friendly cars and practices, expanding the family benefits programs, getting more involved in the community. Getting actual food in the vending machines. Getting rid of the damn paisley-patterned waiting-room chairs. Arguing with Arthur until they were both blue in the face and forced to have glorious makeup sex on that great big mahogany desk.
Yeah, Merlin thought as his eyes caught Arthur’s, which were sparkling with delight as he swayed cheek to cheek with the beautiful baby girl in his arms. This could work.
At the very least, he found he was more than ready to give it a go.
FIN
