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Character Motivation. Merlin/Merlin RPF. Merlin/Bradley James, NC17 (2/2)
Does anyone else, when looking at this icon, think that Merlin is probably saying, "Arthur, let go of my nose"?
Character Motivation (Merlin/Bradley James, Merlin/Arthur, Bradley/Colin. NC17.)
In which Bradley is displaced.
Part 1
Autumn brings strong gusts of wind and cheerless downpour. Bradley can now reel off the history of Camelot’s political treaties, he’s friendly with the knights, and he’s almost positive that all that happened between Arthur and Morgana was a particularly embarrassing almost-shag a long time ago. He prods Merlin to weasel the information out of Gwen, but he is not successful. The girl code applies in all universes, it would seem.
Somewhere between the tutoring and Uther’s insistence that Arthur pick up his duties again, Bradley figures a few things out. Not everything, but just enough to get him by. Holding court means looking stately by Uther’s side and stepping in when Uther is about to unnecessarily destroy something. Visits of state are boring but the meals are doubly delicious. Negotiations he doesn’t quite have the hang of yet. From what he’s seen, the most effective negotiators know how to be polite and threatening at the same time, and Bradley’s no good at that sort of duplicity, not without a script. This is why Uther isn’t that good of a negotiator either. They both have a tendency to wear their hearts on their sleeves, and Bradley has seen potential alliances slip through their fingers because Uther fell under the sway of his own emotions, or because Bradley put his own ego first. He hopes that Arthur will be a better king than this.
Every night, after the hubbub of the day is over, he escapes to Arthur’s room with Merlin. Merlin listens to stories of anything that Bradley can think of, as long as it has to do with his old life: shenanigans with his mates from his DC days, why Smarties are better than Skittles, and even the plots of beloved television programs. Merlin laughs at all the right places and asks questions, and it’s a comforting routine. It’s a little like bedtime stories and lullabies, except that Bradley is telling the stories to himself: familiar litanies about another life where the colors are a little brighter and comfort more easily recognizable.
“Oh, I don’t know,” says Merlin, his eyes tinted gold as he makes coins orbit around Bradley’s head. “It’s not so bad here.”
Bradley absently flicks every other coin with his fingers, but Merlin always makes them return to formation. “It’s not better or worse, I suppose. Just different. But it’s not my world. Well, not really.”
He remembers reading the ‘Merlin’ script for the first time and having a laugh with his mates over the sheer silliness of it. Alan had patted his shoulder and said, “You have to start somewhere, eh?” Alan was one to talk; the last gig he had was in an advert for a new brand of honey mustard. That probably made Alan very knowledgeable on the subject of having to ‘start somewhere’ though, but anyway, he is worlds away right now so it doesn’t matter.
This isn’t television from a script, this is…
Bradley hesitates to call this real life, but what else can he call it if he’s living in it? In the interest of preserving his sanity, Bradley has long given up puzzling over which of the worlds is the real one and which is its shadow. Even if this were the shadow world, it still has all the horrific technical details: he shits, he gets irritating specks of something in his eye that he can’t dislodge, his feet smell, and one day he even threw up when he drank too much. (He doesn’t remember much after tipping over into the bushes and almost into his own puddle of sick. The next thing he knew, Bradley woke up in Arthur’s bed with the distinct feeling that someone had been using his brain for a football. Merlin showed up with a pitcher of water and was cagey when Bradley asked him what else happened the night before.
“I just brought you to bed,” said Merlin.
“Was that it?”
“Yeah.”
A perfectly reasonable course of events, and Bradley would have believed it if Merlin hadn’t been bright red and avoiding eye contact.)
On a brighter note, Bradley has also been getting laid.
It’s kind of difficult not to run into it. It must be this ‘prince’ thing. Bradley has courtesans, daughters, and sisters (and wives, sometimes) sidling up to him for favor. And men too, puffing up their egos and smiling at him gentle and slow like they actually have the upper hand.
He doesn’t tell Merlin about his dalliances. Bradley figures Merlin already knows; the servants probably gossip about it. Bradley just hopes he doesn’t end up with some form of medieval gonorrhea. The night after shagging Lord Oliver’s youngest daughter, he ends up asking Gaius if he has ever heard of penicillin.
“I have never heard of it, but perhaps if you tell me more, we can try to locate it on a map,” says Gaius, so Bradley just tells him to forget about it.
One afternoon, Bradley discovers that Merlin doesn’t know about his trysts because when he opens Arthur’s door and walks in on Bradley getting sucked off by a nobleman from Northumbria, his mouth makes an ‘O’ of surprise and his eyes go very wide.
“Bloody hell, Merlin!” Bradley shouts.
Merlin just stands there, blushing, and doesn’t move until Bradley throws a pillow at him.
“Um, sorry,” Merlin mumbles, looking away.
“Close the door!”
“I knew you should have locked it,” says the nobleman from Northumbria when Merlin leaves, and Bradley snaps, “Shut up.”
He’s less excited about shagging this nobleman now, but he does anyway because far be it from him to leave unfinished what he started, and anyway, he already has his trousers off.
Bradley has nothing to apologize to Merlin for so, instead, he orders Merlin to fetch a few of the best bottles of wine from the cellar and to saddle the horses. On the way to the hills, Bradley talks about how the nobleman from Northumbria is a right prat who doesn’t know a cock from his own elbow until Merlin concedes a laugh. It’s chilly in autumn, and not the best time to go riding out for fun, but going to the hills is a familiar habit and it reminds him of when he used to think he would go back to his world any day now. Any day. He still thinks that, but it’s just difficult to dwell on it when he’s busy running the kingdom with Uther and learning the finer points of swordplay from a host of rowdy knights.
“You don’t talk much about Colin anymore,” says Merlin when they’re halfway through the first bottle. “You used to call me that more often.”
“Yeah,” is all Bradley says.
“What’s he like?”
“He’s sort of goofy, honestly. But quiet sometimes; I always end up picking up the slack when we do TV spots together. But he’s all right, he’s always game for a good time.” He shrugs.
“Do you miss him?”
“Yeah. But I miss a lot of things.”
“Yeah, all right,” says Merlin, like he’s just humoring Bradley, and that’s just strange and irritating. He doesn’t need Merlin humoring him like Bradley is the one who did something wrong. Merlin says, with pointed casualness, “What about marshmallows? You miss marshmallows?”
“Marshm… What are you getting at?” he snaps. “I miss lots of things, I just don’t have time to mope about it all because Father keeps me-”
“‘Father’?” Merlin repeats, raising his eyebrows.
Bradley’s stomach clenches. “Um. Uther. Uther keeps me busy,” he finishes feebly. He takes a long swig from the bottle and turns the conversation topic to Gaius, because there’s always something to laugh about when it comes to Gaius.
“One time, he told me that one his proudest moments was reading that anatomy book from cover to cover,” Merlin says.
“Once, I saw him talking to his plants when he was watering them,” Bradley says.
Oh, Gaius.
Merlin is reluctant to drink more after they finish the first bottle, but Bradley isn’t done yet and he’ll be damned if he drinks alone. If Bradley can shepherd half the cast onto all the roller coasters at Parc Asterix and fend off pushy tossers from Orkney who think they can get the best of Camelot, he can certainly convince Merlin to drink more wine.
“Just a little bit,” Merlin finally relents, “if it’ll shut you up.”
Bradley says, “No promises,” and grabs another bottle.
So they drink, and Bradley doesn’t notice when Merlin crosses the line from ‘pleasantly buzzed’ to ‘off his face’, possibly because Bradley is nearing ‘off his face’ himself. He doesn’t even realize Merlin is that drunk until they head over to a copse of trees for shelter from the wind. Bradley takes the horses’ reins because Merlin is too busy stumbling cheerfully beside him, talking about the time he snuck into the storeroom of his village tavern to steal some beer and accidentally set the place on fire.
“My mother gave me such a hiding,” he’s saying. “I told her it was an accident. I just hiccupped and the torches sort of flared, but she didn’t care. ‘Beer is the devil’s wee,’ she said, ‘and no child of mine will be drinking the wee of anyone or anything.’”
Merlin trips over a rock, and Bradley grabs his arm to steady him. “Oy. Maybe we should’ve brought just one bottle, yeah?”
“The more, the many-er,” Merlin points out, and, okay, Bradley has to admit that it’s difficult to argue with that.
He ties the reins to a tree branch, wondering whether they should wait for Merlin to sober up a bit so they can drink some more, or whether they should just ride back to Camelot. After making sure the knots are tight, Bradley turns and asks Merlin what he feels like doing, but Merlin doesn’t answer right away.
“All right,” says Merlin. “It’s sort of funny.”
“What’s funny?”
“It’s like, this time I’m the drunk one.” He smiles at Bradley a smile soft and crooked with wine. “So, don’t take it personally, but I’ve been wanting to do this since the first time.”
“The first time what?”
“Or, second time, technically. Because the first time shouldn’t count, because we weren’t who we thought we were.”
And, because sometimes people won’t let themselves believe the obvious, Bradley frowns and says, “What the hell are-”
Merlin steps forward and kisses Bradley, his hands curling into Bradley’s hair in both passion and an attempt to steady himself. It is a drunk’s kiss, a little misaimed and wild-tongued, and Bradley kisses back automatically while his mind makes panicked noises and refuses to agree on anything. WHAT ARE YOU DOING goes one faction, as another wails THIS IS A BAD IDEA and another hoots TAKE HIM NOW.
“I’m glad there isn’t any vomit involved this time,” Merlin mumbles happily and, just like that, he throws up all over Bradley’s boots.
+
Merlin wakes up in his bed and feels 1) pain in his head, 2) nausea in his stomach, and 3) panic.
OhshitkissingBradleyohshit.
Ohshitvomitingonhisbootsohshit.
And ow, everything hurts.
Considering the circumstances, the best course of action would obviously be to go back to sleep, but the pain isn’t letting him do this.
“Ah, Merlin,” says Gaius when Merlin shuffles blearily out of his room. He shoves a mug of something purple and vile-smelling into Merlin’s hands. “Drink this. Your head will thank you.”
Merlin forces it down with what little willpower he has left since clearly most of his willpower left him halfway through the last bottle of wine. He tosses the empty mug back to Gaius, who almost fumbles it but catches it between his forearm and chest. Merlin slumps onto a seat at the table.
“How are you feeling?” asks Gaius.
“Ergh. What time is it?”
“It’s close to midnight. You missed supper.” Gaius plonks a bowl down on the table before him. “Gwen came round to drop off some soup for you, but that was hours ago. It’s cold now.”
“Thanks, but I’m not hungry.”
“You should eat,” Gaius says sternly. “There’s nothing in your stomach.”
“Yeah. I know.”
Gaius rolls his eyes. “Suit yourself. I only stayed awake to make sure you’re all right, and since you are - except perhaps for your dignity-”
“My dignity?” Merlin croaks. “What did you hear about my dignity?”
