claire_debonair

Prompt table.

Tue, 15 Dec 2009 00:03:59 GMT

Prompt table for a_to_z_prompts . Next step: writing the fics and working out how to put links into the table.

01. A	animosity	10. J	justification	19. S	sophisticated
02. B	biological	11. K	kaleidoscopic	20. T	technological
03. C	congratulation	12.L	lackadaisical	21. U	unpredictable
04. D	denomination	13. M	misunderstanding	22. V	vociferously
05. E	excruciating	14. N	notoriety	23.W	whimsicality
06. F	fundamentally	15. O	opinionated	24. X	xenophobia
07. G	gratification	16. P	paradisiac	25. Y	yesterday morning
08. H	hospitableness	17. Q	qualification	26. Z	zero-gravity
09. I	infatuation	18. R	rehabilitate

Bandom fic.

Mon, 29 Jun 2009 00:08:57 GMT

Title: Coffee's for Closer's
Author: Claire
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Pete/Patrick pre-slash.
Warning: Pure, unadulterated schmoop. You have been warned.
Disclaimer: Not mine, this is total fiction. Apart from the bit where they drink coffee. I'm sure they've done that.
A/N: Beta'd by caedesdeo , even though she's not in bandom. This popped into my head while I was on the bus home after an exam, so I wrote it out. IDK what it is. Really.
Summary: Coffee-shop fluff. That's it, seriously.

The coffee shop isn’t particularly big, or flashy; it doesn’t even seem to have a name. There’s just a weird bat-thing stencilled onto the section above the door where any other coffee place would have a loud, obnoxious and eye-catching sign. Everyone local just calls it ‘the coffee place’, and gives you a surprised look if you admit you don’t know which one they mean.

Patrick likes it because the coffee is good but cheap, and if he gets there early enough there’s a table tucked away in a little nook away from most of the noise, where he can drink his coffee in peace while he grades papers for his composition class. Today he’s late, held up by a student about to have a nervous breakdown over the piece he’d told them to analyse for homework, but when he walks into the shop someone waves frantically at him from his table.

“Hey!” The exclamation mark is practically visible, never mind audible. Patrick sighs and starts threading his way through the post-work crush to reach Brendon, still waving.

“I though you had classes until five?”

“Cancelled,” Brendon says, taking a gulp of the coffee he rescues from being flattened by Patrick’s heap of essays. “Professor Robson’s got flu. I saved your table.”

“Thanks. Keep an eye on those for me?” He asks, indicating the papers he’s dropped on the table.

“Sure.”

The line has shrunk to three people, all wearing business suits and holding some tiny cell phone with more buttons than a piano has keys, so he doesn’t have to wait that long. The barista - the same one that’s always working when Patrick comes in, although he doesn’t know the guy’s name - is short and dark haired, with seemingly boundless energy.

He takes the orders quickly, scribbling on cups in an illegible scrawl that Patrick knows almost as well as his own handwriting, he’s been coming here that long. The short line in front of him vanishes before he gets bored enough to start humming, and then the barista is grinning at him the same way he grins every time Patrick sees him, a cup of coffee already sitting on the counter.

“Usual?”

“Yeah. Thanks.” He can’t help the smile that pulls at the corner of his lips as he hands over his change, inhaling the smooth aroma drifting from his drink.

“Welcome.”

Back in his seat, Patrick glances back at the counter in time to catch the barista looking away, still grinning. Then his attention is caught by the sharply dressed woman tapping her foot impatiently, obviously too desperate for her mocha-latte-whatever to wait patiently.

“He likes you, y’know.”

“What?”

“Pete. He likes you.”

“Who’s Pete?” Patrick is more occupied with taking the first blissful, stress-releasing sip of coffee to work out what Brendon is talking about, honestly.

“The guy behind the counter, the one who just served you that coffee you’re orgasming over.” Brendon laughs at Patrick’s glare. “Seriously, you come here twice, three times a week and you don’t know his name?”

Patrick shrugs. “We don’t exactly talk.”

“That’s because you run away once you’ve got your hands on that,” Brendon retorts, indicating the cup Patrick is cradling in his hands.

“I don’t ‘run away’, I sit down. I might lose my table otherwise.”

“You didn’t have to today,” Brendon points out. “You could’ve at least said hi.”

“Shut up. I have papers to grade.” To prove this he digs a red pen out of his pocket and starts reading the top essay, wincing as he sees three tense changes in one sentence. He might be a music teacher, but that’s no reason for bad English in his classes.

“I’m just saying. He’s hot, right? And if Ryan asks, I’m not interfering.”

Patrick blinks and forgets about the terrible grammar in the opening paragraph. “Interfering in what?”

Sighing, Brendon leans forward, elbows on the table, and looks sternly at Patrick. Well, as sternly as someone wearing a My Little Pony t-shirt can manage. “In getting you to notice Pete.”

“Wait, this is a thing?”

“Duh. He likes you. How did you not notice?”

Patrick seriously hadn’t. He looks over to the counter again, ignoring Brendon rolling his eyes so hard he practically moves his head in a circle. The barista – Pete, and okay, maybe he should’ve known the guy’s name – has his hands full with a group of students, all of them no doubt ordering something pretentious. They look like they’d do that. They’re wearing floral scarves.

Now he’s looking with intent Patrick can see that Brendon’s right; the guy is hot, in a goofy sort of way, and he does have a smile that’s charming in spite of the amount of teeth on show.

Turning back to Brendon Patrick shrugs, picking up his pen again. Brendon snatches it away. “Hey, I need that!”

“Unless you’re gonna use it to write your number down, then no, you don’t.” He gives Patrick a questioning look. Patrick glares again. “Thought not. Look, give the guy a chance?”

“I didn’t even know his name until five minutes ago,” Patrick says, sneaking another look Pete’s way. He feels a blush rushing in his cheeks and looks away quickly, meeting Brendon’s beaming expression and shutting his eyes against the inevitable outburst.

“See, you like him! I knew it.”

“I’ll tell Ryan,” Patrick interjects, forestalling the rest of Brendon’s gushing. His face falls comically fast, then brightens again.

“Are you free on Friday evening?”

Patrick looks at him warily, suspicion slipping into his voice against all attempts to squash it (not that he tries too hard, honestly). “Why?”

“Tom’s band is playing. We thought you might wanna come, get out of your apartment for once.”

“You make me sound like a hermit, for fuck’s sake. I’m just busy.”

“One night. Please.” Brendon clasps his hands together and holds them under his chin, working the puppy eyes for all he’s worth. The only person it doesn’t work on is Spencer, and as Patrick is not a blue-eyed interior designer with more shoes than he has space for, even if his boyfriend only wears flip-flops, he caves.

“Fine. If,” he adds, holding up a hand to stop Brendon mid victory flail, “I can finish marking this lot in time. Which means I need my pen back.” He holds out a hand for it, and Brendon puts it on his palm, not letting go.

“Promise?”

“Yes. Now, give.”

Brendon lets go, grinning. “Cool. We’ll be at yours at half eight, be ready.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Patrick waves Brendon off with a smile, uncapping the pen with one hand as he takes a long gulp of (thankfully still warm) coffee. He’s struggled through the one with the atrocious grammar, and is halfway through a second when someone sits down opposite him. He looks up, meaning to go “what the fuck?”, or words to that effect, because marking makes him grouchy, but the words die in his throat.

“Hi. Your friend said I should come talk to you?” The upwards inflection makes Patrick blink, because Pete sounds far less confident than he always seems. He looks nervous, in fact, picking at the rim of the coffee cup Brendon left behind and only half smiling.

“He did?”

Pete ducks his head, lifting one hand to run at his neck. “Um, yeah. He said you know Tom?”

“Kinda,” Patrick says, feeling slightly less awkward, but still planning on killing Brendon, if he can manage it without Ryan finding out. “I know Jon, who knows him - he knows everyone in the scene, I think. He introduced us.”

“Dude, Jon’s awesome.” Pete leans forward, smile widening. “Do you know his boyfriend?”

“Spencer? Sure.”

“Is it true that he went to Starbucks for the coffee, and stayed for Jon?”

Patrick laughs in spite of himself. “Pretty much.”

“I’d say Jon doesn’t deserve someone as awesome as Spencer sounds, working at the competition and all, but I’m guessing saying that about your friend isn’t a good way to make you like me, right?”

“Not really,” Patrick says, and can’t fight his smile down. “And you were doing so well.”

“Really?” Pete looks so hopeful that Patrick laughs again, forgetting all about the pile of marking he’s got left.

“You’re kind of a douche,” he says, and then wants to hit himself over the head, because he really is starting to like him.

Pete just grins wider. “See, we’re getting to know each other.” He hesitates, then looks up at Patrick through the messy bangs of his stupid haircut. “You’re going to Tom’s gig on Friday, right?”

“Yeah…”

“Can I, like, come and say hi?”

“If you bring me a corsage,” Patrick says, because they’ve entered serious teenage girl territory here, and what’s worrying is he doesn’t mind all that much.

“Awesome. See you tomorrow.” As Patrick blinks and realises Pete took him seriously, what the fuck, Pete stands up, leans over, kisses his cheek and then bounces off to deal with the customers that’ve built up while he was charming Patrick, completely against his better judgement.

There’s no way he can concentrate on essays now, so in the end he shrugs and takes his marking home, hiding a smile at the kiss Pete blows him as he leaves.

When Pete sidles up to him at the gig, dark eyes circled with black liner and looking hotter than any guy has a right to be in skinny jeans and a tight hoodie, Patrick almost runs. Then Pete grins the same dorky grin he has every time he gives Patrick his coffee and holds out a plastic box with a corsage in it.

Patrick has to yell to be heard over the music. “Dude, seriously?”

“Whatever,” Pete shouts back, opening the box. “You know you wanted one.”

“Right,” Patrick tells him, “because I was the girl without the corsage at prom.” Pete grabs his wrist and actually slides the fucking thing on, settling it just right. He looks up and smiles with his entire face, eyes crinkling at the corners.

“No way I believe that,” he says, and he’s moved close enough that he doesn’t need to yell to be heard. “Do I get my kiss?”

“Is that traditional?” Patrick asks, biting his lip and trying to look innocent. Judging by the way Pete’s eyes go wide, it works.

“Yes. Definitely.” He looks ridiculously hopeful again, so Patrick leans in and kisses his cheek, same as the kiss Pete had given him in the coffee shop, and feels the blush rise in his face. When he pulls back he sees Pete’s huge grin for all of a second before Pete hugs him, a full-body cling that adds to Patrick’s opinion that Pete is mostly a goof but also a little adorable.

Not that he’d use a word like that, of course.

“Wanna get coffee?” Pete asks in his ear, an edge of laughter in his tone, and Patrick thinks: okay. He can work with this.

♥

Podfics.

Sat, 11 Apr 2009 01:00:30 GMT

So, I've been thinking about making podfics of some of my stories - the Merlin ones, to start, because the bandom ones would be very odd in a British accent - and I was wondering if this would be of interest to anyone.

Also posted over at ladyrogueevie .

It's still Valentines Day in some places, right?

Sun, 15 Feb 2009 02:10:29 GMT

Fic based on the Desolation Row video (you just knew I would). Written for my boyfriend Toby (hikarinotabi) for Valentines Day, and given permission to post here. Will do communities in the morning.

Title: Desolation Row
Pairing: Frank/Mikey/Gerard
Warnings: Use of the choke chain Mikey was wearing. Waycest - but you know that from the pairing, and if it were a warning you wouldn't be here.
Disclaimer: Not mine, any of it/them. Who knows if they were in a hotel? Not me. It's all pretend.
Summary: Mikey doesn't realize there's someone in his hotel room until he's all the way in, door shutting behind him with a click that's painfully loud in the silence.

Mikey doesn't realize there's someone in his hotel room until he's all the way in, door shutting behind him with a click that's painfully loud in the silence. He pauses with his hand on the light switch, listening to the faint noises of the last few extras milling outside the set just down the street, and wonders who the hell could be in his room.

Before he can get his hand to move, the bedside lamp is flicked on, and-

"Frank? The fuck, man. How did you get in?"

Frank grins up at Mikey from where he's sitting on the bed, the dim light reflecting off the pins on his costume. "Asked for a key."

"Easy as that?" Mikey wants to move, get out of the stiff leather jacket and back into his own clothes like Gerard had managed to do earlier, but something in Frank's smile makes him stay exactly where he is. Frank stands up, shrugging.

"You know how close they think we all are." Mikey can feel the flush in his cheeks, tries to fight it down as Frank runs a hand through his hair and sends it into more of a Frank-like mess. "Fucking stylists; I looked like you used to, 'cept cooler."

"Fuck you," Mikey says, then wishes he hadn't. Something's going on here, and it's making him feel off-balance. Still wearing their costumes isn't helping any, not with the way Frank's looking at him, because his subconscious is already forming links between the chains, the leather and those fucking pants Gerard was wearing, and the atmosphere of just not giving a fuck even when they got arrested.

Which was cool, and he's not just talking about the metal of the handcuffs.

When Mikey looks back at Frank, he has to blink a couple of times. Frank's pulled the don't fuck with me attitude back on, the one that's gonna come through clear as day on all of them in the video, and he just—he looks hot as fuck, like that's anything new, but now he looks dangerous as well, and oh shit Mikey's in trouble.

It's not like this is anything new, in it's most basic form; they've all messed around with each other (almost all, Mikey thinks with an ache), but it was just that, messing. This, though...this is planned, done with serious intent, thought about.