“I hear that someone has to clean some boots as soon as he is able,” says Gaius, raising one eyebrow. Merlin has learned to measure Gaius’s disapproval by how high he raises his eyebrow. Currently it is very high indeed.
“…Yeah,” says Merlin weakly, and wonders what else Gaius heard.
“Right,” says Gaius. “The boots are out by the back entrance. I’m going to bed.”
“Gaius.”
“What, Merlin.”
“Have you,” Merlin asks, “have you found anything that’d bring Arthur back?”
The old man eyeballs him. If Merlin isn’t mistaken, there’s a little bit of pity in his eyes. Well, Merlin hopes he’s mistaken; he doesn’t need pity.
“No,” Gaius replies. “I haven’t found anything.”
“Oh,” says Merlin, and he lets Gaius go to bed.
His memories of the afternoon are hazy. When Merlin tries to recall them, they move slowly like viscous liquid to the forefront of his mind. He remembers apologizing profusely to Bradley, falling off a horse, and hitching a ride to Camelot on a cart because he couldn’t walk straight and kept on wanting to have a lie-down “just for a few minutes”. This is maybe worse than the time Bradley threw up. Then again, at least Merlin had the grace to kiss Bradley before he threw up. God, that had been disgusting. But also frustrating, because if only Bradley hadn’t stunk of booze and vomit. If only he hadn’t been completely wasted.
“I can see why they picked Colin to play you,” Bradley had slurred, and then he passed out fully clothed on top of the covers.
And it comes down to that. Bradley circles back to this Colin person, and Merlin thinks of Arthur as the guilt pools in his stomach (unless that’s just more hangover), but no one even knows where Arthur is. Autumn is almost over, and Bradley has begun overseeing peacekeeping strategy and holding his own in friendly duels against Gawain.
Merlin pours himself a mug of water and enchants the soup hot again, then he rifles around for a clean spoon. Gaius is right: he needs to eat.
He pores over his magic book again, even though he didn’t find anything the first time. Or the second time. Last month, Merlin had insisted, “We should look through the library archives again. I bet Geoffrey doesn’t even read most of stuff he has in there.”
“He reads them all, Merlin,” Gaius had replied, “but this is a greater magic than we can comprehend. I suggest finding a more productive use for your time. How about getting some more mugwort?”
Unable to focus on mugwort, Merlin had gone to the dragon instead, who had this to say: “The old man is right. Don’t trust books, young warlock. Trust stories. Trust in their warp and weft.”
“Which stories?” Merlin demanded.
The dragon gave off the impression of raising an eyebrow, despite having none. “Yours, of course.”
Which makes Merlin wonder what Bradley’s story is. Bradley is just Bradley, except when he has to be Arthur, but Merlin is finding that, even when Bradley turns Arthur off, Merlin’s affection lingers. Merlin knows that there is a degree of deliberation when Bradley touches him, and Merlin minds this less and less. It might be less distressing if these were actually just displaced feelings for Arthur, but Merlin doesn’t even entertain the notion of pretending Bradley is Arthur anymore, not since the fight. Merlin constantly tells himself that this is Bradley James, definitely not Arthur Pendragon, and Merlin needs to remember that not just for himself, but also for Bradley. In any case, he’s still the (de facto) prince of Camelot and it’s still Merlin’s duty to serve and protect him. And in this strange and roundabout way, Bradley and Merlin keep each other whole.
The combination of Gaius’s potion and Gwen’s soup is working: he’s beginning to feel better already, at least physically.
The last thing Merlin expects to hear when he goes out to fetch the boots is to hear Bradley’s voice. Then Merlin hears a familiar laugh.
“Are you serious?” Gwen asks, giggling.
“I’ve never been more serious in my life,” Bradley is saying. “One second he’s telling me about growing up in the country and the next he vomits all over my boots.”
“Merlin has never been good with alcohol,” Gwen says sympathetically.
“That’s the understatement of the year. I don’t know why I put up with the idiot.”
Merlin sneaks closer, sticking to the shadows. Bradley and Gwen are standing in Gwen’s doorway, which is strange, especially at this time of night. Are they…?
“I hope you’ll give him another chance, sire. He does care about you.”
Bradley looks down and mutters, “He has a funny way of showing it.”
“He’s a funny boy,” Gwen smiles. “I mean. Not strange funny. Well, maybe a little. And actually he’s not very good with jokes either, so maybe ‘funny’ is the wrong word. Um.”
“I know what you mean.”
An awkward silence settles in, neither of them used to conversing with each other without Morgana and Merlin around.
“I’m sorry,” Gwen splutters. “Where are my manners? Would you like to come in, sire? I’m sorry the place is a bit of a mess.”
All right, so they aren’t, and Merlin relaxes the tension he didn’t realize he was holding in his body.
“No, no,” Bradley replies hastily. “It’s all right, thank you. Really, I should be apologizing for calling so late, but, er. I was… I had to- I came to ask you a question.”
“Oh.” Gwen frowns in confusion. “Of course.”
“This is going to sound a bit silly, I’m afraid.”
“I’m sure it’s fine,” she assures him.
“It’s…” He takes a deep breath. “All right. Gwen, you told me once that you… had faith in me, and that. That you saw something inside me. You saw a man, a king, that you could believe in.”
“That we could all believe in,” Gwen adds softly.
“Well, it’s just… Do you still see that?”
It’s a private moment. Not too private, but private enough to make Merlin realize just how much he is currently a man holding someone else’s boots, which are encrusted in his own vomit, while eavesdropping on his friends. What has he come to? And when did Gwen tell Arthur all that stuff?
“Is that what this is about?” Her voice is bright again, and a soft smile spreads across her face. “The past few months have been difficult for you, haven’t they?”
“Well. They’ve been a bit trying.”
“Sire, you’ve always been very brave. I’ve seen you stand up for people no one else will stand up for, and everyone can see how dedicated you are to the kingdom. Honestly, I think the past few months have only shown what a good king you’ll be.”
“…Really?”
“I think you’ve shown that you’re not afraid to recognize your vulnerabilities,” she adds, warming to the subject, “and that you’re not afraid to know less than you should, and that’s important. I think it’s important for a king to be humble because, I mean, look at your father.” Then, with her eyes wide and her hands over her mouth: “Er, I mean, his majesty is not a bad king. And he’s certainly not… um. I think your father has many redeeming qualities. I don’t think that-”
Bradley bursts into laughter. “Gwen.”
“-he’s a complete monster. Not that he’s a partial monster!”
“Gwen!”
“King Uther has done much good for this land,” Gwen recites.
“Guinevere.”
In a small voice, she says, “…Yes?”
“…Thank you,” says Bradley, though his voice sounds a little tight.
“Er,” says Gwen. “You’re welcome. Sire.”
They bid each other good night, and Bradley lingers for a second or two at the door before making his way back. He takes his time, his steps heavy and slow, his head bent as if lost in thought.
Merlin watches him go, and then he whispers and waves a hand over the boots; his eyes flash gold.
The boots are as good as new.
+
Gwen’s words bounced around in Bradley’s head the rest of the night, having the opposite effect of what Bradley had hoped for when he went to find her in the first place. Whatever it was he had wanted to hear, it was and wasn’t that. He slept uneasily, dreaming of Sam Neill bargaining with the fey folk as Uther watched from the director’s chair eating marshmallows and refusing to say ‘cut’.
“Bradley.”
“Ngh.”
“I’ve brought your breakfast, and your boots. They’re clean. If you don’t need anything else…” and then the voice fades to a mumble as Bradley rolls over and buries his head under his pillow. By the time he realizes that it’s Merlin talking to him and not Sam Neill, he’s alone in the room.
It’s midmorning by the time Bradley finds (the nerve to find) him. In Gaius’s quarters, Merlin grinds something with a mortar and pestle, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows and his hair sticking out every which way. He looks up when Bradley comes in and Bradley notices the bags under his eyes.
“Morning,” Merlin mumbles, then he looks down again like the mortar is on the verge of revealing some great secret.
“What’s up?” says Bradley. “Where’s Gaius?”
“Morgana’s had another one of her dreams,” says Merlin. “He’s tending to her.”
“So, thanks for cleaning my boots,” says Bradley, at the same time that Merlin says, “Sorry about the boots.”
“It was nothing,” Merlin replies, at the same time that Bradley says, “Don’t worry about it.”
There is an awkward pause.
“So, what did you mean-” begins Bradley, at the same time Merlin says, “Sorry about the, um-”
“Okay, just stop,” Bradley cuts in. “Have we kissed before? Since the first time? Don’t lie about it,” he warns.
Merlin blushes and pestles whatever is in the mortar with vicious intensity. “Yes.”
“Was it that time I was sick behind the castle?”
“…Yes.”
Bradley winces. “I thought so. Sorry.”
A pause, then: “Yeah, me too.”
“I mean,” says Bradley, bracing himself, “I’m sorry I kissed you after I was sick. I should have kissed you before that. Er, if I were going to kiss you at all. Which… I guess I did. But I should have done it better. That is to say.”
This is what comes of talking to Gwen when one is insomniac and vulnerable.
Merlin has stopped his pestle-ing and is staring at him like a deer in headlights.
“So.” Bradley crosses his arms.
“Yeah, I should’ve, um.” Merlin takes a deep breath. “I should have done it better too.”
Bradley nods, swallows dryly. Replies, “…Oh.”
“Yeah.”
“Well.”
“Um.”
“So.”
“So,” Merlin agrees.
Bradley goes to him slowly, sort of meanderingly. Merlin rubs his hands on his shirt and steps out from behind the table. There is nothing between them now but empty space, and they close the gap hesitantly but steadily. Then the door opens.
“Ah, Bradley!” Gaius calls out in greeting. “What brings you here?”
Bradley whirls around. He hears Merlin shuffling away behind him. “Gaius,” says Bradley. “Good morning. How’s Morgana?”
“She’ll be fine, don’t you worry,” Gaius assures him. “I just came back to pick up her medicine.”
“It’s almost ready.” Merlin scrapes out the contents of the mortar into a bowl and pours steaming water into it.
As Merlin busies himself with his task, Bradley is dragged into another conversation about SCIENCE with Gaius. That’s how Bradley thinks of it – SCIENCE with capital letters – because that’s how Gaius talks about it: very seriously and all curiosity, and full of strange questions about the medicinal practices in his world.
“Squirrel urine?” Bradley echoes. “What for?”
Gaius tells him.
“Eww,” Bradley opines.
When Merlin finally says, “Right, it’s done,” Bradley says, “Great,” and snatches the potion from Merlin’s hands before Gaius can take it. In response to Gaius’s raised eyebrows, he says, “Would you mind if I came along?”
“No, not at all.” Gaius turns back to Merlin as if expecting him to chime in with a like desire to go, but Merlin is puttering around the table cleaning up after himself.
Merlin says, “So, um, I’ll see you later.”
Bradley nods. “Yeah. Okay.”
“Shall we, sire?” says Gaius.
“I’m not ‘sire’,” says Bradley.
“Of course. Hmm.” Gaius opens the door and lets Bradley go through first. “And just when I thought I was getting the hang of it.”
Morgana hasn’t had prophetic dreams since he arrived, and Bradley isn’t sure he’s ready to hear what they contain, but he figures he must. The way these things go, it’s probably going to involve Arthur killing something, or something killing Arthur, and Bradley thinks it’s best to be prepared. Still, he clings to the hope that maybe this time Morgana dreamt of rainbows and kittens, or perhaps the beach.
In her room, Morgana sits wrapped in one of her fur stoles by the window, looking paler than usual. The tension in her body is clear from the way she holds herself, and her eyes are blank and faraway as if she hasn’t quite woken up. At the hearth, Gwen makes tea.
“How are we feeling, my dear?” asks Gaius.
“As well as can be expected,” Morgana murmurs, taking the medicine from his hands. She makes a face as she drinks. “I wish you wouldn’t make me drink these things, Gaius.”
“It’ll help you sleep,” he assures her.
“It’s not the sleep that worries me.” She holds the mug between her hands to warm her fingers. “It’s that when I dream, I only see the edges of things. It all goes by very quickly and I can’t quite… If I don’t drink this, I think I’d see the signs better.” Morgana sighs, and looks drawn. “I can warn us better.”
Bradley and Gaius exchange glances, and Gaius replies, “You don’t have to warn us of anything, Morgana. We only want you to be well.”
“You only want Uther not to worry,” she says, looking away.
As Arthur, Bradley should probably make some dismissive comment about superstitions or at least defend Uther, but he is also Bradley and Bradley knows these stories. He can still hear Gwen’s voice in his head from last night, telling him things he didn’t know he didn’t want to hear. So he asks Morgana, “What did you dream about?”
From the look she gives him, he deduces that Arthur doesn’t usually ask her. “I dreamt about war,” she replies hesitantly. “When winter ends this year, there will be war.”
“Between whom?”
“I don’t know. Between Camelot and… It’s all hazy. I couldn’t see much else. I saw things coming undone, I saw you leading our armies, but little more than that.”
Bradley tries to keep his poker face as he says, “Me? Are you sure?”
She sips her potion. “I know what I saw.”
“What you saw in a dream,” he points out. “Look, maybe you saw wrong. Are you sure it wasn’t my father? Or… someone else who looks like me, or some other fellow named Arthur?”
Morgana frowns. “What?”
At the corner of his eyes, he sees Gaius and Gwen exchange looks.
“Sire,” says Gwen, all trepidation and concern. “Would you like some tea?”
“No,” Bradley snaps. “Thank you.”
“Arthur,” says Morgana, like Bradley is the one having crazy dreams, “what are you talking about?”
“What are you talking about?” Bradley demands. “Father and I negotiated treaties and alliances through the summer. Our enemies are controlled and our peace is assured. There is no reason for anyone to go to war!”
Unimpressed, she merely replies, “Arthur, you know how in dreams sometimes you see someone you know with your eyes, but your instinct tells you it’s someone else? Someone who looks like your old nursemaid, but you somehow know it’s your father, or an enemy. In dreams, we recognize people not by how they look, but by how they make us feel. I felt you, Arthur, in my dream. I know it was you.”
“What nonsense you spout.” He lets Arthur’s disdain take hold. “Perhaps you should focus on your needlework, Morgana, instead of trying your hand at war-making.”
It’s a spiteful move. Much in the same way that Morgana knows how to wrap Arthur around her little finger, Arthur also knows what will set her off. Arthur knows, so Bradley knows, and he uses this against her. The anger sullies her face, and her fingers clench.
“Er, sire-” Gaius attempts.
“I fought by your side in Ealdor!” she rages. “Don’t you dare talk to me like I’m some child!”
“I’m not,” Bradley cuts in coldly. “I’m talking to you like you’re a woman. Which you are.”
Before Morgana throws him unceremoniously out of her room, someone knocks on the door.
“Enter!” she shouts, still agitated.
“Pardon the interruption, your highness, Lady Morgana,” the steward mutters, head bowed low, “but the king requests the prince’s presence immediately.”
“What is it?” asks Bradley, a sinking feeling already in his stomach. “What’s wrong?”
“Sire,” the steward replies, “it’s Mercia. They’ve reneged on the border clause.”
Bradley ignores the expressions on Gwen and Gaius’s faces, and especially Morgana’s, as he strides to the door.
Coincidences happen all the time, Bradley thinks as Arthur confers with Uther and the knights about how best to deal with Mercia’s insult. Bradley was raised to believe in the triumph of the scientific method and rational thought, and he should have no truck with prophecies and fortune-telling and shit of that nature.
“We should send armed men,” says Bedevere, “to make a point.”
“We need to make a bigger impression than that,” Percival protests. “Bayard’s head is stuffed with wool; he’ll never listen to reason.”
“No,” says Bradley. “The insult may be grievous, but the act itself is not. We’re still protected by the pact we’ve signed. Losing the lands on Mercia’s eastern border was a harsh blow for Bayard; he wants us to overreact to this so he has an excuse to go immediately to the sword.”
“I’d like to go immediately to the sword,” Percival mutters, and the meeting devolves into argument.
“Son,” says Uther, pulling Bradley aside after the knights have left, hours later. “I admire your commitment to peace, but did you really expect Mercia to keep their peace for very long?”
“We’ll make them keep their peace,” says Bradley, then something balks inside of him, because what the hell is he saying?
He goes to the dragon.
“I haven’t seen you in a while,” grins the dragon, having the gall to talk to him like they are actually friends.
“So Arthur is coming home soon, right?” Bradley demands. “Because there’s no fucking way I’m going to war for this shit of a kingdom and its shit of a people and its-”
“The wars of men are not my wars,” says the dragon.
“That’s bollocks, just utter bollocks, you bloody big amphibian.”
“I’m not an amphibian.”
“And I’m not a prince! Look, I have a family back home. I have a great job, and friends who will be missing me. Someone somewhere has fucked things right up, because this is not my world. No one in my world ever made me lead wars because the neighbors got shirty with where the fence-line ought to be.” He waves Arthur’s circlet at the dragon as if about to throw it for the dragon to fetch. “This is not who I am.”
“No,” the dragon agrees. “It’s what you do.”
“How is this what I do?” he cries out.
“Well,” says the dragon, “you are doing it. Aren’t you?”
“This is ridiculous. You’re ridiculous. Arthur was born to do this, right. He’s been trained to kill since birth or whatever. He leads armies and trains knights, so he’s perfect for this sort of stuff, but I’m just Bradley fucking James from fucking Devon and I like fucking football and watching fucking television, and I’m not fucking made for this!”
“Fool!” the dragon exclaims. A bright flash of flame pours from its mouth and nostrils, sudden and blinding in the dark. Bradley shields his eyes and presses back against the rock. “Fool that you are! The thread cannot leave the loom until the tapestry is woven. You have the pride of kings, and kings will fall!” The dragon spreads its wings wide. “Do you see these? Do you see these wings? Answer me, boy!”
“Yes,” Bradley manages, just barely, heart hammering in his chest. The flames had licked the air but feet from him, and he can still feel the heat on his skin.
“I flew once,” the dragon continues, its voice reverberating off the rock walls, “above the earth and between the worlds. I am a creature of magic and flame and the open sky. Do you think this is what I wish for myself, to be chained underground and to never see the sun? To forget the feel of the wind at my back? The world doesn’t care what you’re made for, boy. It doesn’t care what you are.” It leans in close, close enough that Bradley can see every scale on its face, the light dancing in its eyes. “It cares only about what you must do.”
So much for rationality and the scientific method.
But what hope does science and rationality have in this world? It’s a world where Colin Morgan’s eyes really do turn gold when he does real magic, and Katie McGrath has dreams that tell the future. Anthony Head proclaims death upon those different from him and Richard Wilson believes in the curative properties of leeches. So maybe that concatenation of CGI pixels in the basement knows what it’s talking about after all.
“No fucking way,” Bradley says to no one, as if the words might be truer if said aloud.
Supper is tense, with Morgana still angry and Uther attempting to engage a reticent Bradley in a discussion of diplomatic strategy.
“Perhaps you should leave talk of such things until the morning, my lord,” says Morgana, smiling sweetly at Uther. “It might give Arthur nightmares.”
Bradley makes a rude gesture at her when Uther isn’t looking. She rolls her eyes.
When Bradley returns from Uther’s study after an extended postprandial discussion of exactly what the emissary should bring and do and say to Bayard, Merlin is sitting at his table with his feet up on the desk, looking like he’s been waiting for ages. It’s an absurd sight, and for a moment Bradley doesn’t know what to do with it.
“I can have you put in the stocks for your impertinence,” he finally says.
“Stop acting like you’re actually the prince,” says Merlin, but his tone is affectionate.
“For all intents and purposes, I-” And then Bradley stops himself, because he suddenly realizes that Merlin is the first person today to tell him that. The realization flips the ‘off’ switch somewhere inside him, the one he thought he already pressed. Bradley leans back against the door, burying his face in his hands as he lets all the princeliness seep out of his skin, and makes a noise halfway between a laugh and a sob.
“You all right?” he hears Merlin say.
“Oh god, I’m fucked, I’m so fucked. Merlin, they want me to start a war!”
“Yeah, I heard about that,” Merlin says guardedly. “That’s why I came, actually. To see where your head is.”
“I can’t start wars!” Bradley protests. “I’ve never started a war in my life! Not with like, people dying and actually being shot at. What nonsense is that? And all this shit about destiny, I can’t even…”
“Yeah,” says Merlin, coming around the table, “that’s what I said when I first met the dragon.”
“The sodding dragon!” Bradley bursts out. “I can’t even. I don’t even want to. We ought to have the bastard slain, roasted, and fed to the hungry.” But he tells Merlin anyway: about his talk with it earlier, about the dissent among the knights regarding Mercia, about Morgana’s prophecy.
“She saw me,” Bradley emphasizes. “And not just ‘saw’. She felt me! Apparently!”
Merlin leans against the edge of the table, crosses his arms. “Did you ask her if Camelot wins the war?”
“Jesus Christ, Merlin, I can’t ask that. That would be… I can’t.” Bradley shrugs helplessly. “I can’t ask that. I’m not Arthur,” he proclaims, for what feels like the millionth time.
Merlin nods absently, as if he is mulling over something else. “But,” he ventures, and pauses, bites his lip.
“But what?”
“But you’ve stepped into his shoes rather well,” Merlin admits. “And Camelot thanks you for that. Uther, I’m sure. And the knights. Everyone is glad to have the prince back. I don’t know the place you’re from - I’ve only heard your stories - but the world loves you here.”
“They love Arthur.”
“It’s almost as if,” Merlin continues, “this world just bends to you, the way you show up being the prince, knowing a lot and nothing at the same time. It’s weird. The first time I met you I kept on seeing Arthur resurface, like maybe it would depend on the way the light hit you or how you said a certain word. But now…” He shrugs, words unable to express the simple acceptance Bradley sees in his eyes. “Bradley, you can do this. You can and you must, because you’re here and Arthur isn’t.”