"Earth to Mikey," Frank whispers, and Mikey flinches. He's so close, almost touching, a bare inch between them. Mikey can smell the leather of Frank's jacket, the tang of warm metal chains and pins suddenly a lot more noticeable in the space between them. The blood roars in Mikey's ears as Frank grins at him, not doing anything more than standing so fucking close and just smiling.

Mikey starts finding it hard to breathe.

"The hell are you doing?" he asks, trying to find some solid footing in this, but it comes out uneven and hoarse, and he knows he's lost even before Frank's grin turns sharp.

"Getting closer."

Frank's hands are hot on Mikey's hips, the heat seeping through his jeans and sending a rush of blood south, like it hadn't all been heading there anyway. He's hard, the rub of leather on his arms as he goes to reach for Frank simply adding to the thrill. Frank shakes his head, starts pushing Mikey backwards gently but firmly.

Mikey goes, letting himself be moved, because the attitude Frank's wearing like a second skin is really fucking persuasive. He's headed for the wall, he can work that much out, and he tries to keep his steps even so that he doesn't hit it too hard—

What the fucking fuck.

"What-"

"Shh, Mikes; don't spoil the fun." Frank's voice is low, dark, curling through the room as Mikey freezes. There's someone standing behind him, someone he hit instead of the wall. He starts to turn his head, to see, because he can't bring himself to disobey Frank and move away, but Frank's hand on his cheek stops him. "Ah-ah, you're spoiling it."

Frank kisses him then, distracting him from trying to work out who it is he's leaning against, whose chest is against his back and whose thighs spread apart just that little bit more so they bracket his own. It could be anyone, not that he's likely to know with Frank's hot and clever tongue stroking heat into his mouth and body, and definitely not with the implied command of don't think, don't speak, don't do anything but feel.

Mikey feels Frank's other hand leave his hip, sliding back to- to rest on the hip of whoever is behind him, Mikey realizes. Their hand moves forward to rest on his other hip, not doing anything except resting. He almost recognizes something about that gesture, but Frank bites his lip hard and the thought flees.

"Pay attention, please." Frank's tone is mocking as he steps back, thumb tracing the edge of his redslick lower lip. He places a hand on Mikey's chest when Mikey starts to pull away, getting more uncomfortable by the moment about exactly who it is that he's pressed against. "Keep him there?"

It takes Mikey a moment to realize that the last comment wasn't directed at him, and by that time there are two strong hands bracketing his upper arms. Mikey watches Frank step backwards towards the bed, shrugging out of his jacket as he goes, and pulls slightly. The grip tightens enough that Mikey knows he's not going anywhere.

"Frank, seriously, this is fucked up." Frank doesn't answer, just grins and looks over Mikey's shoulder, hands shoved in his pockets and an eyebrow raised. Someone answers, though.

"Shall we stop playing, then?"

Mikey whimpers, squeezing his eyes shut.

"I don't think he wants to stop," Frank says, voice muffled like he's taking his top off. The hands holding Mikey still let go, but only long enough to move down to his hips, and how could he not have known who this is? Even with the costume, and the different attitude that matches Frank's, he should've known they were there the instant he walked in the room, let alone when he got pushed back against them.

Gerard kisses the back of Mikey's neck before resting his chin on Mikey's shoulder, asking, "You don't really want to stop, do you? It's just going to be so much fun."

"Gee-" he stutters over the name as Gerard nips at his neck, tongue flicking over each mark. "This isn't, we can't, you don't—"

"There a sentence in there, Mikey, or do you just want me to hear your voice?"

Mikey doesn't know what he wants to say, all the excuses and reasons why they shouldn't be doing this getting blown to hell by the feeling of his fucking brother behind him. Frank's just watching them, eyes flicking from one to the other like he's in front of the TV or something. Mikey tries to keep his breathing even, tries to formulate the words to make this stop, like it should, and then catches sight of Frank's hands.

His fingers are twitching, half curling into fists over and over, like he wants to reach out but can't. Mikey wonders what's stopping him, because a few minutes ago he was the one in total control, but now-

Now that Gerard's come into this, he's the one calling the shots. Mikey can feel it in the way Gee holds him close with hands tight on his hips and his chin hooked over Mikey's shoulder. It's an absurdly familiar pose, one they've been in dozens of times, but he's never felt Gee hard against him before, nor had Frank watching them with such intensity.

"C'mon, Mikey." Gerard shifts his hands slightly, sliding them up and underneath Mikey's t-shirt, then down so that the tips of his fingers slide under the waistband of Mikey's jeans. "Please?"

Mikey shivers, the word rolling off Gee's tongue and through Mikey's body with a rich roughness that makes him remember Gee onstage a short while ago, all that manic, volatile energy wrapped tightly around him as he digs his fingers into Mikey's hipbones. He feels Gee nod, just the once, and Frank grins, looking almost feral in the dim light. He steps forward and grips a fistful of Mikey's t-shirt, tugging against Gerard's hold just enough to make a gap of an inch or so between he and Mikey.

"This has gotta come off," Frank says, pulling the jacket off Mikey's shoulders. Gerard won't let go, though, so it gets stuck between them, pinning Mikey's arms to his sides. "Gee, let him go for a minute?"

"I like him like this," he answers, one hand leaving Mikey's hip to pull the jacket a little tighter, bunching it up and limiting the movement in Mikey's arms even more. Mikey bites his lip against another whimper, watching Frank run his tongue along his lower lip, staring over his shoulder at Gee.

"Yeah," Frank murmurs, "yeah, okay. This is good."

Gerard moves, placing his feet a little further from the wall to brace himself as Frank steps in close, right up against Mikey's front the way Gerard is pressed along his back. He can't feel how hard Gee is any more, the jacket getting in the way, and Mikey wants to be able to feel that again, know that Gerard is hard from having Frank and his little brother like this.

"Ready?" Gerard asks, one hand moving over hot skin to splay across Mikey's chest as Frank drops to his knees and the air leaves Mikey's lungs in a sudden whoosh. He's seen that before, the smoothness with which Frankie can go down, but everything here feels raw and new.

Frank gets his jeans open in a matter of seconds, hands quick and nimble in a way that makes Mikey's breathing, already strained, become shallow in anticipation. He barely registers Gee's other hand leaving his hip to make way for Frank's as Frank flashes him a dark look and slides his so very talented mouth down, sucking sloppy and dirty like it's a back-alley blowjob after the show, adrenaline overtaking technique.

Gerard's voice in his ear pulls him back from the sparks Frank's tongue is sending through him, and then sends him flying higher still. "He wanted to do this in the cop's van, with the door locked and you sitting between my legs against the back."

"Why- why didn't you?" Mikey pants out, digging his nails into his palms as Frank tries to laugh with Mikey's cock still in his mouth, the vibrations making Mikey's knees go week. Gerard grins against Mikey's neck, tongue flicking over the marks he'd made moments earlier.

"I made him wait."

Frank pulls off, mouth shiny with spit and flushed. He wipes the edge of his lip with a thumb, looking up with a wicked smile. "He did, the asshole. Would've been more fun in there."

"But we can do more here," Gerard answers, teeth grazing sensitive skin.

Mikey squeezes his eyes shut against the onslaught of Gee's hand hot against his chest, fingers burning their impressions onto his skin as his temperature rises, and Frank's mouth back on him, wet and slick and as fucking good as he always is. Frank's hands keep him from thrusting, getting more, and the jacket pinning his arms stops him from feeling Gerard, and without both or even one of those things, it feels like he's going to be stuck on the brink for the rest of the night.

Then he feels the slide of leather and chain around his neck, silky smooth and oh so promising; he hadn't known if the others knew why he'd chosen it to wear, hadn't dared to think any of them might have picked up on it, not even after Bob had flicked it a speculative glance.

The leather strap of the collar feels bulky against his throat after the links of the chain, unnerving pressure as he swallows hard. Frank moves away again, keeping the suction strong until his mouth slides off with an audible 'pop' that pulls a strained gasp from Mikey's throat. He's too far gone to do anything but let his head drop back onto Gerard's shoulder, body restlessly moving as he veers between trying to move closer to Frank and his mouth and getting the solid warmth of Gee behind him.

Gerard tilts his head and flicks his tongue over the edge of the leather, little darts of heat that make Mikey choke on air as Gee's tongue slips against skin more than the collar. An odd texture against his temple, through the soft strands of Gee's hair, tells him Gee's even put the band-aid back on, so completely back in character that even if Mikey, in some moment of madness, told him to stop, Gerard probably wouldn't.

Gee laughs softly against his neck as his hand slides up Mikey's side, over his shirt, damp with sweat, and over his shoulder. Mikey feels the tug as Gerard hooks a finger through the chain, swallows again and forces his eyes open just in time to see Frank stand.

His eyes glitter in the dim lamplight, fixed on Mikey's, his breathing deep and uneven. Mikey feels exposed, shockingly hard and still teetering on the edge. He can see the line of Frank's dick through his jeans, wonders why Frank didn't have his hand in them as he sucked Mikey off- well, almost. It's not how he usually is; it's like he's holding back, waiting for something more, the way Mikey is.

"Go on," Frank says hoarsely, and it takes Mikey's focus away from Gerard for a moment.

It's long enough.

Gerard pulls downwards with the finger hooked through the choke-chain, just enough that the odd pressure builds so Mikey can feel the edges of the collar stark around his throat. He swallows reflexively, whimpers as best he can when it verges on painful.

Frank's groan is loud in the still room, his hands gripping tight where they still rest on Mikey's hips. Gerard presses his blunt nails into Mikey's chest briefly, enough to make him shudder, then says to Frank: "Down."

Frank goes.

Back on his knees, eyes never leaving Mikey's as he does what he's been fucking told, except fancier this time, using all the tricks he knows (and some he's been taught) to practically drag Mikey's orgasm from him. Mikey strains his hands back to touch Gerard's thighs, holding on as best he can as the pressure around his neck increases and makes his vision sparkle at the edges.

It's too much and not enough, lifting everything he's feeling above the usual collection of sensations and into something he's not sure he can handle but at the same time keeping him grounded, held tight against Gee's solidness and reminded that right now, with Frank on his knees and Gee's fingers tight in the chain, he's being owned by both of them as surely as if he signed a contract.

Maybe he did; maybe that's what Frank says around him, what finally sends him flying with a choked groan as Gee doesn't ease up on the pressure until Frank leans back on his heels and swipes at his mouth. Mikey sucks in air as Gerard's hand releases the chain and moves to tangle in his hair, pulling his head around just far enough to land a hard kiss to the corner of his mouth.

Frank swallowed as messily as he sucked, so when he leans in Mikey can feel sticky smears across his own lips and cheeks, tastes the salty bitterness of himself on Frankie's tongue. It's more of a clash than a kiss; Frank's balance isn't all that good, his hips stuttering as Mikey moves a thigh between his legs and pushes up ever so slightly, and Gee won't let go enough for Mikey's jacket to come off completely, still held between them, half-forgotten.

Mikey moves his leg, rubbing against the bulge in Frank's pants, and feels a little more coherent as he hears Frank groan, ducking his head to mimic Gerard's earlier action and nip down the column of Frank's neck. Mikey stills as Gerard growls, feeling the noise through his body as Frank looks up. He's backing off before Mikey feels Gerard shifting, pushing himself upright and moving them both away from the wall.

Mikey's legs aren't all that solid, although most of the bone-melting heat has faded to a dull thrum that makes him edgy. Gerard pulls him towards the bed as Frank sits on the edge, legs placed apart with his elbows resting on his knees, hands clasped and hanging between them, still not making any move to get himself off. Mikey bites his lip and looks at him, wanting to ask, to know why Frank's being so...obedient.

Gerard's fingertips are like brands again, underneath his chin and turning Mikey's face towards him. "Eyes on me, Mikey."

"You're-" Mikey cuts himself off.

"I'm what?" Gerard asks, hands rough as he pushes Mikey's jacket off, releasing his arms. "Not done?" He grips the edge of Mikey's t-shirt and pulls, Mikey barely managing to get his suddenly heavy arms up in time to stop himself from getting tangled in it. "Crossing a line?" He curls his fingers over the top of Mikey's jeans, flicking a look downwards and then back at Mikey's eyes. He kneels swiftly, pulling pants and boxers down with him; Mikey steps out of them more by instinct than by any higher brain function, automatically toeing off his shoes as he does so. He's already half-hard again. Gerard stands, tossing the jeans to one side and sliding his hands up Mikey's neck to grip his hair tightly. "Going to fuck you?"

Frank groans, watching them with a fierce intensity Mikey can feel burning against his skin.

Gerard yanks him in for a brutal kiss, taking and claiming and owning in ways Mikey hadn't dared even fantasize about, nothing like how he'd imagined his brother would kiss. His hands come up to hold onto the edges of Gerard's leather jacket, keeping him close enough to feel the rough friction of denim on his cock.

When Gerard pulls away, Mikey is left panting for air, watching hungrily as Gee pulls off his own jacket, then pauses with the button on his jeans open. "Get rid of Frank's pants," he says, and Mikey couldn't resist if he tried, not with the silkyrough voice Gerard is still using. The command in his tone, though, makes Mikey want to push, just a little, and see what happens.

He keeps his eyes on Gerard as he reaches down towards Frank, pulling him upright and closing his mouth over Frank's as he slides his hands between their bodies and fumbles with the fastening of Frank's jeans. Frank's eager, tongue pressing into Mikey's mouth, making noises low in his throat as he lifts his arms to loop around Mikey's neck.

Mikey's lost in exploring the mingled tastes of himself and Frank when he feels the sudden pressure on his throat, jerking away with a strangled moan and widewide eyes.

He'd forgotten about the collar, the chain resting between his shoulder blades.