He is reminded of shadows on a cave wall and the things they really are, though Bradley’s particular problem is probably not what Plato had in mind. Or maybe it was. Who knows? Not Bradley, who, when The Republic was assigned at school, never got beyond page eight and relied on cliff notes the rest of the way. Which came first: chicken or the egg? The myth or the man?
Bradley says, “What about you? I thought you and Arthur were, like. A coin together.”
Merlin’s smile is a weary one. “I help the prince of Camelot achieve a great destiny.”
“I’m not just some Arthur clone,” Bradley says ruefully.
“I didn’t say you were. You can’t be. You’re obviously not.”
“You’re the only one it’s obvious to, fortunately and unfortunately.”
Merlin doesn’t say anything for a bit, just stares at Bradley in a strange inscrutable way. Then he says, “You’re Bradley James. You were born in 1984, in Devon. You like football, and socks with your shoes. You like nuts only sometimes. You, um, like chicken ticker masala. Once, when you were a child, your cat scratched you, so you kicked it, then felt guilty. You think star wars are all right, but not star treks. You tried acid with your mates and it was the first time you considered the idea that a god might exist, you’d never been so amazed by the world in your life.” As Merlin speaks, he steps closer to Bradley, slowly as if not to frighten him, but Bradley can do nothing but watch him, heart in his mouth.
“You don’t like frivolous ringtones,” Merlin continues. “And one time you were so drunk that you fell asleep in a tube for six hours.”
“The Tube,” Bradley corrects softly. “There’s only one.”
“The tube,” says Merlin, perhaps wondering at a universe where only one tube exists in the whole world. “Sorry.”
“It’s okay.”
And this is why he can hear the same words from Merlin that he refuses to digest from everyone else. Everyone else is talking to Arthur when they forecast his glorious future: Uther, Gwen, even Morgana, despite whatever she feels in her dreams. The dragon, resigned and chained in the dark, tells Bradley to bend the knee to destiny in the way a battered housewife tells another to grin and bear it. But Merlin knows Bradley, and is the only one who really tries to, even if Bradley’s stories lose something in translation. Merlin knows what it’s like to suddenly end up in a role that holds you up and, at the same time, takes you apart. They can be equals in this, knowing each other in ways no one else can.
They stand closer than they would if anyone were watching. Bradley can feel the heat rising in his cheeks, but Merlin doesn’t look away, so he doesn’t either. They’ve kept each other’s secrets all this time, but the ironic thing is that the ease of donning their masks is rooted entirely in the identities they try to cover up. And it’s not pretending – it’s adapting.
“Yeah,” Bradley whispers. “That about sums it up.”
Then he kisses Merlin.
For a second Bradley thinks of Colin, but he pushes the thought out of his mind when Merlin kisses back. If Merlin can be with Bradley and not see Arthur, he can be with Merlin and not see Colin. He tangles his fingers in Merlin’s hair and pulls him closer. He tastes of the beef stew they had for supper, the one Morgana always complains the cook puts too much onions into. It’s hardly ideal, but it’s all right in its way. Comforting.
Merlin rests one hand tentatively on Bradley’s hip, the other sliding up his back. He kisses slowly, with a patience that promises him there is more to come, and Bradley opens his eyes just a little. Sees Merlin’s eyes closed, dark lashes shadowing his cheekbones, and Bradley revels in the feeling of being thoroughly kissed by someone who knows who and what he is.
“You’re peeking,” Merlin murmurs against his lips.
“Mmm, apparently so are you.”
“You peeked first.”
“Shut up.”
So they close their eyes again, and Bradley lets himself be pulled towards the bed. They tumble onto it in a tangle of limbs. When Bradley starts trying to take off his shirt while keeping his lips planted on Merlin’s, Merlin whispers something sibilant with languid vowels and suddenly they are both quite naked.
“Is that cheating?” asks Bradley.
Merlin shrugs. “Gets the job done.”
“It disturbs me that you know how to do that.”
“Keep me happy and I won’t do it to you in public.”
Merlin is pliant in his hands, arching his head back when Bradley kisses his way along Merlin’s collarbone, his hand around Merlin’s cock. He kisses his way down Merlin’s chest, his abdomen, and when he takes the tip of Merlin’s cock in his mouth, Merlin makes a sound in his throat that makes Bradley’s stomach flutter, so he does that thing with his tongue again and tries to make Merlin make that sound once more, and twice more, and so on.
It’s different this time, with none of the desperate attempts to claim something that was lost or never had, even if Merlin’s mouth is as hot and soft around his cock as the last time, and Bradley loses himself in the wetness of it and the gentle suction until he gasps, “Oh god,” and “Oh fuck,” and he comes, one hand on Merlin’s head and the other hand bunching the sheets in his fist.
“Oh, sweet Christ,” Bradley pants, and Merlin just smiles a wicked smile and says, “We’re not finished.”
Bradley watches as Merlin reaches for the drawer on the bedside table, watches his long pale body stretch out and can’t resist lifting his hand to run his knuckles along Merlin’s side.
“That tickles,” says Merlin, but makes no move to stop him as he retrieves the small bottle of oil. “Hmm. Looks like you’ve been using this quite a lot since our first time.”
“What can I say?” shrugs Bradley. “Our first time was ages ago.”
“I suppose I can pretend you’ve been using it to grease your stirrups or something.”
“If that’s what the kids call it these days – argh!” Bradley shoves Merlin’s chest with his foot. “Warn a man before you stick your fingers up there!”
“Sorry,” says Merlin, not sounding sorry at all. “Got overexcited.”
But it doesn’t take long for Bradley to ask for more, and Merlin is happy to oblige. He slides his cock slow into Bradley, breathing shallowly through parted lips.
“Oh fuck,” gasps Bradley.
“Yeah, hold on.”
And he almost wants to smack Merlin for that one, but then Merlin starts fucking him, deep and hard, and Bradley can’t say that much. Can’t think that much. Just does what his body tells him to and throws out an occasional profanity when he can.
+
The thing about the disappearing clothes spell is that Merlin hasn’t perfected it.
The one time he tried it with Arthur, their clothes ended up in tatters. Arthur lost his favorite shirt and that was the end of that, and they stuck to ripping each other’s clothes off the old-fashioned way. This time, however…
“Where are our clothes?” Bradley wonders.
They search all over the bedroom, and even through the clean clothes in the wardrobe, but they can find neither thread nor button of them.
“Are they somewhere else in the castle?” asks Bradley. “That could look very strange to passers-by.”
“I don’t know,” says Merlin, checking once more under the bed.
“Did you magically disassemble our clothes into their atomic parts?”
“Um. No?”
Bradley concludes that this was, in fact, what Merlin had done, so Merlin just goes with it. Either way, he ends up borrowing clothes from Bradley and together they contrive a vaguely believable story about what happened to Merlin’s clothes should anyone ask.
“You were drunk and shagging some girl, and then you passed out on her,” Bradley announces triumphantly. “Then she took your clothes.”
“Why would she take my clothes?”
“For revenge, I suppose. Because you passed out on her during sex.”
“Right…” Merlin eyeballs him. “Has that ever happened to you?”
Bradley’s face turns a suspicious shade of red. “No!”
The clothes are a little big on Merlin, but they’ll do for now. He fiddles with the belt as Bradley sprawls out on the bed.
“I still can’t believe all this,” says Bradley.
“Which part?” Merlin mumbles. How are these belts so big? He reckons he needs another belt to keep this belt up.
“I’ve been here half a year,” muses Bradley. “I wonder when I’ll… Or if.”
“You’ll worry yourself into the grave wondering things like that. My mother always says, ‘You can’t be worrying about the meaning of life if you’re not living it.’”
“She’s a practical woman, for someone who lives in such a magical land.”
“It’s not that magical.”
“You have no idea.” Bradley turns his head to look at him. “There’s no magic in my world, you know.”
“You tell me that,” says Merlin, “but I think toilets sound pretty magical.”
“I suppose.”
“Especially when they flush the other way.”
“Very true.”
Merlin walks over and squats by the bed so his face is level with Bradley’s. “I already told you I’m doing this with you. Everybody wants to make a king out of you, and I’m going to be there making sure everyone comes through with their heads attached. Unless it turns out they’re evil, of course.”
Bradley’s smile is a little sad, which frustrates Merlin, because what else can he do? What else can he promise?
“Merlin-” he begins.
“You do the job in front of you,” says Merlin, “and I’ll do mine, and if one day you’re whisked back to your own world, well. We don’t know when that will be, so we can’t worry about it.”
And he’d be lying if he didn’t admit to himself that he is saying these words as much to himself as he is to Bradley, but again: what can you do? They are still for a few seconds, contemplating each other and the situation they are in. There is nothing to say that they haven’t said before, nothing that they know the other person hasn’t already thought before.
Finally Bradley says, “I can’t believe how many more hours of training I’ll have to put in if there’s a war next spring.”
“Stop whining,” grins Merlin. “It doesn’t suit you.”
Bradley chuckles and shoves his face. “Get out of here, you tosser, you’ve kept me up too late.”
“Look at the size of these trousers,” says Merlin as he gets to his feet. “You need to lose some weight.”
“It’s all muscle. You’re welcome for those clothes, by the way.”
“You’re welcome for the excellent sex, by the way.”
“You’re welcome for the excellent head.”
“You’re welcome for the-”
“For god’s sake!”
Merlin has one hand on the doorknob and looks one more time over his shoulder. “So good night then.”
“Yeah.” Bradley smiles. “Same to you.”
He shuts the door quietly behind him. Bradley rolls over and burrows into the covers, tries not to think of wars, tries not to think of dreams or the dragon in his cave. There will be time enough to think on that tomorrow and, eventually, he drops off to sleep.
[end.]
Character Motivation (Merlin/Bradley James, Merlin/Arthur, Bradley/Colin. NC17.)
In which Bradley is displaced.
Part 1
Autumn brings strong gusts of wind and cheerless downpour. Bradley can now reel off the history of Camelot’s political treaties, he’s friendly with the knights, and he’s almost positive that all that happened between Arthur and Morgana was a particularly embarrassing almost-shag a long time ago. He prods Merlin to weasel the information out of Gwen, but he is not successful. The girl code applies in all universes, it would seem.
Somewhere between the tutoring and Uther’s insistence that Arthur pick up his duties again, Bradley figures a few things out. Not everything, but just enough to get him by. Holding court means looking stately by Uther’s side and stepping in when Uther is about to unnecessarily destroy something. Visits of state are boring but the meals are doubly delicious. Negotiations he doesn’t quite have the hang of yet. From what he’s seen, the most effective negotiators know how to be polite and threatening at the same time, and Bradley’s no good at that sort of duplicity, not without a script. This is why Uther isn’t that good of a negotiator either. They both have a tendency to wear their hearts on their sleeves, and Bradley has seen potential alliances slip through their fingers because Uther fell under the sway of his own emotions, or because Bradley put his own ego first. He hopes that Arthur will be a better king than this.