Gerard leans in just enough for Mikey to feel the heat of his skin (bare skin, his head supplies, oh god) along his back and legs, and tugs the chain enough to make Mikey tilt his head back in an attempt to lessen the pressure. Frank watches with eyes so dark they look all pupil, jeans hanging loosely on his hips.

"That's not how we play, Mikey," Gerard whispers. His hand smoothing down Mikey's side until it rests once more on his hip. The simple touch seems so much more arousing now that it's skin-on-skin, not that it wasn't arousing before. Mikey's as hard as before, feels the pounding in his veins building higher and higher as Gerard lets the chain go. "Bed."

Frank's smile gets wider as Gerard pushes Mikey to the bed and presses him down onto the mattress with his weight, his own grin sharp as Mikey's hips arch to feel the slide of Gee's cock against his own, blissful friction that makes his eyes flutter shut. Gerard lets him, settling between Mikey's thighs but keeping himself from any other contact.

The dipping of the bed as Frank slides on makes Mikey struggle to open his eyes, watching as Frank settles alongside them, tight against Mikey's body and looking practically edible. Mikey wants to lean in desperately, to feel that clever mouth against his own while he rubs off against his brother, oh, how that makes his skin tingle.

In the haze of sensation and Frank's mouth on his shoulder, teeth making a tender mark he soothes with his tongue, Mikey doesn't register anything else until Gerard leans back and pushes his legs wider, sending him shuddering with the implications.

"Please, Gee, I- oh-"

Gerard smiles up at Mikey with a flash of teasingly dark eyes, pressing another kiss to Mikey's stomach as his slick finger presses in just a little deeper. Frank pushes himself up onto his elbows and leans over, muffling Mikey's small whimpers with a deep kiss. He's caught between Frank and Gerard, skin flushed and his breathing labored as Gee slides another finger in alongside the first, curling them up, and Frank bites at his lip.

It's claustrophobic, almost, and Mikey doesn't know what to pay attention to until Gerard says Frank's name, with a warning note that sends a shiver down Mikey's spine even as he opens his eyes a fraction and reaches up to hook his arms over Gerard's shoulder and pull him down. Gerard doesn't move, holding himself braced on firm arms, but leans in until his mouth is a mere hairsbreadth from Mikey's, hair falling around them until all Mikey can see, or wants to see, is his brother.

"Do you want this, Mikey?"

Frank's hand slides sinuously across Mikey's chest as he strains to close the distance which seems like an entire room, keeping him down. He swallows hard, gathering enough mental function to speak. Gerard watches, eyes heated and one knee firmly nestled against Mikey's dick, rocking in minute movements that destroy Mikey's coherency.

"Please, I want, come on.." Mikey tilts his hips again, grins at the startled flicker that crosses Gee's face, control splintering for a moment as he rocks back against Mikey. Then he stills, dipping quickly to kiss the tip of Mikey's nose, almost sweet if it weren't for the near-painful state of Mikey's cock and the burning desire for more visible in the tense lines of Gee's body.

Frank's still pressed against Mikey's side, his own hard-on sliding wet against Mikey's thigh as he rocks his hips a little. Mikey twists his head to see him, knowing he's there not quite enough, but Gee's hair blocks all but slivers of view. He can hear him, though. Frank's voice is honey thick and cajoling, not quite covering the arousal that Mikey can feel in the compact body beside him.

"You have to tell him, Mikes," Frank murmurs, "you've got to tell him what you want."

"And how long," Gerard adds, the words insinuating themselves into Mikey's hazy awareness. "This isn't new." He sounds teasing and slightly mocking, his knee pressing harder and shifting one arm down to press back inside Mikey, the burn and fullness adding to the sudden flames of humiliation rushing through Mikey's body.

"Why?" Mikey near-sobs, and feels Frank laugh against his skin.

"Because I want to know." Gerard answers, challenge clear in his tone. His fingers move, thrusting in and out with torturous slowness, stretching with a practiced ease that's well on its way to driving Mikey insane, even without the added distraction of Gee's voice and Frank being so close. "I want to know if you've wanted this for as long as I have, if you've watched me the way I've watched you and wanted to touch and fuck your brother so much it hurts."

Mikey groans, arching against the hand Frank still has restraining him, hips stuttering upwards as Gerard twists his fingers along with the last words, striking against the sensitive bundle of nerves in a maddeningly perfect movement. "Yes, yes, I have, please, now, please, I want-"

"Good," Gerard says with an almost vicious twist of his lips, and then amid Gerard's forceful kiss and Frank's sharp bite to his shoulder, Mikey is almost overwhelmed as Gerard pushes in and fucks him, long, hard thrusts that drive out all other thoughts from Mikey's head except them. He obeys mindlessly when Frank tells him roughly to lower his arms, gasping hoarsely as Gerard pauses a moment to pin his hands to the bed before changing to short, sharp thrusts, his hips twisting as Gerard keeps the rhythm steady and even.

"Please, Gee," Mikey begs, desperate for more, for Gerard to lose control and give him everything.

He shudders again and again, eyes tightly shut. His world narrows down to the terrifyingly good burn of Gerard's cock inside him, the way Frank's hips are rocking, rubbing himself off against Mikey's side with small sounds and his hand still pressed onto Mikey's chest in a way that's almost too hot for Mikey to understand.

Frank comes first, warm wetness against Mikey's thigh as he presses open mouth kisses to Mikey's shoulder, up to his neck, leaning in closesoclose again. Gerard's maddeningly smooth thrusts don't speed or slow, until it's all Mikey can do to keep breathing. Frank's hand moves, lifts away from his chest as Mikey whimpers at its loss, Gerard dropping his head to bite at his lip and swallow the sound.

Frank walks his fingers across Mikey's sweat slick skin until they curl underneath the collar, forgotten in the rush and fire of being fucked by his godamned brother, and oh how Hell has never looked so welcoming, if this is how he gets there.

Frank's fingers leave the collar, moving away, then; "Can I?"

Even as Gerard says "yes" against Mikey's mouth, eyes wicked, Mikey is forgetting how to stay sane as he shudders and arches, because Frank's asking permission, and it makes him wonder if they've all had to ask for his brother's permission before they touched him.

Then he feels the pressure on his throat, a gentle tightness that builds until he can't pull in enough air for his labored lungs without straining, Frank's other hand slipping between him and Gerard to wrap around his cock and stroke with a pressure equal to the one at his throat. It's all too much, too good, and it sends him spinning into white-edged darkness, hooking his legs over Gerard's hips and urging him on until Gerard's hands bite into his wrists and Mikey feels him go taut as a guitar string.

He loses time after that, somewhere after Gerard kisses him with bruising force, Frank draping himself over Gee's back to look down at Mikey with a mixture of satisfaction, possessiveness and wickedness, setting his teeth to the juncture of Gerard's neck and shoulder as Mikey watches. He comes back to himself with Gerard and Frank wrapped around him, holding him down.

Gerard looks at him for a moment, all messy hair and the guy Mikey's wanted since they were fucking kids and shared a room, for fuck's sake, then leans in to kiss him again. Mikey lets him with a soft noise, feeling Frank's hand curving over his hip and nuzzling at the back of his neck.

"You belong to me I believe..." Gerard sings softly when Mikey pulls back.

Mikey pulls together enough motor function to hit him with a limp hand, feeling entirely too satiated and fucked-out, not to mention fiercely pleased he's not the only one wanting to touch his brother, to do anything else.

"Don't quote fucking Bob Dylan at me after sex," he retorts, and sees Gerard's eyes widen. Mikey groans as Frank pulls at the chain again, tipping his head back against him and moaning as Gerard leans in to mouth at his neck. "Fucking costume."

"I like it," Gerard says, lifting his mouth away momentarily. "It's...useful."

Frank twists to lick at the other side of Mikey's neck, over the rapidly blooming marks Gerard had made what seems both an eternity and a mere second ago, and when he speaks, the gusts of his breath over still-sensitive skin makes Mikey shiver against Gerard.

Repost.

Thu, 12 Feb 2009 01:01:30 GMT

This is a repost of an old fic of mine, that's only up at a website I started but never finished. I'm hoping to make a new one, but in the meantime I thought I'd better post this over here.

Title: Take Another Look
Pairing: Spencer/Bob, hints at future Panic GSF, mention of MCR GSF.
Rating: High R, NC-17
Kink: Crossdressing
Disclaimer: The timelines are so messed-up they're more like balls of string, so this is all lies.
Summary: It's not the first time he's gone out in a dress, or even one this short, but it is the first time he's done it when there's the chance he could be recognised.
A/N: This is for whoever wanted Spencer/Bob, and also whoever wanted crossdressing. Considering I can find neither fact, for some reason, if those people read this, please be telling me who you are so I can thank and credit you properly. Overall, this is for Toby, who told me to write it.

----

It's a little worrying just how easy it is to fool everyone. Spencer stands with Keltie, slightly behind Ryan, Jon and Brendon, and waits for the other shoe to drop.

Considering his current shoes are four-inch heels, he's expecting something quite dramatic.

But nothing happens. The paparazzi outside the club they're making their way into believe Jon's explanation that Spencer is staying at the hotel, not feeling up to a night out due to a messy break-up (that bit's true, at least), and they all snap a few pictures of Ryan Ross with his girlfriend and her 'friend' before moving on. End of, nothing more to see, on to the next semi-celebrities in the line.

Once inside the dim club, Spencer relaxes a little. It's not the first time he's gone out in a dress, or even one this short, but it is the first time he's done it when there's the chance he could be recognized. He hasn't done this since before their first tour, girl jeans and shirts not counting, really. Back then, he'd had to put all of his energy into keeping the band focused and playing, into making sure Brent would turn up for the show at least and that Ryan was as okay as he ever got during those first few months.

*****

There hasn't been any free time long enough for him to do this, to do it exactly how he wants to. Trips back to Vegas let him take the edge off a little, wearing shirts that just touched the line between okay-to-wear-in-public and are-you-sure-that's-not-for-a-girl (that comment usually came with a raised eyebrow). Now, though, now Spencer thinks he might be able to do this a little more often.

They're in L.A. on one of the very rare free days that seem to be getting even rarer, somehow, as Fever starts to really take off and fly, and before he's even had chance to shower at their hotel Ryan bustles into his room (yes, bustles, there is no other word for it) with a long box, holding it like it's the most precious thing in the world.

Which, actually, it might be. It's certainly the key to Spencer's sanity, once he opens it. The dress is absolutely gorgeous, slipping through his hands as he lifts it out of the tissue paper. It's cut in a way that elegantly yells 'I am expensive!', and Spencer just knows that Ryan spent the first bit of his actual money the album made on it. "Ry -"

"Shut up and go shower. Here, I got you some stuff." In the little bag he holds up are things which might make Spencer's eyes fill with tears if he were actually a girl. As it is, he only likes wearing the clothes, so he simply touches Ryan's shoulder and shuts himself in the bathroom for a good hour with a razor, makeup and - wait.

He lifts the specially made bra, complete with its inserts, and stares. This should still be back in Vegas, left behind so he wouldn't see it in his bag and be constantly reminded of what he was having to give up to keep Panic! together. He leaves it off, choosing instead to step into the controlling underwear that prevents any...unsightly bulges. It's what they were made for, after all, although he suspects the manufacturers didn't envisage this particular use for them.

These at least he can have with him; wearing them underneath his jeans not only ensures a fantastic fit, but they also help to ease the itch for more. That done, he opens the bathroom door and leans against the frame, waiting for Ryan to pull himself out of his notebook and notice Spencer. When he does, it's with an almost comic double-take. "You done alrea- um. What are you doing?"

"Where, exactly, did this come from?" Spencer holds up the bra by one fingertip, and watches with no small amusement as Ryan's ears go faintly red. Huh. Curious. "I know you haven't been back to Vegas, so if you got my mom to mail it, I swear to god, you're in for a world of humiliation. Worse than Pete."

Ryan blinks rapidly, weighing his options. He's got no choice, really; Spencer always knows when he's lying. He sighs in the end, looking at his fingers where they curl around his pen. "Brendon went to visit his family last week, and I - I told him to go get it."

That....was not what Spencer was expecting. "You what?" He's too stunned to be angry, though, especially with Ryan looking at him like that. He swallows and tries to focus, attempting to understand what this might mean. Ryan taking the bra off his finger barely registers, and neither do the murmured instructions to lift his arms.

It's only once Ryan fastens the soft material and carefully tugs it to lie flat against Spencer's back, pressing a fleeting kiss to one bare shoulder that the drummer jerks back into reality and twists his head to follow Ryan as he moves to pick up the dress. When he holds it up by the delicate straps Spencer can see the layers of material, cascading to a scalloped hemline that is going to go no further than his mid-thigh, he can tell.

He puts dresses on by slipping them over his head, always has, purely because he likes the feeling of the material sliding down his bare skin. The sleek silk, a deep blue he doesn't have to use a mirror to know matches his eyes, glides over his body until he feels the gentle bite of the straps on his shoulders. Ryan zips it up with deft fingers, fastening the little hook at the top with another quick motion before stepping around to face Spencer.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

That's all it takes with them, after so many years. Spencer pushes back the fact that Brendon—Brendon, of all people—knows about this as well, and acquiesces to Ryan's demands that he tilt his head this way, that way, up, down, open your eyes, now shut them, and then finally blink. Hair is more difficult; neither of them have much talent for it, Ryan's current ryhawk-thing not counting because all he has to do is add gel.

"Spence -"

"When you say my name like that, it's never good," Spencer says with a wry smile, looking up at his friend from his perch on the toilet. "What is it, Ryan."

Ryan looks uncomfortable, before straightening and doing his best to look Spencer in the eye. "Brendon. I know he's not trained properly, or anything, but he could do something with, well, that.“ 'That' is Spencer's hair, fluffy from his shower and not matching the dress at all. "And he knows, so..."

Spencer surprises himself when he says "Okay."

After that, he switches off. Thinking too much about the implications of someone other than Ryan knowing about this are too much for him to handle as well as the rush of knowing in a short while he's going to be outside in this dress, although his worries fade slightly after seeing an expression on Brendon's face that he's never seen before when the singer walks in.

Heated is the only word for it, although when he speaks he's the same Brendon; funny, immature and strangely penetrating by turns. His hands on Spencer's hair are quick and efficient, creating a hairstyle still bearable for Spencer, yet utterly feminine. Brisk and attentive, he makes a few last adjustments, sprays a mist of hairspray over everything, and looks at Spencer critically.

"You'll do. Given more time and some better things to work with I could do a much better job, but for now it'll keep you from getting recognized." The tenseness in the atmosphere ratchets up another few notches as he moves to Ryan's side and they both eye Spencer, resplendent in his figure hugging dress and - hang on, shoes. "Um, shoes?"

"Oh. Yeah. Please don't kill us?"

"George Ryan Ross, what did you do?"

"He made me go get you some seriously scary high heels." Oh shit. Spencer is not looking, he is not looking, he is not - fuck. He looked. It would seem that being in a band where one of the members cross-dresses (actually cross-dresses, not like William's affinity for girl jeans, because most of them do that) does not phase their new bassist in the slightest. He's leaning against the frame where Spencer was almost an hour previously, a shoebox held in his hands.

Jon ambles over, kneeling by Spencer's side, close enough that he can feel the heat Jon radiates on his bare legs, and offers up the box as you would an engagement ring. Brendon removes the lid with a flourish, revealing shoes that make Spencer gasp. It's a manly gasp, of course. But they're so pretty that he feels justified, and if it weren't for the space between them that he doesn't feel like crossing, he would kiss Ryan because he's obviously the one behind this.

They really are high, but the heel is chunky, which means that he'll still be able to walk in them even while as woefully out of practice as he currently is. Silver, with blue crystal-things on the wide straps which cross over his feet, Spencer can only stare for a long moment. Then Brendon is sliding hands under a foot to fasten the shoe on, Jon doing the same.

And, somehow, that's that. All three of them eye him one last time, before deeming him ready to go - Brendon declares him the prettiest princess in L.A, actually, and for once Spencer doesn't slap him upside the head. This time, he thinks that he deserves that compliment, as opposed to the other hundred-and-one times Brendon has given it.

****

Disturbingly easy as it is, once Spencer gets inside the club he's ridiculously glad that he decided to do this. His friends are a soothing presence around him, Keltie a surprising ally in all of this. She drags him to the bar as the others carry on to the V.I.P room they've somehow landed, and the appreciative look he gets from the bartender is almost as good as the thrill of knowing he's getting away with this.

Upstairs the buzz lessens slightly, making him pluck at the hem of his dress and feel like he can't settle down. Keltie brushes a soft kiss onto Ryan's cheek and tells him to come find her on the dancefloor, then leaves quietly. Spencer has to hand it to her; she's not been around them all that long, but already she knows when she should leave them alone.

He risks a glance at Jon, not letting himself expect much, but the relaxed posture and easy smile of their newest member eases some of the tension in Spencer's shoulders. Ryan leans forward from his seat by Brendon and catches Spencer's eye, tilting his head subtly towards Jon.

Spencer nods minutely, but Brendon still catches it. He breaks into a brilliant smile, knowing that they just gave Jon their complete approval. In a moment, Spencer's spirits rise again, and he grins at Jon. Brendon claps his hands together suddenly, looking mischievous. He catches hold of Ryan's hand and pulls him over to where there's a small balcony looking out over the rest of the club, framed by curtains if they want more privacy. "Come on, lets people-watch!"

Ryan sighs tolerantly and leans next to him, both of them soon engrossed in making scathing comments about the clothes, hair or dancing styles of their fellow clubbers. Spencer and Jon share a look, then join them, squeezing into the small space and making comments of their own. It doesn't take long for them to find the people they're here to meet; Pete is distinguishable even from a height and in the semi-darkness, as is Patrick - who else would be wearing a hat inside, honestly - and Cobra are easy to make out because of the way they stick together.

"Like a pack" says Brendon wisely, getting an elbow in the ribs from Ryan.

"Nah, more like a gang." Jon grins at Brendon, giving Ryan wide, innocent eyes when the guitarist tries to glare at him. It is so not fair that Jon's innocent eyes work on Ryan when Spencer's don't. Brendon sniggers when he spots Ray making his way towards the bar, hair swaying, but this time Ryan doesn't shut him up.

Probably because he's tying not to laugh himself, but Spencer doesn't want to get hit so he keeps that to himself.

It seems as if everyone they know is here, as they quickly spot the rest of My Chemical Romance and then The Academy Is..., at which point Jon takes his leave and runs down the stairs to fight his way through the crowd and jump on various band members. They can see him gesturing up to where the rest of them are standing, and at Bill's wave Brendon dashes off to join them downstairs.

Ryan shifts closer to Spencer's side, nudging him gently. "He won't tell them, y'know."

Spencer looks at him, confused. "Hmm?"

"Jon. He won't tell anyone that you're here, just not exactly as Spencer."

"I—I didn't think he would." Spencer says, and he means it. "It's Jon; I know he wouldn't do that."

"Okay." Ryan's tone isn't so suspicious that Spencer needs to say anything else, which leaves him to relax even more and start to enjoy himself. "Uh-oh. Pete and Frank are talking, and I don't like that look on either of them."

Spencer leans a little further out to see where Ryan is pointing, and has to agree. "They should not be allowed to talk to each other without adult supervision."

Ryan nods in agreement. "Where's Patrick when you need him? He should have a plan for distracting Pete when he gets that look, and especially when he gets that look around Frank. It's worrying."

"It makes me think that explosions are imminent." Ryan lets out an 'oh' of mild surprise, making Spencer look at him questioningly. "Your voice just did that thing, that smoky thing." Spencer makes a low noise in his throat, to test it, and then smiles his best smile when even that sounds different to his usual noises. It's the last piece falling into place; he may have been dressed like a girl, and trying to remember how to walk like one, but now any lingering doubts about this being a good idea are gone.

"Thank god for that" he says, then raises an eyebrow. "Looks like Patrick does have a plan after all." They watch as Patrick slides through the press of people to stand next to Pete, joining their conversation with an ease most certainly borne out of practice. From where they are, above and behind, Ryan and Spencer can see the hand that Patrick lays against Pete's back, fingers dipping below the waist of his jeans just enough to get his attention.

Frank looks between the two of them, then laughs (not that they can hear him, but it's obvious) and turns away, looking for someone else to plot with. As he shoves his way towards Gerard, Spencer decides it's time to dance.

****

The high he gets from being on a crowded dance floor, surrounded by people and none of them guessing who he really is, is a rush only matched by the one he gets when onstage. Spencer can feel the music, the bass beat making his blood throb in his veins and making him a little more reckless than he should really be, especially after going so long not doing this.

He dances with Jon, Brendon, Ryan, even Keltie, unable to stop the huge smile on his face, and not really wanting to. Then others start to make eyes at him, and he doesn't miss Ryan's knowing smile as his bandmates move back to let him dance with whoever he wants. That they do it so easily, and so understandingly, makes Spencer's smile grow a little sharper as he starts to think about a few things in more detail.

Then he turns and comes face-to-face with Bob Bryar, and...well, suddenly there aren't many thoughts in his head beyond oh wow, hot and simultaneously oh shit, Bob Bryar. He definitely feels more feminine next to the much taller and much broader drummer - who is apparently also a really good dancer, go figure - but then there's also the fact that Bob thinks he's dancing with a girl. Which Spencer is one-hundred-percent not.

Current attire not withstanding.

Spencer fights down the nerves which are telling him to cut and run now, and tries to smile up at Bob. The music changes, switching to a slower song which prompts everyone around them to get into much more...intimate dancing positions, and Spencer can't help himself. When Bob closes a gentle hand around his wrist, Spencer lets himself be pulled in, trying not to shiver as Bob's other hand comes to press against the small of his back.

From the way Bob smiles, he doesn't think he's successful. What with the underwear and the bra, there's no way to tell right now that he isn't a real girl, but he tries to keep an inch or so between them just in case. Spencer focuses on Bob's chest, fixing his eyes on the deep red of Bob's shirt. The material is soft underneath his hands where they're politely placed at Bob's waist.

He keeps his eyes on the shifting folds of cloth with the same determination that he uses to learn a new drumline, or to keep playing when Ryan or Jon is right there, playing facing him. He's trying so fiercely to not show just how much this is turning him on underneath the freaking controlling underwear that he doesn't notice Bob leaning in to speak right into his ear until he feels the brush of someone's breath over his neck and hears his own name in amongst the other sounds.

"Spencer. Lighten up. Enjoy yourself." Blue meets blue as Spencer looks up, startled, unable to keep his face guarded. That was really not what he was expecting. He has a moment of sheer blind panic before his innate bitchiness kicks in and stops him from gaping like a fish. Instead, Spencer raises an eyebrow as his smile becomes much less forced.

This could be interesting.

He steps closer, still moving with the beat, and raises himself up onto his tip-toes so he can speak into Bob's ear. "How'd you know?" Spencer infuses it with all the smokiness that he can muster, which, given the amount of time he spent practicing in his old room with Ryan, is a lot. From the way Bob's breath catches, Spencer knows it gets to him. "I pay attention."

Spencer leans back and narrows his eyes at Bob, getting nothing worrying in return, just a sly smile. Definitely not a bad idea then. In the instant Bob's hands press harder against his back, broad and hot and so fucking good, Spencer thinks fuck it and starts to move his hips. Really move them, all fluid and sensual. He's good at this, even when he's a boy; the others tease him about stuff on the internet, teenies flailing about 'omg spencer smith and his hips', but right now, all that he's concerned with is watching the way Bob's watching him, all dark eyes and that little smile.

Spencer steps even closer, until he's right up against Bob, their height differences just making things better, somehow. He lets his hands slip down to Bob's hips, holding them in a grip that's all Spencer, not feminine at all. The music changes again, and things really heat up then. Bob, for all his apparent shyness and dislike of being the focus of attention, still managed to learn how to dance like a motherfucker somewhere along the way.

If Spencer had thought he was good before, now he's scorching. Bob dances like it's just him and Spencer, treating him like a total girl, throwing in dips, twirls and spins like this is somewhere fancy and not just a club. It takes Spencer a moment to recognise the song that they're dancing so provocatively to, making everyone closest to them stop and watch with open admiration on their faces, but when he does, it's funny enough to make him laugh.

Apparently laughing is a very good thing, as Bob pulls Spencer sharply against him, the strains of But It's Better If You Do segueing neatly into another track even as Spencer finds himself locking his fingers through Bob's and dragging him trough the crush to the stairs. Stepping delicately up them, careful not to trip in his high heels due to the anticipation currently making him practically vibrate with tension, Spencer wonders how many eyes are currently on them.

Then they're in the V.I.P room and he couldn't care less as Bob finally, finally, kisses him, hard and hot, Spencer's arms wrapping around Bob's neck to keep his balance as they stumble towards the plush couches around the edge of the room. "Fuck, I'm so gonna kill Ryan," gasps Spencer, tilting his head so that Bob can get more access to his neck and keep doing that delicious nibbling-thing.

Bob chuckles, low and dirty, and wow does that do good things to Spencer. Particularly when it's accompanied by hothot fingers trailing up Spencer's leg to where the silky dress starts. "Why are we bringing Ryan into this?" His fingers move away, making Spencer almost-whimper, but then he's being picked up (that really shouldn't be as much of a turn-on as he currently finds it) and laid out on the couch.

Spencer barely hears Bob's next words over the pounding of his heart, but then they do sink in. "Wait, what?"

Bob looks up from where he's currently kissing his way up Spencer's leg to grin up at him. "I said, unless you're thinking of some group sex thing, let's leave Ryan out of this." He slides the hem of Spencer's dress up even further, licking at the sensitive skin of his inner thigh before setting his mouth flush to it and sucking. When he leans back to admire his handiwork - mouth work? - Spencer is gasping and clutching at the arm of the couch above his head. "I have enough group sex with my own band. Right now, I just want this. You."

"That's, shit, okay, that's good." Spencer cannot think of Bob having sex with Frank and Gerard and Ray and Mikey, it's just too hot. But then he does think about it, which means he only appreciates the sudden lack of constraint around his achingly hard dick for about a nanosecond before Bob sucks it into his mouth and goes down on him, holy shit.

Stuff like this does not happen to Spencer. Brendon is the one who gets propositioned, which is understandable because of his ass and those lips, and Ryan's the one who...well, just look at him. Is it any wonder everyone thinks Pete only signed him for his looks and/or sex? For the record, it was neither, and why is he thinking about this when Bob Bryar is doing that with his tongue?

It's fucking incredible, and Bob seems to be in agreement if the way his hips are grinding against the couch is any indication. He pulls off until only the head of Spencer's dick is in his mouth, alternating between lightly running his tongue around it and sucking so hard Spencer feels like he's being turned inside out, and that would be when it hits him.

They're in the V.I.P room.

At a club.

With at least a couple of hundred people still dancing only a few feet away.

There's no guarantee any of the others in his band saw them come up here, so they could conceivably walk in at any moment.

Walk in on him getting blown by Bob-motherfucking-Bryar.