Every night, after the hubbub of the day is over, he escapes to Arthur’s room with Merlin. Merlin listens to stories of anything that Bradley can think of, as long as it has to do with his old life: shenanigans with his mates from his DC days, why Smarties are better than Skittles, and even the plots of beloved television programs. Merlin laughs at all the right places and asks questions, and it’s a comforting routine. It’s a little like bedtime stories and lullabies, except that Bradley is telling the stories to himself: familiar litanies about another life where the colors are a little brighter and comfort more easily recognizable.
“Oh, I don’t know,” says Merlin, his eyes tinted gold as he makes coins orbit around Bradley’s head. “It’s not so bad here.”
Bradley absently flicks every other coin with his fingers, but Merlin always makes them return to formation. “It’s not better or worse, I suppose. Just different. But it’s not my world. Well, not really.”
He remembers reading the ‘Merlin’ script for the first time and having a laugh with his mates over the sheer silliness of it. Alan had patted his shoulder and said, “You have to start somewhere, eh?” Alan was one to talk; the last gig he had was in an advert for a new brand of honey mustard. That probably made Alan very knowledgeable on the subject of having to ‘start somewhere’ though, but anyway, he is worlds away right now so it doesn’t matter.
This isn’t television from a script, this is…
Bradley hesitates to call this real life, but what else can he call it if he’s living in it? In the interest of preserving his sanity, Bradley has long given up puzzling over which of the worlds is the real one and which is its shadow. Even if this were the shadow world, it still has all the horrific technical details: he shits, he gets irritating specks of something in his eye that he can’t dislodge, his feet smell, and one day he even threw up when he drank too much. (He doesn’t remember much after tipping over into the bushes and almost into his own puddle of sick. The next thing he knew, Bradley woke up in Arthur’s bed with the distinct feeling that someone had been using his brain for a football. Merlin showed up with a pitcher of water and was cagey when Bradley asked him what else happened the night before.
“I just brought you to bed,” said Merlin.
“Was that it?”
“Yeah.”
A perfectly reasonable course of events, and Bradley would have believed it if Merlin hadn’t been bright red and avoiding eye contact.)
On a brighter note, Bradley has also been getting laid.
It’s kind of difficult not to run into it. It must be this ‘prince’ thing. Bradley has courtesans, daughters, and sisters (and wives, sometimes) sidling up to him for favor. And men too, puffing up their egos and smiling at him gentle and slow like they actually have the upper hand.
He doesn’t tell Merlin about his dalliances. Bradley figures Merlin already knows; the servants probably gossip about it. Bradley just hopes he doesn’t end up with some form of medieval gonorrhea. The night after shagging Lord Oliver’s youngest daughter, he ends up asking Gaius if he has ever heard of penicillin.
“I have never heard of it, but perhaps if you tell me more, we can try to locate it on a map,” says Gaius, so Bradley just tells him to forget about it.
One afternoon, Bradley discovers that Merlin doesn’t know about his trysts because when he opens Arthur’s door and walks in on Bradley getting sucked off by a nobleman from Northumbria, his mouth makes an ‘O’ of surprise and his eyes go very wide.
“Bloody hell, Merlin!” Bradley shouts.
Merlin just stands there, blushing, and doesn’t move until Bradley throws a pillow at him.
“Um, sorry,” Merlin mumbles, looking away.
“Close the door!”
“I knew you should have locked it,” says the nobleman from Northumbria when Merlin leaves, and Bradley snaps, “Shut up.”
He’s less excited about shagging this nobleman now, but he does anyway because far be it from him to leave unfinished what he started, and anyway, he already has his trousers off.
Bradley has nothing to apologize to Merlin for so, instead, he orders Merlin to fetch a few of the best bottles of wine from the cellar and to saddle the horses. On the way to the hills, Bradley talks about how the nobleman from Northumbria is a right prat who doesn’t know a cock from his own elbow until Merlin concedes a laugh. It’s chilly in autumn, and not the best time to go riding out for fun, but going to the hills is a familiar habit and it reminds him of when he used to think he would go back to his world any day now. Any day. He still thinks that, but it’s just difficult to dwell on it when he’s busy running the kingdom with Uther and learning the finer points of swordplay from a host of rowdy knights.
“You don’t talk much about Colin anymore,” says Merlin when they’re halfway through the first bottle. “You used to call me that more often.”
“Yeah,” is all Bradley says.
“What’s he like?”
“He’s sort of goofy, honestly. But quiet sometimes; I always end up picking up the slack when we do TV spots together. But he’s all right, he’s always game for a good time.” He shrugs.
“Do you miss him?”
“Yeah. But I miss a lot of things.”
“Yeah, all right,” says Merlin, like he’s just humoring Bradley, and that’s just strange and irritating. He doesn’t need Merlin humoring him like Bradley is the one who did something wrong. Merlin says, with pointed casualness, “What about marshmallows? You miss marshmallows?”
“Marshm… What are you getting at?” he snaps. “I miss lots of things, I just don’t have time to mope about it all because Father keeps me-”
“‘Father’?” Merlin repeats, raising his eyebrows.
Bradley’s stomach clenches. “Um. Uther. Uther keeps me busy,” he finishes feebly. He takes a long swig from the bottle and turns the conversation topic to Gaius, because there’s always something to laugh about when it comes to Gaius.
“One time, he told me that one his proudest moments was reading that anatomy book from cover to cover,” Merlin says.
“Once, I saw him talking to his plants when he was watering them,” Bradley says.
Oh, Gaius.
Merlin is reluctant to drink more after they finish the first bottle, but Bradley isn’t done yet and he’ll be damned if he drinks alone. If Bradley can shepherd half the cast onto all the roller coasters at Parc Asterix and fend off pushy tossers from Orkney who think they can get the best of Camelot, he can certainly convince Merlin to drink more wine.
“Just a little bit,” Merlin finally relents, “if it’ll shut you up.”
Bradley says, “No promises,” and grabs another bottle.
So they drink, and Bradley doesn’t notice when Merlin crosses the line from ‘pleasantly buzzed’ to ‘off his face’, possibly because Bradley is nearing ‘off his face’ himself. He doesn’t even realize Merlin is that drunk until they head over to a copse of trees for shelter from the wind. Bradley takes the horses’ reins because Merlin is too busy stumbling cheerfully beside him, talking about the time he snuck into the storeroom of his village tavern to steal some beer and accidentally set the place on fire.
“My mother gave me such a hiding,” he’s saying. “I told her it was an accident. I just hiccupped and the torches sort of flared, but she didn’t care. ‘Beer is the devil’s wee,’ she said, ‘and no child of mine will be drinking the wee of anyone or anything.’”
Merlin trips over a rock, and Bradley grabs his arm to steady him. “Oy. Maybe we should’ve brought just one bottle, yeah?”
“The more, the many-er,” Merlin points out, and, okay, Bradley has to admit that it’s difficult to argue with that.
He ties the reins to a tree branch, wondering whether they should wait for Merlin to sober up a bit so they can drink some more, or whether they should just ride back to Camelot. After making sure the knots are tight, Bradley turns and asks Merlin what he feels like doing, but Merlin doesn’t answer right away.
“All right,” says Merlin. “It’s sort of funny.”
“What’s funny?”
“It’s like, this time I’m the drunk one.” He smiles at Bradley a smile soft and crooked with wine. “So, don’t take it personally, but I’ve been wanting to do this since the first time.”
“The first time what?”
“Or, second time, technically. Because the first time shouldn’t count, because we weren’t who we thought we were.”
And, because sometimes people won’t let themselves believe the obvious, Bradley frowns and says, “What the hell are-”
Merlin steps forward and kisses Bradley, his hands curling into Bradley’s hair in both passion and an attempt to steady himself. It is a drunk’s kiss, a little misaimed and wild-tongued, and Bradley kisses back automatically while his mind makes panicked noises and refuses to agree on anything. WHAT ARE YOU DOING goes one faction, as another wails THIS IS A BAD IDEA and another hoots TAKE HIM NOW.
“I’m glad there isn’t any vomit involved this time,” Merlin mumbles happily and, just like that, he throws up all over Bradley’s boots.
+
Merlin wakes up in his bed and feels 1) pain in his head, 2) nausea in his stomach, and 3) panic.
OhshitkissingBradleyohshit.
Ohshitvomitingonhisbootsohshit.
And ow, everything hurts.
Considering the circumstances, the best course of action would obviously be to go back to sleep, but the pain isn’t letting him do this.
“Ah, Merlin,” says Gaius when Merlin shuffles blearily out of his room. He shoves a mug of something purple and vile-smelling into Merlin’s hands. “Drink this. Your head will thank you.”
Merlin forces it down with what little willpower he has left since clearly most of his willpower left him halfway through the last bottle of wine. He tosses the empty mug back to Gaius, who almost fumbles it but catches it between his forearm and chest. Merlin slumps onto a seat at the table.
“How are you feeling?” asks Gaius.
“Ergh. What time is it?”
“It’s close to midnight. You missed supper.” Gaius plonks a bowl down on the table before him. “Gwen came round to drop off some soup for you, but that was hours ago. It’s cold now.”
“Thanks, but I’m not hungry.”
“You should eat,” Gaius says sternly. “There’s nothing in your stomach.”
“Yeah. I know.”
Gaius rolls his eyes. “Suit yourself. I only stayed awake to make sure you’re all right, and since you are - except perhaps for your dignity-”
“My dignity?” Merlin croaks. “What did you hear about my dignity?”
“I hear that someone has to clean some boots as soon as he is able,” says Gaius, raising one eyebrow. Merlin has learned to measure Gaius’s disapproval by how high he raises his eyebrow. Currently it is very high indeed.
“…Yeah,” says Merlin weakly, and wonders what else Gaius heard.
“Right,” says Gaius. “The boots are out by the back entrance. I’m going to bed.”
“Gaius.”
“What, Merlin.”
“Have you,” Merlin asks, “have you found anything that’d bring Arthur back?”
The old man eyeballs him. If Merlin isn’t mistaken, there’s a little bit of pity in his eyes. Well, Merlin hopes he’s mistaken; he doesn’t need pity.
“No,” Gaius replies. “I haven’t found anything.”
“Oh,” says Merlin, and he lets Gaius go to bed.
His memories of the afternoon are hazy. When Merlin tries to recall them, they move slowly like viscous liquid to the forefront of his mind. He remembers apologizing profusely to Bradley, falling off a horse, and hitching a ride to Camelot on a cart because he couldn’t walk straight and kept on wanting to have a lie-down “just for a few minutes”. This is maybe worse than the time Bradley threw up. Then again, at least Merlin had the grace to kiss Bradley before he threw up. God, that had been disgusting. But also frustrating, because if only Bradley hadn’t stunk of booze and vomit. If only he hadn’t been completely wasted.