"Shit, oh god, fuck, that's, okay, can you -" Spencer is not actually going to ask Bob to stop, although he can't think of another reason for saying that, but the point is moot because Bob doesn't. Stop, that is. He gives Spencer a wicked look, one that makes his toes curl in his high heels, and instead of pointing out the risks, he gives in to Bob's fingers, moving teasingly over his balls to the spot behind them that makes Spencer arch and shudder, and his mouth, slick and hot around him.

Spencer comes hard, eyes fixed on the gap in the curtains that leads out onto the small balcony and one hand tightly entwined in Bob's hair. He tugs until Bob stops mouthing at his softening and oversensitive dick and crawls up to kiss him, smiling the whole time. "Who'd've guessed, Spencer Smith has a kink for public sex."

Spencer kisses him again, fast, tongue licking over Bob's teeth, trying to get the taste of himself into his own mouth; he can't seem to get enough, now that he's tasted it mixed in with Bob. "Shut the fuck up, or I won't get you off." It's an empty threat, considering his hand is already shoving past the waistband of the mesh-like pants that feel so fantastic against Spencer's bare skin.

He only gets in two or three good strokes before Bob groans and bites down on his neck, arms shaking as he tries to keep his weight off Spencer. Spencer's dress is bunched up around his waist, although he doesn't really notice it because the material is too thin to be uncomfortable, and the control underwear are pinning his legs together at the knee in a way which will be much more interesting as soon as he can regain coherent thought.

Another kiss, slower this time, although just as dirty as the others had been, and then Bob leans back to straighten his shirt. Spencer sits up slowly, letting his head get itself together, then wriggles back into the underwear and stands. He's about to brush his dress down when Bob catches his wrists, in much the same way as he had when they were dancing.

"What?" Spencer says, feeling a little smug at the way Bob's eyes flicker over him.

"Let me." Bob's hands release his wrists, only to curl around the back of his knees and pull him in closer. Bob gently smoothes each layer of fabric, settling each one so perfectly that even Ryan couldn't find fault. That done, he leans down and tugs the straps of Spencer's heels back into place from there they'd got twisted, then straightens. Sitting, his head is at a level with Spencer's shoulders, an advantage Spencer feels no guilt at exploiting.

Bob stands up partway through the kiss, broad hands coming up to frame Spencer's face and hold him still. He grins up at Bob when they break apart again, tilting his hips and asking "wanna dance?" with a smile.

Back on the dancefloor, relinquishing Bob to a worryingly hyperactive Frank and a more amused than annoyed Ray, Spencer rejoins his band and can't be bothered to keep the smug smile off his face. That he just met, danced with and then had sex with Bob Bryar, all while dressed like a girl, doesn't really seem that much of a stretch.

Of their limited interactions so far, he'd already known that Bob was pretty forward; he didn't hide what he wanted to say, and he'd always asked for something outright. It stood to reason that he'd be the same about sex. Spencer looked at Ryan, Jon and Brendon and made a mental note to ask Bob exactly how the group sex thing worked.

Given the way the three of them were looking at his legs, it was a definite possibility.

It would also give him the opportunity to get to know Bob while wearing jeans.

Or not wearing jeans, whichever.

Merlin fic.

Sat, 03 Jan 2009 17:03:18 GMT

Title: Not Quite Mrs Banks Either
Pairing: Merlin/Arthur
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: Complete an utter fiction. Sadly.
Summary: A sequel to Not Quite Mary Poppins. The next year in the Pendragon household, in which Merlin is no longer a nanny, Arthur is still a prat but a loveable one, Gaius saves the day and Uther does nothing.
A/N: Great thanks to caedesdeofor betaing this after I sent it to her on New Year's Day. Edwin's surname is Chwilen because it means 'beetle' in Welsh.

"Last night I dreamt we were at Gawain's party again."

Merlin barely pauses in his attempts to tie his tie without strangling himself while frantically searching for something. "Good for you, Gwen; have you seen my laptop?"

"It's in your bag, which is hanging on the back of your bedroom door." Gwen leans against the door to Merlin's flat and watches with great amusement as he checks his bag to find that, yes, his laptop is right where he put it ten minutes ago. "We're going to be late, you know."

"Lance would wait for a year for you, and Arthur won't mind. He'll spend the time waiting for us on the phone, hacking out the details of this business deal he's halfway through."

"Don't you mean hashing," Gwen asks, shoving Merlin's jacket at him and yanking him out of the door. He barely has time to lock it before she's pulling him down the stairs.

"With Arthur, no. Definitely hacking."

Gwen stops halfway through unlocking her car and looks at Merlin. "I'm starting to think double-dating wasn't such a good idea after all."

Merlin just grins and refrains from telling her that he finds Arthur in full businessman mode pretty hot.

—-

When Merlin moves in with Arthur everyone knows about it, because it causes so much bloody arguing. It gets to the point where Gwen threatens to hold an intervention if Merlin turns up at her door to complain about Arthur one more time, and even Uther deigns to tell Arthur that strife this early doesn't bode well for the relationship.

Gwen's threat falls on deaf ears; neither of them feel strong enough to ignore Uther.

Irony abounds when Arthur finally consents to discuss the matter with Merlin, rather than continuing to act as if his request is to be treated as a royal decree. Merlin feels it's his duty as the one with a sense of humour to point the irony out.

"You do realise that exactly a year ago today we were also arguing?"

Arthur stops glaring at the floor and frowns at Merlin. "We were?"

"The day before Gawain started school."

"Oh." Merlin waits for Arthur to dredge up the memory of what that argument was about, and smiles slightly at the stricken look on Arthur's face. "Oh. I'm still sorry about that, you know."

"That's not the issue here," Merlin replies, trying not to smile soppily. He partially succeeds, but only because it's impossible not to be soppy when Arthur looks like a kicked puppy. "The issue is me moving in."

The frown returns full force. "I don't see what the big deal is; it's only-"

"It's not 'only' anything, Arthur, it's you telling me I've got to give up working!" Arthur shoves his hands into his pockets, his slouch against the kitchen counter intensifying as he avoids looking at Merlin.

Why they do all their arguing in the room with the most potential missiles Merlin cannot fathom, but they should really stop. It's far too tempting to throw a spatula at Arthur right now.

"But your job was Gawain, and if I keep paying you to look after him now you're my boyfriend and moving in, it'll look weird!" Arthur looks defiantly at Merlin and blinks when he sees the soppy smile, finally let free. "What?"

"You called me your boyfriend. You hadn't said that yet."

"Yes I have. At Gawain's party."

Merlin shakes his head. "Gawain said it at his party, not you."

"Right. Well. I've said it now." Something warm and fuzzy, like the blanket they've got over the back of the sofa in the coziest sitting room, curls up in his chest and tells him it's not going anywhere for the foreseeable future, and maybe not forever. Merlin's smile gets a little smug, because he's had no problem using the word since Gawain had announced it with such pride.

Then the smile fades. "Arthur, I can't just stop working because I'm moving in."

"Why not?!" Arthur shouts it the same way he shouts at the people who work for him, like Merlin will go wide-eyed and acquiesce to his demand the way they always do.

"Because I'm not your sodding mistress!"

They glare at each other for a long moment, caught in a deadlock where neither of them wants to admit that the other one has a point, and then Merlin starts laughing. It seems so absurd, suddenly, all this arguing, and he can't see a point to it.

Merlin moves away from the table where he was sitting (he'd imagined this going so much worse, and thought he might need the extra protection of the solid wood), and walks to stand in front of Arthur, grinning fondly at this ridiculous man.

"You're an utter prat, you know that?" Arthur smiles a little wryly, hands moving from the depths of his pockets to rest on Merlin's hips, pulling him in closer.

"So you keep telling me."

"Look," says Merlin sternly, "I get why you want me to stop working, I really do, but I'm not going to." He presses a finger to Arthur's lips to stop the looming protests. "I will compromise, though."

Arthur narrows his eyes and speaks against Merlin's finger. "How, exactly?"

"I'll ask the Great Dragon for a desk job. Finding positions for other nannies, or something." Merlin moves his hand away from Arthur's mouth to his shoulder and waits while Arthur considers.

Finally Arthur sighs. "Fair enough." Merlin wraps him in a tight hug, grinning against Arthur's neck as Arthur's arms slide around him as well. "I was always going to lose this argument, wasn't I."

"Yup. Start as we mean to go on." Merlin smirks as Arthur pulls back enough to glare at him, then pulls away properly. "I should call him now, ask about switching over."

Merlin starts to move away, but turns back as Arthur's hand wraps around his wrist to keep him there. "What?"

"A year ago we were arguing about Gawain going to Camelot Academy, and I insulted you. This year we're arguing about you still working, and I think I probably insulted you by asking you to stop. What are we going to be arguing about next year?"

Arthur looks so openly worried, a rare thing for him, that Merlin darts in and kisses him softly. "Last year we hated each other. This year I'm moving in. Think about that instead."

He's halfway towards the bigger study to call the Great Dragon (actually his boss, called John, but he can't remember when he last heard that name used) when Merlin follows his own line of thought and ends up at—

Oh. He practically told Arthur they'd be getting married next year.

Merlin has a horrible image of Morgana and Gwen as bridesmaids in terrible dresses and shrugs it off. It's not as if Arthur will have taken him seriously.

—-

Morgana stares at Arthur in complete shock. This is not, apparently, a suitable expression for a fashionable dress shop, because she's getting a very disapproving look from one of the sales assistants. She shuts her mouth with an audible clack and tries to express her shock through her eyes only.

It works, if Arthur's shoulders hunching even more is anything to go by.

"You're asking me what?"

"If you think Merlin would say yes if I asked him to marry me." It's the same thing he said before, and this time Morgana is slightly more prepared to hear it. She doesn't have an expensive silk dress in her hands, for one thing. She takes Arthur's arm and drags him towards the changing rooms, snapping "Three dresses and he's my brother" at the scared-looking woman at the entrance.

Morgana pushes Arthur onto one of the plush chairs set out for the unfortunate women waiting while their friends (or shopping friends; they aren't the same thing at all) try on seemingly endless outfits. He looks up at her as she stands over him, hands on her hips.

"What's the problem? You were trying to get us together, with the telling me he's gay, and the mistletoe, and now you're angry with me?!"

"You've been together for two months, Arthur, and you've only known him for...fourteen! I'm not angry, I'm worried that you're moving too fast."

Arthur stands and starts to pace. Morgana knows from past experience that when he starts doing this he'll be at it for a while, so she shuts herself into a cubicle and starts trying on the first dress.

"I don't mean right here and now, obviously," comes Arthur's slight muffled voice from outside, "but if I were to ask him, what do you think he'd say?" Morgana steps out of the cubicle and turns in a circle. "No, it's hideous, entirely the wrong colour."

It's pale peach; Morgana smiles as she returns to try the second dress on, glad to see Arthur hasn't gone entirely mad.

Her voice is muffled this time, by several layers of silk and one of netting. "Honestly, I think he'd be shocked."

Arthur doesn't even bother to comment on the dress this time, just raises an eyebrow.

The third dress goes on with no accompanying comment from Arthur, leading Morgana to suspect he's finally learnt what she's been trying to teach him for years and is waiting for her to say something before leaping in again.

"What about this one?" Morgana is surprised at Arthur's expression when she steps out in the final possible choice - in this shop, at least. He's withdrawn a little, body language quiet and restrained as he paces, as if what she might add will carry considerable weight.

Morgana realises this is one of their few true brother-and-sister moments, and acts accordingly.

She stops Arthur's pacing with a gentle hand on his shoulder, smiling softly at him. "He would be surprised, I stand by that, but he'd also say yes."

Arthur looks at her with the boyish grin she knows is a large part of what makes him worth putting up with. "Really?"

"Yes. Just don't spring it on him right now, okay?" Arthur grins sheepishly and nods.

"I don't like him that much."

Morgana prods his ribs sharply, grinning at his yelp. "Don't lie to me."

"You should get that dress" is all Arthur says, which is both an agreement and a promise.

—-

Gawain, unlike Arthur and Merlin, adapts very quickly to having someone else living with him. Whereas Arthur still jumps at the sounds of Merlin coming home from work (desk job at the Albion Agency, as agreed), and still sometimes looks confused at three places laid for meals even after Merlin's been living with them for three months, Gawain has no such problems.

He's as likely to ask his dad for help with his homework as he is to ask Merlin to watch him practice his fencing, and always asks both of them to come to any school-related event.

It takes them a while to work out that he's sharing things out equally between them.

It takes them even longer to work out why, and by that time Gawain has already told all of his friends, and most of his teachers, that he's got two dads.

—-

Camelot Academy has a tradition of putting on pretentious and overblown Christmas productions, which holds even for Gawain's class. The previous year Merlin and Arthur had sat through the story of Babushka, played in all her glory by a little girl with glossy black hair and a voice like an angel.

Arthur had leant over and whispered halfway through that he wanted to strangle her, to which Merlin had hissed he couldn't because Gawain would kill him in return, that particular little girl being the one he refused to admit he had a crush on, in a five year old sort of way.

Arthur's reply had been that she reminded him of Morgana, and Merlin had had to bite the sleeve of his coat to stop himself laughing out loud.

This year it's The Nutcracker, which means Gawain's old flame is relegated to being a mouse, because apparently Clara has to be blonde. Gawain himself is the Nutcracker, unfazed by the favouritism probably because he's blond himself, and also because, as he sternly informed Merlin when he'd told them of his role, he doesn't like Viviene "at all anymore, because she's friends with Mordred, and definitely not in that way."

Merlin spends the show holding Arthur's hand between his own, at first because the whole atmosphere makes them feel intensely couple-y, and then because Arthur leans over between the first two acts and confides to Merlin in a painfully tight voice that Sophia has slipped in to sit a row in front of them.