“I can see why they picked Colin to play you,” Bradley had slurred, and then he passed out fully clothed on top of the covers.
And it comes down to that. Bradley circles back to this Colin person, and Merlin thinks of Arthur as the guilt pools in his stomach (unless that’s just more hangover), but no one even knows where Arthur is. Autumn is almost over, and Bradley has begun overseeing peacekeeping strategy and holding his own in friendly duels against Gawain.
Merlin pours himself a mug of water and enchants the soup hot again, then he rifles around for a clean spoon. Gaius is right: he needs to eat.
He pores over his magic book again, even though he didn’t find anything the first time. Or the second time. Last month, Merlin had insisted, “We should look through the library archives again. I bet Geoffrey doesn’t even read most of stuff he has in there.”
“He reads them all, Merlin,” Gaius had replied, “but this is a greater magic than we can comprehend. I suggest finding a more productive use for your time. How about getting some more mugwort?”
Unable to focus on mugwort, Merlin had gone to the dragon instead, who had this to say: “The old man is right. Don’t trust books, young warlock. Trust stories. Trust in their warp and weft.”
“Which stories?” Merlin demanded.
The dragon gave off the impression of raising an eyebrow, despite having none. “Yours, of course.”
Which makes Merlin wonder what Bradley’s story is. Bradley is just Bradley, except when he has to be Arthur, but Merlin is finding that, even when Bradley turns Arthur off, Merlin’s affection lingers. Merlin knows that there is a degree of deliberation when Bradley touches him, and Merlin minds this less and less. It might be less distressing if these were actually just displaced feelings for Arthur, but Merlin doesn’t even entertain the notion of pretending Bradley is Arthur anymore, not since the fight. Merlin constantly tells himself that this is Bradley James, definitely not Arthur Pendragon, and Merlin needs to remember that not just for himself, but also for Bradley. In any case, he’s still the (de facto) prince of Camelot and it’s still Merlin’s duty to serve and protect him. And in this strange and roundabout way, Bradley and Merlin keep each other whole.
The combination of Gaius’s potion and Gwen’s soup is working: he’s beginning to feel better already, at least physically.
The last thing Merlin expects to hear when he goes out to fetch the boots is to hear Bradley’s voice. Then Merlin hears a familiar laugh.
“Are you serious?” Gwen asks, giggling.
“I’ve never been more serious in my life,” Bradley is saying. “One second he’s telling me about growing up in the country and the next he vomits all over my boots.”
“Merlin has never been good with alcohol,” Gwen says sympathetically.
“That’s the understatement of the year. I don’t know why I put up with the idiot.”
Merlin sneaks closer, sticking to the shadows. Bradley and Gwen are standing in Gwen’s doorway, which is strange, especially at this time of night. Are they…?
“I hope you’ll give him another chance, sire. He does care about you.”
Bradley looks down and mutters, “He has a funny way of showing it.”
“He’s a funny boy,” Gwen smiles. “I mean. Not strange funny. Well, maybe a little. And actually he’s not very good with jokes either, so maybe ‘funny’ is the wrong word. Um.”
“I know what you mean.”
An awkward silence settles in, neither of them used to conversing with each other without Morgana and Merlin around.
“I’m sorry,” Gwen splutters. “Where are my manners? Would you like to come in, sire? I’m sorry the place is a bit of a mess.”
All right, so they aren’t, and Merlin relaxes the tension he didn’t realize he was holding in his body.
“No, no,” Bradley replies hastily. “It’s all right, thank you. Really, I should be apologizing for calling so late, but, er. I was… I had to- I came to ask you a question.”
“Oh.” Gwen frowns in confusion. “Of course.”
“This is going to sound a bit silly, I’m afraid.”
“I’m sure it’s fine,” she assures him.
“It’s…” He takes a deep breath. “All right. Gwen, you told me once that you… had faith in me, and that. That you saw something inside me. You saw a man, a king, that you could believe in.”
“That we could all believe in,” Gwen adds softly.
“Well, it’s just… Do you still see that?”
It’s a private moment. Not too private, but private enough to make Merlin realize just how much he is currently a man holding someone else’s boots, which are encrusted in his own vomit, while eavesdropping on his friends. What has he come to? And when did Gwen tell Arthur all that stuff?
“Is that what this is about?” Her voice is bright again, and a soft smile spreads across her face. “The past few months have been difficult for you, haven’t they?”
“Well. They’ve been a bit trying.”
“Sire, you’ve always been very brave. I’ve seen you stand up for people no one else will stand up for, and everyone can see how dedicated you are to the kingdom. Honestly, I think the past few months have only shown what a good king you’ll be.”
“…Really?”
“I think you’ve shown that you’re not afraid to recognize your vulnerabilities,” she adds, warming to the subject, “and that you’re not afraid to know less than you should, and that’s important. I think it’s important for a king to be humble because, I mean, look at your father.” Then, with her eyes wide and her hands over her mouth: “Er, I mean, his majesty is not a bad king. And he’s certainly not… um. I think your father has many redeeming qualities. I don’t think that-”
Bradley bursts into laughter. “Gwen.”
“-he’s a complete monster. Not that he’s a partial monster!”
“Gwen!”
“King Uther has done much good for this land,” Gwen recites.
“Guinevere.”
In a small voice, she says, “…Yes?”
“…Thank you,” says Bradley, though his voice sounds a little tight.
“Er,” says Gwen. “You’re welcome. Sire.”
They bid each other good night, and Bradley lingers for a second or two at the door before making his way back. He takes his time, his steps heavy and slow, his head bent as if lost in thought.
Merlin watches him go, and then he whispers and waves a hand over the boots; his eyes flash gold.
The boots are as good as new.
+
Gwen’s words bounced around in Bradley’s head the rest of the night, having the opposite effect of what Bradley had hoped for when he went to find her in the first place. Whatever it was he had wanted to hear, it was and wasn’t that. He slept uneasily, dreaming of Sam Neill bargaining with the fey folk as Uther watched from the director’s chair eating marshmallows and refusing to say ‘cut’.
“Bradley.”
“Ngh.”
“I’ve brought your breakfast, and your boots. They’re clean. If you don’t need anything else…” and then the voice fades to a mumble as Bradley rolls over and buries his head under his pillow. By the time he realizes that it’s Merlin talking to him and not Sam Neill, he’s alone in the room.
It’s midmorning by the time Bradley finds (the nerve to find) him. In Gaius’s quarters, Merlin grinds something with a mortar and pestle, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows and his hair sticking out every which way. He looks up when Bradley comes in and Bradley notices the bags under his eyes.
“Morning,” Merlin mumbles, then he looks down again like the mortar is on the verge of revealing some great secret.
“What’s up?” says Bradley. “Where’s Gaius?”
“Morgana’s had another one of her dreams,” says Merlin. “He’s tending to her.”
“So, thanks for cleaning my boots,” says Bradley, at the same time that Merlin says, “Sorry about the boots.”
“It was nothing,” Merlin replies, at the same time that Bradley says, “Don’t worry about it.”
There is an awkward pause.
“So, what did you mean-” begins Bradley, at the same time Merlin says, “Sorry about the, um-”
“Okay, just stop,” Bradley cuts in. “Have we kissed before? Since the first time? Don’t lie about it,” he warns.
Merlin blushes and pestles whatever is in the mortar with vicious intensity. “Yes.”
“Was it that time I was sick behind the castle?”
“…Yes.”
Bradley winces. “I thought so. Sorry.”
A pause, then: “Yeah, me too.”
“I mean,” says Bradley, bracing himself, “I’m sorry I kissed you after I was sick. I should have kissed you before that. Er, if I were going to kiss you at all. Which… I guess I did. But I should have done it better. That is to say.”
This is what comes of talking to Gwen when one is insomniac and vulnerable.
Merlin has stopped his pestle-ing and is staring at him like a deer in headlights.
“So.” Bradley crosses his arms.
“Yeah, I should’ve, um.” Merlin takes a deep breath. “I should have done it better too.”
Bradley nods, swallows dryly. Replies, “…Oh.”
“Yeah.”
“Well.”
“Um.”
“So.”
“So,” Merlin agrees.
Bradley goes to him slowly, sort of meanderingly. Merlin rubs his hands on his shirt and steps out from behind the table. There is nothing between them now but empty space, and they close the gap hesitantly but steadily. Then the door opens.
“Ah, Bradley!” Gaius calls out in greeting. “What brings you here?”
Bradley whirls around. He hears Merlin shuffling away behind him. “Gaius,” says Bradley. “Good morning. How’s Morgana?”
“She’ll be fine, don’t you worry,” Gaius assures him. “I just came back to pick up her medicine.”
“It’s almost ready.” Merlin scrapes out the contents of the mortar into a bowl and pours steaming water into it.
As Merlin busies himself with his task, Bradley is dragged into another conversation about SCIENCE with Gaius. That’s how Bradley thinks of it – SCIENCE with capital letters – because that’s how Gaius talks about it: very seriously and all curiosity, and full of strange questions about the medicinal practices in his world.
“Squirrel urine?” Bradley echoes. “What for?”
Gaius tells him.
“Eww,” Bradley opines.
When Merlin finally says, “Right, it’s done,” Bradley says, “Great,” and snatches the potion from Merlin’s hands before Gaius can take it. In response to Gaius’s raised eyebrows, he says, “Would you mind if I came along?”
“No, not at all.” Gaius turns back to Merlin as if expecting him to chime in with a like desire to go, but Merlin is puttering around the table cleaning up after himself.
Merlin says, “So, um, I’ll see you later.”
Bradley nods. “Yeah. Okay.”
“Shall we, sire?” says Gaius.
“I’m not ‘sire’,” says Bradley.
“Of course. Hmm.” Gaius opens the door and lets Bradley go through first. “And just when I thought I was getting the hang of it.”
Morgana hasn’t had prophetic dreams since he arrived, and Bradley isn’t sure he’s ready to hear what they contain, but he figures he must. The way these things go, it’s probably going to involve Arthur killing something, or something killing Arthur, and Bradley thinks it’s best to be prepared. Still, he clings to the hope that maybe this time Morgana dreamt of rainbows and kittens, or perhaps the beach.
In her room, Morgana sits wrapped in one of her fur stoles by the window, looking paler than usual. The tension in her body is clear from the way she holds herself, and her eyes are blank and faraway as if she hasn’t quite woken up. At the hearth, Gwen makes tea.
“How are we feeling, my dear?” asks Gaius.
“As well as can be expected,” Morgana murmurs, taking the medicine from his hands. She makes a face as she drinks. “I wish you wouldn’t make me drink these things, Gaius.”
“It’ll help you sleep,” he assures her.
“It’s not the sleep that worries me.” She holds the mug between her hands to warm her fingers. “It’s that when I dream, I only see the edges of things. It all goes by very quickly and I can’t quite… If I don’t drink this, I think I’d see the signs better.” Morgana sighs, and looks drawn. “I can warn us better.”
Bradley and Gaius exchange glances, and Gaius replies, “You don’t have to warn us of anything, Morgana. We only want you to be well.”
“You only want Uther not to worry,” she says, looking away.
As Arthur, Bradley should probably make some dismissive comment about superstitions or at least defend Uther, but he is also Bradley and Bradley knows these stories. He can still hear Gwen’s voice in his head from last night, telling him things he didn’t know he didn’t want to hear. So he asks Morgana, “What did you dream about?”
From the look she gives him, he deduces that Arthur doesn’t usually ask her. “I dreamt about war,” she replies hesitantly. “When winter ends this year, there will be war.”
“Between whom?”
“I don’t know. Between Camelot and… It’s all hazy. I couldn’t see much else. I saw things coming undone, I saw you leading our armies, but little more than that.”
Bradley tries to keep his poker face as he says, “Me? Are you sure?”
She sips her potion. “I know what I saw.”
“What you saw in a dream,” he points out. “Look, maybe you saw wrong. Are you sure it wasn’t my father? Or… someone else who looks like me, or some other fellow named Arthur?”
Morgana frowns. “What?”
At the corner of his eyes, he sees Gaius and Gwen exchange looks.
“Sire,” says Gwen, all trepidation and concern. “Would you like some tea?”
“No,” Bradley snaps. “Thank you.”
“Arthur,” says Morgana, like Bradley is the one having crazy dreams, “what are you talking about?”
“What are you talking about?” Bradley demands. “Father and I negotiated treaties and alliances through the summer. Our enemies are controlled and our peace is assured. There is no reason for anyone to go to war!”
Unimpressed, she merely replies, “Arthur, you know how in dreams sometimes you see someone you know with your eyes, but your instinct tells you it’s someone else? Someone who looks like your old nursemaid, but you somehow know it’s your father, or an enemy. In dreams, we recognize people not by how they look, but by how they make us feel. I felt you, Arthur, in my dream. I know it was you.”
“What nonsense you spout.” He lets Arthur’s disdain take hold. “Perhaps you should focus on your needlework, Morgana, instead of trying your hand at war-making.”
It’s a spiteful move. Much in the same way that Morgana knows how to wrap Arthur around her little finger, Arthur also knows what will set her off. Arthur knows, so Bradley knows, and he uses this against her. The anger sullies her face, and her fingers clench.
“Er, sire-” Gaius attempts.
“I fought by your side in Ealdor!” she rages. “Don’t you dare talk to me like I’m some child!”
“I’m not,” Bradley cuts in coldly. “I’m talking to you like you’re a woman. Which you are.”
Before Morgana throws him unceremoniously out of her room, someone knocks on the door.
“Enter!” she shouts, still agitated.
“Pardon the interruption, your highness, Lady Morgana,” the steward mutters, head bowed low, “but the king requests the prince’s presence immediately.”
“What is it?” asks Bradley, a sinking feeling already in his stomach. “What’s wrong?”
“Sire,” the steward replies, “it’s Mercia. They’ve reneged on the border clause.”
Bradley ignores the expressions on Gwen and Gaius’s faces, and especially Morgana’s, as he strides to the door.
Coincidences happen all the time, Bradley thinks as Arthur confers with Uther and the knights about how best to deal with Mercia’s insult. Bradley was raised to believe in the triumph of the scientific method and rational thought, and he should have no truck with prophecies and fortune-telling and shit of that nature.
“We should send armed men,” says Bedevere, “to make a point.”
“We need to make a bigger impression than that,” Percival protests. “Bayard’s head is stuffed with wool; he’ll never listen to reason.”
“No,” says Bradley. “The insult may be grievous, but the act itself is not. We’re still protected by the pact we’ve signed. Losing the lands on Mercia’s eastern border was a harsh blow for Bayard; he wants us to overreact to this so he has an excuse to go immediately to the sword.”
“I’d like to go immediately to the sword,” Percival mutters, and the meeting devolves into argument.
“Son,” says Uther, pulling Bradley aside after the knights have left, hours later. “I admire your commitment to peace, but did you really expect Mercia to keep their peace for very long?”
“We’ll make them keep their peace,” says Bradley, then something balks inside of him, because what the hell is he saying?
He goes to the dragon.
“I haven’t seen you in a while,” grins the dragon, having the gall to talk to him like they are actually friends.
“So Arthur is coming home soon, right?” Bradley demands. “Because there’s no fucking way I’m going to war for this shit of a kingdom and its shit of a people and its-”
“The wars of men are not my wars,” says the dragon.
“That’s bollocks, just utter bollocks, you bloody big amphibian.”
“I’m not an amphibian.”
“And I’m not a prince! Look, I have a family back home. I have a great job, and friends who will be missing me. Someone somewhere has fucked things right up, because this is not my world. No one in my world ever made me lead wars because the neighbors got shirty with where the fence-line ought to be.” He waves Arthur’s circlet at the dragon as if about to throw it for the dragon to fetch. “This is not who I am.”
“No,” the dragon agrees. “It’s what you do.”
“How is this what I do?” he cries out.
“Well,” says the dragon, “you are doing it. Aren’t you?”
“This is ridiculous. You’re ridiculous. Arthur was born to do this, right. He’s been trained to kill since birth or whatever. He leads armies and trains knights, so he’s perfect for this sort of stuff, but I’m just Bradley fucking James from fucking Devon and I like fucking football and watching fucking television, and I’m not fucking made for this!”
“Fool!” the dragon exclaims. A bright flash of flame pours from its mouth and nostrils, sudden and blinding in the dark. Bradley shields his eyes and presses back against the rock. “Fool that you are! The thread cannot leave the loom until the tapestry is woven. You have the pride of kings, and kings will fall!” The dragon spreads its wings wide. “Do you see these? Do you see these wings? Answer me, boy!”
“Yes,” Bradley manages, just barely, heart hammering in his chest. The flames had licked the air but feet from him, and he can still feel the heat on his skin.
“I flew once,” the dragon continues, its voice reverberating off the rock walls, “above the earth and between the worlds. I am a creature of magic and flame and the open sky. Do you think this is what I wish for myself, to be chained underground and to never see the sun? To forget the feel of the wind at my back? The world doesn’t care what you’re made for, boy. It doesn’t care what you are.” It leans in close, close enough that Bradley can see every scale on its face, the light dancing in its eyes. “It cares only about what you must do.”
So much for rationality and the scientific method.
But what hope does science and rationality have in this world? It’s a world where Colin Morgan’s eyes really do turn gold when he does real magic, and Katie McGrath has dreams that tell the future. Anthony Head proclaims death upon those different from him and Richard Wilson believes in the curative properties of leeches. So maybe that concatenation of CGI pixels in the basement knows what it’s talking about after all.
“No fucking way,” Bradley says to no one, as if the words might be truer if said aloud.
Supper is tense, with Morgana still angry and Uther attempting to engage a reticent Bradley in a discussion of diplomatic strategy.
“Perhaps you should leave talk of such things until the morning, my lord,” says Morgana, smiling sweetly at Uther. “It might give Arthur nightmares.”
Bradley makes a rude gesture at her when Uther isn’t looking. She rolls her eyes.
When Bradley returns from Uther’s study after an extended postprandial discussion of exactly what the emissary should bring and do and say to Bayard, Merlin is sitting at his table with his feet up on the desk, looking like he’s been waiting for ages. It’s an absurd sight, and for a moment Bradley doesn’t know what to do with it.
“I can have you put in the stocks for your impertinence,” he finally says.
“Stop acting like you’re actually the prince,” says Merlin, but his tone is affectionate.
“For all intents and purposes, I-” And then Bradley stops himself, because he suddenly realizes that Merlin is the first person today to tell him that. The realization flips the ‘off’ switch somewhere inside him, the one he thought he already pressed. Bradley leans back against the door, burying his face in his hands as he lets all the princeliness seep out of his skin, and makes a noise halfway between a laugh and a sob.
“You all right?” he hears Merlin say.
“Oh god, I’m fucked, I’m so fucked. Merlin, they want me to start a war!”
“Yeah, I heard about that,” Merlin says guardedly. “That’s why I came, actually. To see where your head is.”
“I can’t start wars!” Bradley protests. “I’ve never started a war in my life! Not with like, people dying and actually being shot at. What nonsense is that? And all this shit about destiny, I can’t even…”
“Yeah,” says Merlin, coming around the table, “that’s what I said when I first met the dragon.”
“The sodding dragon!” Bradley bursts out. “I can’t even. I don’t even want to. We ought to have the bastard slain, roasted, and fed to the hungry.” But he tells Merlin anyway: about his talk with it earlier, about the dissent among the knights regarding Mercia, about Morgana’s prophecy.
“She saw me,” Bradley emphasizes. “And not just ‘saw’. She felt me! Apparently!”
Merlin leans against the edge of the table, crosses his arms. “Did you ask her if Camelot wins the war?”
“Jesus Christ, Merlin, I can’t ask that. That would be… I can’t.” Bradley shrugs helplessly. “I can’t ask that. I’m not Arthur,” he proclaims, for what feels like the millionth time.
Merlin nods absently, as if he is mulling over something else. “But,” he ventures, and pauses, bites his lip.
“But what?”
“But you’ve stepped into his shoes rather well,” Merlin admits. “And Camelot thanks you for that. Uther, I’m sure. And the knights. Everyone is glad to have the prince back. I don’t know the place you’re from - I’ve only heard your stories - but the world loves you here.”
“They love Arthur.”
“It’s almost as if,” Merlin continues, “this world just bends to you, the way you show up being the prince, knowing a lot and nothing at the same time. It’s weird. The first time I met you I kept on seeing Arthur resurface, like maybe it would depend on the way the light hit you or how you said a certain word. But now…” He shrugs, words unable to express the simple acceptance Bradley sees in his eyes. “Bradley, you can do this. You can and you must, because you’re here and Arthur isn’t.”
He is reminded of shadows on a cave wall and the things they really are, though Bradley’s particular problem is probably not what Plato had in mind. Or maybe it was. Who knows? Not Bradley, who, when The Republic was assigned at school, never got beyond page eight and relied on cliff notes the rest of the way. Which came first: chicken or the egg? The myth or the man?
Bradley says, “What about you? I thought you and Arthur were, like. A coin together.”
Merlin’s smile is a weary one. “I help the prince of Camelot achieve a great destiny.”
“I’m not just some Arthur clone,” Bradley says ruefully.
“I didn’t say you were. You can’t be. You’re obviously not.”
“You’re the only one it’s obvious to, fortunately and unfortunately.”
Merlin doesn’t say anything for a bit, just stares at Bradley in a strange inscrutable way. Then he says, “You’re Bradley James. You were born in 1984, in Devon. You like football, and socks with your shoes. You like nuts only sometimes. You, um, like chicken ticker masala. Once, when you were a child, your cat scratched you, so you kicked it, then felt guilty. You think star wars are all right, but not star treks. You tried acid with your mates and it was the first time you considered the idea that a god might exist, you’d never been so amazed by the world in your life.” As Merlin speaks, he steps closer to Bradley, slowly as if not to frighten him, but Bradley can do nothing but watch him, heart in his mouth.