On the stage in front of them Clara yells at Fritz as he steals the wooden Nutcracker prince and pretends to search for a nut, while in the darkness below him Merlin threads his fingers through Arthur's and tries to convey without words just how strongly he's there and not going anywhere.

Arthur leans over as Clara wakes up and screams in horror at seeing the Mouse King, rather fittingly played by Mordred, even if Gawain (and Arthur, and Merlin) say so. "If she wants to talk to me, will you stay?"

Merlin twists awkwardly in his seat so that Arthur can see the full force of his glare. "Have you been trained from birth to be this idiotic," he whispers harshly, and sees Arthur flinch. "There's no way I'm bloody leaving you alone with her."

By the end of the play Merlin's hand is cramped from how tightly Arthur is gripping it.

Gawain comes racing up to them as they wait in the foyer, still dressed in his Nutcracker uniform and smiling the same charming smile Merlin had once thought, and rightly so, that he needed to guard himself against from Arthur. They congratulate Gawain on an excellent performance, Merlin carefully making them walk and talk in order to get outside as quickly as possible.

They're almost at the door when a voice stops them. "Arthur, darling, leaving so soon?" Sophia steps into their line of view, quite obviously between them and the door. "I haven't had a chance to tell our son how good he was."

It's clearly an opening for Gawain to go to her; she even leans down a little, expecting a hug or even a kiss on the cheek.

Gawain, in one of his more disconcerting moments where he reminds Merlin of Arthur a little too much, simply looks at her and says "thank you."

Sophia's polished demeanour slips a little. Her smile has slightly too much disdain in it when she looks at Merlin for the perfect 'society woman' image she seems to be going for. "You must be the nanny. Merlin, isn't it?"

Behind Gawain's back Arthur's hand finds Merlin's again, and beyond the fact that it's the first time they've ever held hands in public Merlin can feel the desperation almost palpably coming from Arthur. He swings their hands forward enough to knock Gawain, and when he looks up Merlin raises an eyebrow and smiles.

Gawain's answering grin is sharp. He looks over at his mother and, with all the finesse of a precocious six year old who is far more comfortable with his father being gay than being married to a woman (or maybe just this one) tells her firmly:

"Yes, he's Merlin, but no, he's not 'the nanny'." He captures Sophia's soft but disparaging tone exactly, and Arthur's grip loosens slightly. "He's dad's boyfriend, so I've got two fathers, and they're both better than you!"

He fumbles for Arthur and Merlin's hands, the ones not still clasped tightly together, and uses them to pull the two men out into the cold car park. He stops, breathless, at their car, and all three turn to look back.

Sophia is still standing inside the foyer, although a few steps closer to the wide open doors as if she was about to follow them. Her velvet dress, in a shade of orange Morgana would no doubt have something scathing to say about, serves to highlight the whiteness her obvious anger has given her skin.

Merlin raises a hand and high-fives Gawain, fiercely proud of this boy who claims him as a dad even after such a short time.

"I thought I'd taught you better manners than that," says Arthur, sounding like he doesn't know whether to laugh or lecture.

"Dad. It was her."

Arthur opens his mouth to say something else, possibly even to tell Gawain off, but then he casts another look in Sophia's direction and sighs instead. He lifts a hand and smiles when Gawain high-fives him as well, before turning to Merlin and using the lapels of his coat to pull him close.

"Thank you for staying." Merlin isn't sure whether Arthur means this situation in particular, or just in general, but it doesn't matter because Arthur is kissing him in the car park of the Camelot Academy, hands warm against Merlin's neck and threading through his hair.

Gawain leaves them to it for two minutes before clearing his throat very pointedly.

Merlin pulls away and rests his forehead against Arthur's, smiling uncontrollably. "How long did you give us this time?"

"Two minutes, which is more than enough when it's this freezing."

"I knew it was a mistake to get him a watch for his birthday," Arthur says ruefully, and with that they pile into the car.

"I'll go straight to bed when we get home, make it up to you" is Gawain's comment as he fastens his seatbelt.

Arthur nearly drives into one of the school's large gateposts.

—-

Christmas is mostly the same as last years, except instead of dragging Arthur and Merlin underneath the mistletoe Gwen and Morgana spend a lot of time pulling them away from it.

That, and for once Uther has his secretary send his gifts over the day before. He also neglects to tell either his son or Merlin what, exactly, he's bought for Gawain this year, so when he reveals the pair of replica medieval swords there's a long moment of silence as Gawain slashes one experimentally.

Merlin leans away just in case.

"Dad, just how sharp are those?"

"Oh, don't worry," Uther says soothingly, looking remarkably mellow. That could be due to the large amount of brandy he's drunk, of course, that Merlin has absolutely not been helping him with because he's still slightly scared of Uther Pendragon. "They aren't sharp at all."

Arthur appropriates the second sword from its box and runs his thumb down the blade. He shows the unbroken skin to Merlin and his frown clears a little. "Hmm. I suppose he can keep them, in that case."

"Will you duel with me, Dad?" Gawain's face is lit with childish excitement, and Merlin knows the answer even before Arthur answers.

"Of course."

With a war cry more befitting a warrior king than a businessman Arthur leaps from his seat next to Merlin on the sofa and swings at Gawain. His son parries at precisely the right angle, deflecting Arthur's strike and moving in for one of his own. They spar up and down the room, Merlin delivering a kick to Arthur's backside when they get too close to where he's still sitting.

Morgana sends them out into the hall with a yell as one of Gawain's lunges goes wide and the tip of his sword reduces a glass bauble from the tree into a pile of shards, neither him nor Arthur noticing through their exhilarated laughter and equally boyish enthusiasm.

Merlin turns from watching their dramatic exit to find himself being stared at by Morgana, Lance, Gwen and Uther, all wearing 'how the hell do you put up with him' expressions.

Merlin just smiles and tries not to wince at a loud crash from the hall.

—-

Arthur falls ill just after Christmas, and Merlin ignores Uther's ranting and orders for the top specialists in every field to be contacted, making a frantic call to Dr. Gaius instead. His old boss arrives that same day, bringing with him a reassuring presence and weighty reputation that even Uther stands aside for.

He spends half an hour with Arthur, speaking in a low, measured voice as Arthur struggles to answer the gentle questions.

Uther leaves before the doctor is finished, unable to stand around doing nothing.

Arthur's last fully coherent words for almost a month are an apology for giving Merlin another shitty New Year. Merlin's too busy making sure he's comfortable and that Gawain knows not to get too close just in case to pay much attention, but Morgana later tells him quietly that Arthur had booked a weekend away for the two of them, Gawain more than happy to stay with her for a few days.

It's almost too much for Merlin to cope with, on top of Gaius' solemn expression and the possibility that Arthur might not recover. Gaius won't tell Merlin what's wrong, exactly; the medical explanation is something to do with a virus, and enzymes, and if he's honest Merlin doesn't really want to know anyway.

Merlin's just put a pale and quiet Gawain to bed when Gaius arrives bearing a plain brown file and looking a little less drawn. He holds the file out to Merlin, who takes it slowly.

"What's this?"

"Hope, possibly."

Merlin spreads the file out on the kitchen table, which is where for some reason he feels most comfortable at the moment. Gaius waits patiently while Merlin reads through the entire file, occasionally asking for clarification on a medical point.

He doesn't have to ask that much; he's learnt a lot over the course of Arthur's illness.

Finally he closes the file and looks at Gaius. "This could help?"

Gaius nods. "I've spoken to the doctor in charge of the trial, an old friend of mine. Geoffrey is more than prepared to start treatment tomorrow."

Merlin has to stand and walk around, running his hands over the furniture and fittings that are so familiar to him now. He knows, from a very stilted and uncomfortable few moments with Uther several days ago, that if the worst should happen he's the main beneficiary of Arthur's will. It's not something Merlin ever wanted to know, really, but it had stopped the vague worries he'd had.

Sophia's name had never come up, but Uther had very vehemently told Merlin that's unless he objected, custody of Gawain would be split between himself and Merlin.

"Of course I've got no fucking objections" may have been the only time Merlin will ever swear at Uther Pendragon, but neither of them had cared.

"And there's a 70% chance it'll cure him?" Merlin asks, more to try and stay focused than out of any real desire to know.

"Better, if Arthur's immune system reacts well."

"Then yes. Do it." Gaius sweeps Merlin up in an entirely unprofessional hug, smiling for the first time since he'd walked into Arthur's room to make a primary assessment. Merlin watches him pick up the phone and dial Geoffrey Monmouth, a physician almost as highly acclaimed as Gaius, and wonders if he's ever going to want to smile again.

**

Long, tension filled hours made short, it works.

Arthur's back on his feet within the week, fending off questions from Gawain about what it had felt like, being that ill, and complaining about the strict diet of mush that Gaius has him on.

Merlin feels like he's on the periphery for the first day or so, watching Arthur and his son reassure each other that everything's going to be okay. He makes what feels like more tea than he's ever made in his life for Gaius and Geoffrey (hanging around to make sure he sees the vital first hours of the recovery process), accepts Uther's silent thanks (conveyed via his eyebrows, oddly) and smiles whenever he sees Arthur watching him from over the top of Gawain's head.

Morgana and Gwen, fixtures in the house since Arthur had first fallen ill, convince an already suspicious Gawain that Arthur would like to spend some time with Merlin alone.

Merlin curls up on their (stupidly) large bed and wraps his arms around Arthur, feeling Arthur do the same to him. They cling to each other in that wordless way men have when they can't quite express the depth of their emotions, and while Merlin doesn't cry, precisely, his vision goes blurry for a while and the lump in his throat makes it difficult to breathe.

—-

Gawain makes all the arrangements for Valentines Day himself, sneaking around and making good use of Gwen and Morgana's continued interest in making sure Arthur and Merlin have a perfect night to themselves.

Arthur's protests that he'd much rather spend the evening at home with Merlin fall on four sets of deaf ears, Lance having been drafted in just in case they need extra muscle.

"Why might you need extra muscle?!"

"Because," Morgana answers sweetly, "you're still weak, and if you keep on refusing to give Merlin a proper Valentines Day, we can get Lance to carry you to the damn restaurant!"

Merlin looks up from where Gawain is teaching him the correct way to clean a sword and grimaces. "Morgana, I'd rather stay in as well, you know."

"I know you think you do, but Gwen and I think that you both need a night out."

"Oh, well, if both of you think so, how can we argue?" Arthur's sarcasm goes unheeded as Morgana smiles happily and sails off to tell Gwen their plan has been a success. Arthur looks incredulously at Merlin as the door closes behind his step-sister. "Did she take me seriously?"

"Yes," answers Merlin with a laugh, "and you agreed for me as well. I suppose we'll have to make the most of it."

Arthur sighs and stares at the pile of work he'd finally managed to persuade Merlin to let him have, pleading looming insanity due to the sudden shift from workaholic to doing nothing. "So long as it's not a French restaurant, fine."

Merlin tilts his head questioningly at Arthur, but it's Gawain who answers. "Mum always used to want to go to a French place." He's almost vicious with his swipes of the whetstone along the edge of his fencing rapier as he speaks. Merlin barely stops himself from wincing; having met Sophia, he can imagine the type of place, and would rather eat rat than step inside one. "We've booked a table at the Gedref Inn for you."

Arthur and Merlin share an amused look. "How do you know we like it there?" Merlin asks with no little trepidation. Goodness knows what Gawain's reasoning is; precocious he may be, but according to Arthur Merlin's influence is making him think more like a child.

"Dad took you there for your first proper date," answers the six year old, "and you both looked utterly wrecked the morning after." He grins up at them both, completely aware of what he's referring to that's put such a look of horror on the two adult's faces, and not caring a bit.

Needless to say, with that sort of recommendation, Valentines Day is a success.

—-

Arthur is completely recovered, the worries of January put far behind them by the time Spring bursts into bloom. Gwen is in a permanent good mood, trying to convince Merlin to take part in the local dramatics groups she's joined at some point. He pleads too much to do, claiming the Great Dragon has him working overtime to get a sudden influx of nannies needing new jobs paired off with suitable employers.

It works until she turns up unexpectedly to find him in the middle of a West Wing marathon with Arthur, laughing hysterically at Arthur's criticisms of various scenes.

"You told me you'd got too much work to help me," she says accusingly, hands on her hips. Merlin peers over the back of the sofa at her and wonders why he ever thought he could get away with it.

"Sorry. I'll get my coat."

Gwen nods approvingly and drags Arthur along for good measure, putting both of them to real work, as she terms it, making sets for the rather disconcertingly named play 'The Beginning of the End.'

"That'd better not be prophetic," Arthur mutters jokingly out of the corner of his mouth. Merlin rolls his eyes and flicks red paint at him in answer.

Spring also brings with it more trouble for Gawain. While Arthur and Merlin are painting backgrounds and moving sets around, Gawain gets quieter and stops being as enthusiastic as he usually is about school. It goes unnoticed, to everyone in his extended family's chagrin, until the opening night of the play.

Halfway through Gwen's big scene Gawain suddenly shrinks down in his seat and huddles into his jacket. Arthur looks down, startled by the action, and looks over at Merlin, sitting on the other side of Gawain.

"I'm getting déjà vu," Arthur whispers. Merlin scans the town hall they're sitting in.

"I don't see Sophia anywhere." Merlin wriggles down until he's at the same level as Gawain. "What's wrong?"

"Mr Chwilen's here," comes the faint reply from somewhere inside Gawain's coat.

"The new biology teacher?"

"Mhm."