“You don’t like frivolous ringtones,” Merlin continues. “And one time you were so drunk that you fell asleep in a tube for six hours.”
“The Tube,” Bradley corrects softly. “There’s only one.”
“The tube,” says Merlin, perhaps wondering at a universe where only one tube exists in the whole world. “Sorry.”
“It’s okay.”
And this is why he can hear the same words from Merlin that he refuses to digest from everyone else. Everyone else is talking to Arthur when they forecast his glorious future: Uther, Gwen, even Morgana, despite whatever she feels in her dreams. The dragon, resigned and chained in the dark, tells Bradley to bend the knee to destiny in the way a battered housewife tells another to grin and bear it. But Merlin knows Bradley, and is the only one who really tries to, even if Bradley’s stories lose something in translation. Merlin knows what it’s like to suddenly end up in a role that holds you up and, at the same time, takes you apart. They can be equals in this, knowing each other in ways no one else can.
They stand closer than they would if anyone were watching. Bradley can feel the heat rising in his cheeks, but Merlin doesn’t look away, so he doesn’t either. They’ve kept each other’s secrets all this time, but the ironic thing is that the ease of donning their masks is rooted entirely in the identities they try to cover up. And it’s not pretending – it’s adapting.
“Yeah,” Bradley whispers. “That about sums it up.”
Then he kisses Merlin.
For a second Bradley thinks of Colin, but he pushes the thought out of his mind when Merlin kisses back. If Merlin can be with Bradley and not see Arthur, he can be with Merlin and not see Colin. He tangles his fingers in Merlin’s hair and pulls him closer. He tastes of the beef stew they had for supper, the one Morgana always complains the cook puts too much onions into. It’s hardly ideal, but it’s all right in its way. Comforting.
Merlin rests one hand tentatively on Bradley’s hip, the other sliding up his back. He kisses slowly, with a patience that promises him there is more to come, and Bradley opens his eyes just a little. Sees Merlin’s eyes closed, dark lashes shadowing his cheekbones, and Bradley revels in the feeling of being thoroughly kissed by someone who knows who and what he is.
“You’re peeking,” Merlin murmurs against his lips.
“Mmm, apparently so are you.”
“You peeked first.”
“Shut up.”
So they close their eyes again, and Bradley lets himself be pulled towards the bed. They tumble onto it in a tangle of limbs. When Bradley starts trying to take off his shirt while keeping his lips planted on Merlin’s, Merlin whispers something sibilant with languid vowels and suddenly they are both quite naked.
“Is that cheating?” asks Bradley.
Merlin shrugs. “Gets the job done.”
“It disturbs me that you know how to do that.”
“Keep me happy and I won’t do it to you in public.”
Merlin is pliant in his hands, arching his head back when Bradley kisses his way along Merlin’s collarbone, his hand around Merlin’s cock. He kisses his way down Merlin’s chest, his abdomen, and when he takes the tip of Merlin’s cock in his mouth, Merlin makes a sound in his throat that makes Bradley’s stomach flutter, so he does that thing with his tongue again and tries to make Merlin make that sound once more, and twice more, and so on.
It’s different this time, with none of the desperate attempts to claim something that was lost or never had, even if Merlin’s mouth is as hot and soft around his cock as the last time, and Bradley loses himself in the wetness of it and the gentle suction until he gasps, “Oh god,” and “Oh fuck,” and he comes, one hand on Merlin’s head and the other hand bunching the sheets in his fist.
“Oh, sweet Christ,” Bradley pants, and Merlin just smiles a wicked smile and says, “We’re not finished.”
Bradley watches as Merlin reaches for the drawer on the bedside table, watches his long pale body stretch out and can’t resist lifting his hand to run his knuckles along Merlin’s side.
“That tickles,” says Merlin, but makes no move to stop him as he retrieves the small bottle of oil. “Hmm. Looks like you’ve been using this quite a lot since our first time.”
“What can I say?” shrugs Bradley. “Our first time was ages ago.”
“I suppose I can pretend you’ve been using it to grease your stirrups or something.”
“If that’s what the kids call it these days – argh!” Bradley shoves Merlin’s chest with his foot. “Warn a man before you stick your fingers up there!”
“Sorry,” says Merlin, not sounding sorry at all. “Got overexcited.”
But it doesn’t take long for Bradley to ask for more, and Merlin is happy to oblige. He slides his cock slow into Bradley, breathing shallowly through parted lips.
“Oh fuck,” gasps Bradley.
“Yeah, hold on.”
And he almost wants to smack Merlin for that one, but then Merlin starts fucking him, deep and hard, and Bradley can’t say that much. Can’t think that much. Just does what his body tells him to and throws out an occasional profanity when he can.
+
The thing about the disappearing clothes spell is that Merlin hasn’t perfected it.
The one time he tried it with Arthur, their clothes ended up in tatters. Arthur lost his favorite shirt and that was the end of that, and they stuck to ripping each other’s clothes off the old-fashioned way. This time, however…
“Where are our clothes?” Bradley wonders.
They search all over the bedroom, and even through the clean clothes in the wardrobe, but they can find neither thread nor button of them.
“Are they somewhere else in the castle?” asks Bradley. “That could look very strange to passers-by.”
“I don’t know,” says Merlin, checking once more under the bed.
“Did you magically disassemble our clothes into their atomic parts?”
“Um. No?”
Bradley concludes that this was, in fact, what Merlin had done, so Merlin just goes with it. Either way, he ends up borrowing clothes from Bradley and together they contrive a vaguely believable story about what happened to Merlin’s clothes should anyone ask.
“You were drunk and shagging some girl, and then you passed out on her,” Bradley announces triumphantly. “Then she took your clothes.”
“Why would she take my clothes?”
“For revenge, I suppose. Because you passed out on her during sex.”
“Right…” Merlin eyeballs him. “Has that ever happened to you?”
Bradley’s face turns a suspicious shade of red. “No!”
The clothes are a little big on Merlin, but they’ll do for now. He fiddles with the belt as Bradley sprawls out on the bed.
“I still can’t believe all this,” says Bradley.
“Which part?” Merlin mumbles. How are these belts so big? He reckons he needs another belt to keep this belt up.
“I’ve been here half a year,” muses Bradley. “I wonder when I’ll… Or if.”
“You’ll worry yourself into the grave wondering things like that. My mother always says, ‘You can’t be worrying about the meaning of life if you’re not living it.’”
“She’s a practical woman, for someone who lives in such a magical land.”
“It’s not that magical.”
“You have no idea.” Bradley turns his head to look at him. “There’s no magic in my world, you know.”
“You tell me that,” says Merlin, “but I think toilets sound pretty magical.”
“I suppose.”
“Especially when they flush the other way.”
“Very true.”
Merlin walks over and squats by the bed so his face is level with Bradley’s. “I already told you I’m doing this with you. Everybody wants to make a king out of you, and I’m going to be there making sure everyone comes through with their heads attached. Unless it turns out they’re evil, of course.”
Bradley’s smile is a little sad, which frustrates Merlin, because what else can he do? What else can he promise?
“Merlin-” he begins.
“You do the job in front of you,” says Merlin, “and I’ll do mine, and if one day you’re whisked back to your own world, well. We don’t know when that will be, so we can’t worry about it.”
And he’d be lying if he didn’t admit to himself that he is saying these words as much to himself as he is to Bradley, but again: what can you do? They are still for a few seconds, contemplating each other and the situation they are in. There is nothing to say that they haven’t said before, nothing that they know the other person hasn’t already thought before.
Finally Bradley says, “I can’t believe how many more hours of training I’ll have to put in if there’s a war next spring.”
“Stop whining,” grins Merlin. “It doesn’t suit you.”
Bradley chuckles and shoves his face. “Get out of here, you tosser, you’ve kept me up too late.”
“Look at the size of these trousers,” says Merlin as he gets to his feet. “You need to lose some weight.”
“It’s all muscle. You’re welcome for those clothes, by the way.”
“You’re welcome for the excellent sex, by the way.”
“You’re welcome for the excellent head.”
“You’re welcome for the-”
“For god’s sake!”
Merlin has one hand on the doorknob and looks one more time over his shoulder. “So good night then.”
“Yeah.” Bradley smiles. “Same to you.”
He shuts the door quietly behind him. Bradley rolls over and burrows into the covers, tries not to think of wars, tries not to think of dreams or the dragon in his cave. There will be time enough to think on that tomorrow and, eventually, he drops off to sleep.
[end.]
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Dude, even when I'm writing Merlin crack, I'm still writing Narnia angst. What's with that? I didn't even mean to, but during the writing of it I was like, "Hmm, this feels familiar..." It's like LWW, except... Bradley James, the Sorcerer, and the Unexplained Breach of the Space-Time Continuum. It totally made me think of the story where Bradley falls back out of the wardrobe. The kingdom he forged, the people who died for him, the destiny he took on, and Merlin, how can he leave them behind?
Why does it always come back to Narnia?!
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*nods* Narnia angst is your default setting, me thinks.
IT FREAKING BREAKS MY HEART, because how, how can he go back to living the life he left behind?
Dude, he totally needs to hook up with immortal!Susan, because when she sees the heartbreak behind his eyes, she just knows, OR he can be the Arthur from the narnia/merlin crossover (it has a name, but I don't remember what it is. I think it is "Crosstree and Grail" or something, but I could be making that up.) and everything gets really trippy and they lose themselves reminiscing about the old days OR he could be the Arthur from the narnia/merlin and that's why he goes after Anna and Will (we can has threesomes, please?), OR it could be a combination of both, and we get all sorts of awesomeness like Susan/William (he isn't peter, but his lips are just as soft, and his eyes are just as blue, and so maybe it's alright) and Susan/Anna ("this has to be vanity," anna says, but susan tells her there are worse things, and anna just nods like she knows). I also have this image in my head of Susan brushing Georgie's hair, "am i very much like her?" georgie asks, susan lies. "no."
The possibilities are really endless here, I feel.
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Maybe it is, I dunno. One of the reasons I enjoyed writing this fic is because there was humor, and I wrote faster because of it, dash it off. I didn't get bogged down in angst and pretty imagery, which is a more deliberate thing to write for me, 'cos it's almost like distillation instead of writing.
Argh, ahahaha, if I started crossing Bradley over with my other crack, omg. Bradley/immortal!Susan, holy shit, and Peter maybe gets jealous a little bit, but of Bradley or of Susan?! Bradley/Susan/Peter. It's like Bradley/Anna/Will! But even more unrealistic! OMG, SUSAN/WILL IS ALL SORTS OF AWESOME YES. I'm going to put that aside to poke at in the future. I don't know what this says about me, but I've actually written Anna/Susan fic before. Hmm.
oh man oh man oh man. craaaaaaaaaaaaaack