Merlin sits up and leans over to tell Arthur what the matter is. Arthur frowns. "He's not mentioned any problems at school." They both look down at Gawain, watching Gwen's performance from between the shoulders of the people in front of him with the air of a boy ready to duck at a moment's notice. "Then again, we have been a bit busy."

Merlin nods his agreement and they each take hold of one of Gawain's hands, which makes him uncurl enough for Gwen to see and wave at him when she takes her bow at the end.

Back at home, wrapped in the comfiest blanket they own and safely ensconced between Merlin and Arthur, Gawain explains.

"He's a new teacher, which you'd think would make him less likely to be obvious about having favourites, or picking on specific kids, but it doesn't. He always chooses Mordred to help with all the experiments, or Viviene, and doesn't let the rest of us do anything fun like that."

"Have the other teachers noticed?"

Gawain shrugs. "I don't know. He's just as bad with them, that's the problem. He's trying to get Mr Perceval fired because of 'bad teaching methods', and it's working! He's on his final notice, and Mr Chwilen only started a month ago. And he's almost driven Madame Iseult, the art teacher, to quitting, and we thought she could handle anything after that trouble with her old boyfriend attacking Tristan!"

"How on earth do you know about that?"

"She told us. It's not every day your fiancé gets attacked by an old flame, and she wanted to tell us how brave he was."

"Oh. Right." Arthur glances at Merlin, who simply shrugs.

"Not everyone goes through a meeting with their lawyer before sharing information, Arthur."

Gawain looks up when Arthur doesn't reply with a comment of his own, like he expects. "Dad?"

"Do you know Mr Chwilen's first name?" Gawain looks a little worried, and Merlin doesn't blame him; the look on Arthur's face is making him nervous as well.

"Edwin, I think. Why?"

"Arthur, you can't get Gawain's teacher fired!"

"I can damn well try," Arthur replies as he strides towards his study. He says it with such strong assurance that Gawain sighs and stands up.

"I'm going to bed. There's no way to stop Dad when he gets into this mood; he'll get him fired whatever we say."

"Are you sure?" Merlin asks, hoping there's a way he can stop this.

"Don't you remember what he was like when you were moving in?"

That'd be a no on stopping Arthur, then.

Merlin debates the pros and cons of making a token effort, and decides against it. He does decide, however, to go and listen to Arthur ordering whichever unlucky lawyer he gets hold of to find out any dirty little secrets that Edwin Chwilen might have.

He leans in the doorway of Arthur's office, a wood-panelled and stupidly ostentatious room that hasn't changed much since it was built four hundred years ago, and watches Arthur pace behind his desk.

The call only lasts for a couple of minutes, Arthur delivering his demands with a swiftness and authority borne from years of training. As he'd once remarked to Merlin, he's been trained from birth to be a ruthless businessman.

"Which poor servant did you load that distasteful task onto?"

Arthur grins at him, the sharp and faintly feral grin that he wears after successful business deals and that never fails to make Merlin's blood run fast. "Kay. He needs the experience." Arthur walks purposely towards Merlin, still grinning, and Merlin makes one last attempt at getting his point across.

"You really shouldn't have done tha-" He breaks off as his back hits the panelling.

"Why don't you just say you find me irresistible when I'm all commanding and shouting at people, and leave it at that?"

"Isn't your ego big enough as it is?" Merlin says, voice not quite level as Arthur kicks the door shut, hands closing firmly on his hips and effectively pinning him to the wall.
A fierce kiss is all the answer Merlin gets.

—-

When Uther and Arthur fight, the whole company knows about it, and it takes them both at least a day to calm down.

It's just Merlin's bad luck that this time the fight happens to be about him, and that he's home when Arthur gets back. Arthur is still spoiling for a fight, and lays into Merlin when Merlin makes his customary deflection of a question about that old sore spot, Nimueh du Lac.
They end up screaming at each other for a good half hour before Merlin simply walks out.

Arthur yanks one of Gawain's fencing foils from the pile of his school stuff by the door and throws it at one of his ancestor's portraits. It lands solidly in the chin of his uncle Aurelius, quivering rapidly as Arthur slumps at the base of the great staircase and hangs his head as the anger is replaced with shame.

He's still there an hour later when Merlin returns, crossing the large entrance hall without a word and sitting at the opposite side of the stairs to Arthur. He sits side on, leaning against a banister post, pulling his knees up and wrapping his arms around them. He waits for Arthur to turn and face him before speaking.

"I'm only going to go through this once, so listen carefully." Merlin waits for Arthur's nod before he starts to continue. "About three- what happened to Aurelius?"

Arthur twists his head to look at the now-still foil. "I, um, was angry with myself for shouting at you."

Merlin lifts an eyebrow, almost smiling. "So you threw a sword at your uncle?"

"You're important" is all Arthur says, making a 'carry on' gesture. Merlin takes a deep breath.

"About three years ago I was working for Nimueh as her nanny, which I think everyone knows. She wasn't that bad to work for, actually; a bit intense, and I think some of her business dealings weren't quite legal, but that didn't really affect me."

"She got indicted last year, for insider trading."

"There you go, then." The beginnings of a smile appear at the corner of Merlin's mouth, and Arthur feels something painful in his chest ease up a fraction. "Anyway, like I said, that stuff didn't affect me. Until she got beaten to a deal by Elaine Corbenic."

"The woman who owns Grail Advertising?"

"That's the one."

"I'm not surprised she reacted badly; Corbenic isn't the nicest person in terms of her attitude towards the people she beats."

Merlin stretches his legs out, feeling himself calm down now that he's going through it. "Nimueh doesn't react well to being beaten, either. She wanted me to take a job as nanny to Galahad Corbenic, so that I could spy on his mother and get Nimueh information on the next deal Elaine was planning."

Arthur stares at Merlin. "Even by my father's standards that's wrong."

"I didn't agree, obviously. Besides it being wrong on just about every level, I knew Elaine already. She'd tried to get Lance to cheat on Gwen with her a few months previously, and when he refused she pretty much told all of our friends that he had, just to prove that she could."

Merlin looks so unhappy that Arthur scoots over to his side before he stops to think that Merlin might not want him so close right now, remembering in time to stop himself wrapping Merlin in a tight hug.

"Gwen believed Lance, obviously, but it still hurt them both for a long while." Merlin leans against Arthur's side, resting his head on Arthur's broad shoulder. "I'm sorry I didn't tell you before, but it's not something I like to think about."

Arthur reminds himself that he's well able to defend himself against Merlin, just in case, and wraps his arms around the man. "I'm glad you told me, though. Now I can go shout at my father and tell him he's bloody wrong about you."

"Do I want to know what he's been saying?"

"No," Arthur says firmly, at which Merlin laughs. "You know what he's like. One hint of something suspicious and he's all for beheading some poor secretary."

"True."

Uther's intolerances are legend throughout Pendragon Holdings, and by association in the Pendragon extended family. Merlin lets Arthur pull him up and lead him towards the kitchen, putting up no resistance.

"If you're going to make me dinner by way of an apology..." Arthur looks at him with the dangerously sweet and pleading eyes he pulls out when Merlin attempts to deny him something, "then I suppose I can forgive you."

"Ha! And you tell me I'm rubbish at being sensitive." Arthur misses the despairing look Merlin gives him as he starts clattering pans around and sending Cook off to get various ingredients he's sure he needs (she will later whack him on the hand with a wooden spoon and send him to sit quietly with Merlin while she salvages the meal).

Gawain surfaces from his bedroom and makes his way to the kitchen just as Arthur burns himself with hot tomato sauce, to the mutual amusement of Cook and Merlin. He pulls a chair next to Merlin as close as it will go, and, in much the same way as Merlin had done to Arthur a short while before, leans against him.

What Arthur doesn't know, and never will, is that it was Gawain who called Merlin and asked him to come back.

Merlin kisses the top of Gawain's head and whispers a promise to not keep any more secrets.

—-

After such an eventful start to the year, Merlin hopes that the summer will pass by peacefully. He has high hopes that the biggest ripple in this calm will be Gawain's seventh birthday party, which he also hopes will involve less chicken nuggets than last year.

He also vetoes a piñata, just in case.

Even Arthur gets involved with this plan, slowly clearing his enormous workload in the weeks building up to Gawain breaking up for the summer holidays, and telling his father point blank that he's not taking on anything else until the Autumn Term starts.

This works well until Uther just happens to mention that Excalibur Motors are looking for a new partner, to which news Arthur reacts with a startled grin and Merlin with a roll of his eyes. Arthur cannot resist anything shiny, sharp or fast, something that Gawain has inherited, and Excalibur Motors produce cars which combine two out of the three.

Maybe even three out of three, if their new racing prototype turns out to really be as pointed as it looks on the plans Arthur unrolls for Merlin.

The negotiations, which take up most of the first three weeks of summer, are almost exclusively held by Arthur. He refuses to let any of the Pendragon staff of lawyers help him with more than the basic terms, preferring instead to actually talk to the engineers and workers to see what sort of thing they want.

Gawain is very philosophical about essentially losing his father for part of his holiday, mostly because Arthur brings him back a small die cast model of each car Excalibur Motors have ever made each time he returns from a meeting. They have to put up a new set of shelves in Gawain's room because there are a lot of cars and a lot of meetings.

Something else is going on, because Gwen keeps turning up at the house, apparently to 'keep Merlin company,' but in reality hiding herself away with Morgana to discuss something Top Secret. Occasionally Lance will come with her, but he gets relegated to actually keeping Merlin company and doesn't know anything about whatever is going on.

Gawain's party is, thankfully, painless, both in terms of ease of planning and bruises. Merlin points a warning finger at Galahad (thankfully brought by his father and not Elaine), who was the cause of a very painful bruise to Merlin's hip after his turn at the piñata last year, and sends him off to join Gawain and the other boys in another impromptu - but slightly better organised - game of cricket.

"Do they teach them any other sports at that fancy school," asks Gwen as she helps Merlin set out sandwiches of seemingly endless description on tables set out along the patio. Too much food had been trodden into the carpet last year, Arthur had decreed, and so the food is banished outside.

Luckily it's another gloriously hot day.

"It seems like all they do is play cricket."

"It's either that or hockey, and Arthur hasn't got round to having a pitch laid out yet," Merlin teases. He frowns when Gwen merely nods and moves on to uncovering bowls of salad. "Gwen, I was being sarcastic."

She nods distractedly. "Oh."

"Look, I can tell something's going on; you're not subtle."

Gwen looks at him and bites her lip, seemingly considering something carefully before she turns and runs into the house. Merlin watches her with the expression of someone who is resigned to never understanding the people he loves, and moves to help a group of kids requesting drinks after their rousing game of almost-cricket.

Complete silence behind him, broken only by a hastily smothered cough, makes him spin around. Morgana, Gwen and Lance are standing in a row in front of a lot of parents who should have gone once they'd dropped their children off- "Morgana, what are they still doing here?"

"We need witnesses," is her worrying answer. Merlin takes a step back, only to have Lance lunge forward and take firm hold of him.

"Sorry, Merlin, but I've got my orders," he says, looking anything but apologetic.

Merlin glares at Gwen. She smiles brightly, and then she and Morgana move to one side, revealing Arthur, who walks forward to stand right in front of Merlin.

And then goes down onto one knee.

Merlin pulls frantically against Lance's tight hold and shakes his head rapidly. "Nononono, Arthur, please tell me this is a joke, I was joking when I said we'd be arguing about this sort of thing in a year, I really was, I-"

"Shut up, Merlin," Arthur says with a smile. Merlin clamps his mouth shut. "It's obvious you already know what I'm going to ask, so there's really no need for the long speech Morgana and Gwen prepared for me."

The women make twin noises of protests, and Merlin glares again.

Arthur continues. "So, I suppose all that's left is for you to answer." Merlin gapes down at him, uncomfortably aware of the parents watching with sincere interest. A shout from down the garden makes Merlin close his eyes and wish Gawain had chosen to set up his game much further away in the several acres of parkland at his disposal.

He really doesn't want to have to do this in front of so many people, including Arthur's seven year old son. It should be private.

Then Gawain comes into his line of view, face alight with potential happiness as well as the simple joy of being the birthday boy. Merlin looks from him to an Arthur he remembers from this time last year, gilded by the sun and happy in the most uncomplicated way, and falls a little bit more in love.

"Prat."

Arthur's smile threatens to rival the sun as he stands smoothly and kisses Merlin hard. "Idiot."

Gawain almost knocks them both over as he throws himself at them, clinging tightly for a moment before pulling back with all the dignity of a seven year old and taking himself and his friends off to finish their game of almost-cricket.

Arthur waits until the cacophony of people congratulating them quietens down, and takes a box from Morgana. "It's not exactly traditional, but I though that would be appropriate for us." He opens the box and offers it to Merlin with a flourish.

Merlin takes one look and cuffs Arthur over the head.

"I'm not sure whether to be worried or insulted." Arthur manages to smirk and look sheepish at the same time as Merlin lifts the pair of vambraces out of their hollows, unable to help admiring the sheen of the metal.

"I was aiming for flattered," Arthur says, watching him with an expression leaving happy and veering into hungry as Merlin slides the left vambrace over his wrist.

"You got me armour instead of an engagement ring, Arthur. You were dead on when you said non traditional."

Arthur stills the fumbling of Merlin's fingers as he tries to fasten the catch, and does it himself with a quick twist. "Gawain wants to go pro with his fencing, you're going to need armour." He fastens the second catch, holding Merlin's hands together to get the full effect. Arthur grins up at him, and Merlin forgets why he ever thought he had to guard against that charmingly boyish smile.

Merlin pulls his hands out of Arthur's grip and loops his arms around Arthur's neck, leaning in close to say "is that so?"

"Yup. Start as we mean to go on, after all."

Merlin feels he is completely justified in resting the cold metal against the back of Arthur's neck as Arthur leans in to kiss him, and the resulting squeak more than makes up for the publicity of the whole affair.

Just like a Pendragon, Merlin thinks. Has to do everything over the top and far too fast.

The solid feel of Arthur's body against his as they hug tightly, and the sounds of Gawain yelling as he catches someone out, make him think this isn't such a bad thing after all.

Merlin fic.

Sat, 27 Dec 2008 04:22:10 GMT

Title: Chains
Pairing: Merlin/Arthur
Rating: R/NC-17, depending on your tolerance.
Disclaimer: Not mine, never happened.
Summary: Another day, another magical entity bent on killing at least one of the Pendragons, and Arthur finally oversteps the mark.
A/N: Betaed by hikarinotabi, which was very good of him because this isn't even his fandom <3 (I'm not neglecting you, caedesdeo; I've got some erotic asphyxiation for you have at very soon).

Another day, another magic entity bent on killing at least one on the Pendragons, and Arthur finally oversteps the mark.

Much like Morgana had done before him, he asks too many questions of Uther, demands justice for the unfairly accused. What the woman was accused of matters not; what matters is the falseness of it, and the bright flames of Arthur's rage.

Uther responds to his son the same way he responded to his ward, although with considerably more pain evident in his eyes if not his bearing as the guards flank Arthur and escort him to the dungeons.

Arthur is chained in the same manner as Morgana before him, and like her his head remains unbowed as the shackles close around his wrists.

Uther does not watch this time.

—-

Arthur stands, breathing even and deep, making himself remember every move his weapons tutors ever taught him, beginning with the sword and moving through the order in which the weapons are hung on the wall of the armoury.

The chains make no noise as the door opens and Arthur looks up; he holds himself still and proudly, even if it is just a guard.

The slim figure led inside by an impassive knight makes him frown, although he says nothing until he's sure the guard has returned to his station at the end of the corridor.

Merlin stands where the guard had halted him, a few steps inside the dungeon cell, and just looks at Arthur. "No guard outside the door?"

"I'm the Crown Prince, even like this." Merlin nods, saying nothing. "Why did my father put you in here?"

"Company?" Arthur's lip curls in derision. Merlin laughs, sounding bitter and angry. "A trap, I'd guess. He has his suspicions about me."

Arthur knows, has known since Merlin had become tired of hiding what makes him Merlin from the boy he was supposed to help become a king.

It still stings, the year and a half of lies.

"I wonder how that happened." Sarcasm drips off Arthur's words as Merlin moves to lean languidly against the wall, arms loosely folded as he watches Arthur.

"He wasn't there when you fought the chimera. Neither was I."

"Not this time."

Arthur sees a flicker of gold crawl across the door and the bars giving him a limited view of the corridor outside, and knows that even if Uther himself were to stand there looking in, no matter what is truly happening all he'll see and hear will be Arthur proud and upright, with Merlin visible to one side, waiting like the obedient servant he never is.

"You've had a hand in many a miraculous victory or recovery, Merlin; rumours are bound to start."

"Your father hopes I will be so enraged at his imprisonment of Prince Arthur, to whom he considers me endlessly loyal, that I will use the magic he suspects I have to free him."

Arthur says nothing. They went beyond mere master and servant a long time ago, not that Uther would ever care to notice.

Merlin's voice drops to a darker tone. "He thinks me too stupid to realise a trap when I walk into one."

"Walk? You seemed led to me."

Magic chases up and down the iron links of the chains holding Arthur captive, sparking off to land harmlessly on the straw and Arthur's clothing. What isn't harmless is the expression on Merlin's face when Arthur looks up, composing his own expression into one of careful blankness.

Arthur shudders at the darkness in Merlin's eyes and knows that whatever Uther does to force magic to submit to his rule, Merlin never will.

Not when he is able to do this, to make a slight gesture and have the chains flatten themselves against the floor, dragging Arthur down to his knees with a sharp intake of breath. The manacles around his wrists dig into his skin, a dull pain that makes Arthur's jaw clench.

Arthur holds his head high even as the coldness of the stone floor numbs his knees. Merlin smirks. With less effort than blinking he could raise the temperature of the cell to the levels of summer, but they both know he won't.

"Do you think I'm that stupid?"

"Would I be here now if I did?" Merlin dips his head in acknowledgment, his eyes not leaving Arthur's. If Merlin had not been so confident in the villager's innocence Arthur would not have railed against Uther, would not be on his knees in his own dungeons with Merlin looking at him with pitch dark eyes.

It never occurs to Arthur to blame Merlin.

"No, I suppose not. Which might not be a bad thing," he adds, as the chains ripple. Arthur tenses, but they don't tighten any further. "I can't imagine that you enjoy being here."

A scuffing noise from the corridor halts anything Arthur might want to say in return to that, the guard making his appointed rounds. Merlin's spell negates the need for silence, but all the same Arthur waits until the knight pulls away from the barred aperture in the door and continues on his way.

Merlin pushes himself away from the wall with a fluid flex of shoulders that Arthur knows isn't entirely due to him forcing Merlin to go through basic training sessions. He moves to stand in front of Arthur, blocking his view of the door.

That's probably the point, though.

Merlin cannot be made to submit - at least, not by such means as Uther is using and those that Arthur has tried - but they have found that Arthur can.

It is not something they learnt lightly, or even under the best of circumstances, and the only person who will ever know (or likely understand) is Merlin.

He's the only one that can do this to Arthur.

The chains clank as they are pulled tighter, stretching Arthur's arms out wide as the superfluous lengths coil neatly around themselves. Merlin has become better at keeping things tidy.

The downward force still being exerted keeps Arthur on his knees, makes him curl his hands into fists as the iron around his wrists crosses the line into painful.

Hopes of maintaining his proud bearing shatter as the feeling of phantom hands slides across his neck, pressing against his windpipe with teasing strength. The momentary lessening of air makes Arthur squeeze his eyes shut, chasing the feeling as the invisible hand leaves his neck.

"Or maybe I'm wrong." Merlin's voice is too loud for the claustrophobic atmosphere, its calmness at odds with the way the chains tighten further. The strain across Arthur's shoulders makes him bite his lip with pain and shiver with pleasure. "Maybe you do like being here, held tight and on your knees."

"My father is responsible for the chains, Merlin; you needn't sound so smug."

"But I am responsible for what they're doing." To prove his point, the chains jerk sharply backwards, uncoiling gratingly and yanking Arthur's arms behind his back.

It becomes more and more difficult to hold his head high even with the pretense of pride as that phantom touch Merlin has spent many a night hour perfecting slips beneath Arthur's clothing, splitting into more parts than he cares to count.

They spread over him, echoes of Merlin's own hands and tongue that make Arthur pull against the chains holding him down. His head bows so that Merlin cannot see the way his eyes flicker shut and his face heats due to the onslaught, although it does nothing to stop the shuddering of his body giving him away.

He reacts the way he always does when Merlin does this to him, although the pain of being held so firmly in place makes his arousal a fierce thing, sharp and searing through his veins. It thickens the air around them, makes Arthur remember when he used to feel guilty about even dreaming of Merlin simply touching him.

Now he has Merlin doing so much more than that, and the guilt was burnt away long ago.

Phantom hands as clever and experienced as Merlin's own touch over every spot Arthur has that makes him increasingly wish for the chains to be removed, curling around achingly sensitive flesh as Merlin's lips curve into a sly smile and he adds the feeling of teeth biting along Arthur's collarbone.

The guard's return is signaled by yet more scuffing and the flickering light of his torch, growing brighter as he nears the door of Arthur's cell.

Arthur chokes back a whimper. Merlin's smile grows wicked.

Arthur doesn't know what image Merlin has set in his place for the guard to see, but it cannot be him as he is now; on his knees and hard with want for a person most of the castle considers a bumbling servant, shuddering as fingers wrought from magic tease over pleasure spots that only Merlin has ever found.

May even have created, although he never answers Arthur's demands to know if this is true.

The guard cannot possibly see his chest heaving as Merlin's magic tightens around his neck again, gasping for more air and even more aroused with twisted pleasure when he can only pull in what Merlin intends him to.

He cannot possibly hear the harsh groan that finally fights its way free of Arthur throat as the grip Merlin's magic has on his cock tightens and mimics Merlin's own hand when he wants to send Arthur over the edge as quickly and as hard as he likes to.

If the knight could see Merlin walking slowly around Arthur to tug at one of the chains keeping his arms stretched out like a perversion of wings, sending a shock of magic along the links to spread through Arthur's taut and trembling body, then he would not stand looking into the dungeon cell with such a look of mingled pride at his prince's courage and disgust at Uther.

At least, that's how Arthur interprets it, after seeing many similar looks following his increasingly more frequent arguments with his father.

As if Merlin knows he's getting distracted, the collar of magic shrinks.

Arthur chokes and fights against the chains, feeling the bite of metal as his eyes roll back and the rising tide of pleasure fights with the pain in his shoulders and around his wrists. He can hear the whisper quiet steps as Merlin finishes circling him, stepping over the second chain with exaggerated care, because of course he knows Arthur longs for that extra bit of force to finish him.

The guard bows his head to what he believes is Arthur, and moves away. Merlin leans in close to speak against Arthur's ear, close enough that the heat of his body and the metallic taste of his magic fill Arthur's senses.

"I am responsible for this." The collar of magic vanishes, but Arthur barely has time to suck in much-needed air as the manacles contract and the magic on his body intensifies. He tilts forward, straining against the chains as he is stroked and teased and bitten in every place that, ordinarily and in a safer environment, makes him arch and cry out.

Here, though, he cannot move, let alone arch, and he will not let himself make any noises other than his gasps.

Arthur is being touched everywhere, Merlin finally sending him crashing into blinding heat and pleasurepain with a flash of gold eyes and a solid hand twisting in his hair.

Well, almost everywhere. Not inside him; no matter how much he begs (and oh how he wants to beg), Merlin will not do that here.

The chains hold his weight as he slumps forward, manacles relaxing their hold with the effect that they rub against the bruises left behind and send more shudders through Arthur's already-wracked body.

The magic trickles over him one last time before being withdrawn, Merlin reigning in the haze of shimmering gold he has allowed free because he knows how much Arthur likes (wants) to see it.

Merlin returns to lean against the wall and watch Arthur come down slowly, but he doesn't relax his hold on the chains. They remain unyielding, the pull on Arthur's arms and torso making it hard for him to regain his senses.

Merlin watches and waits while Arthur breathes carefully, shuddering when his eyes close and the bruises he can feel at his neck and wrists make it seem as if Merlin hasn't yet finished.

—-

Uther keeps Arthur in the dungeon for a night, no more and no less than Morgana, although that was of Arthur's doing.

Arthur is neat and tidy, if liberally covered in straw and dust. There is no evidence of the control Merlin had had over him; his clothes are as neat as they were when he had been led down there the day before, smelling merely musty.

The bruises, though, those are still there.

A glamour spell that Arthur and Merlin have had many opportunities to be grateful for shows Uther only the traces of bruises, those caused by unavoidable contact with the heavy iron shackles.

Once hidden away in his chambers Arthur holds his arms out and Merlin removes the spell, eyes darkening at the livid rings encircling Arthur's wrists.

Before the hour is out, Merlin has a matching set on his hips, whispering wicked promises as Arthur traces them with his tongue and lets himself think about chains.

Thu, 25 Dec 2008 19:23:48 GMT

In the hope that this will be seen - could whoever sent me the beautiful virtual gift of a dozen red roses please tell me who they are, because I would love to thank you properly.

Dewiniaeth Master Post

Wed, 24 Dec 2008 02:05:56 GMT

Okay, so. I started writing this eleven days ago, according to my google.docs file. It's a freaking epic Merlin genderswap fic that came about because I had the vague notion that I wanted to put Merlin in a dress. THAT'S IT. I feel like I should offer a prize for whoever makes it to the end, because it's probably going to be a test of endurance. *sighs* I hope someone likes it. *returns to her dungeon!porn*

Title: Dewiniaeth (roughly translates from Welsh as magic, or witchcraft)
Pairing: Merlin/OMC, Merlin/Arthur
Rating: NC-17
Wordcount: 32,127
Disclaimer: Not mine, complete and utter fiction. Probably.
Summary: Nimueh is set on destroying the Pendragons, yet again. They do say hell hath no fury like a woman scorned, after all, and this time it's Merlin who bears the brunt of her scheming. Fairy tale princess he is not.
Warnings/Spoilers: HET. I hail from bandom, where that is most definitely a warning. There's slash, don't worry. Genderswap (obviously), if that squicks you. Spoilers....just say for the series in general.
A/N: I am well aware that the summary sucks, but please read it anyway. Thanks times infinity to </a></a>caedesdeo, who did another prompt, accurate and thorough beta job with this, and who didn't tell me to shove off when I emailed her every one of the corrections I made after she sent me it back. Also for reminding me six times about the sugar.

Part One
Part Two
Part Three
Part Four
Part Five

Dewiniaeth - Part Five

Wed, 24 Dec 2008 01:35:14 GMT

Part One Part Two Part Three Part Four

Arthur wakes with the dawn again, and finds Merlin in his bed for the second time in as many days. This time, though, he's already awake, sitting up. He turns and glances down at Arthur, smile wide and happy. "Morning, lazy."

"Mmm." Arthur stretches languidly. "I'm allowed to be. What are you doing?"

"Being me."

"I'm a little worried that I know exactly what you mean." Merlin settles back as Arthur sits up and shifts forward to lean against his back, resting his head on Merlin's bare shoulder. "Shouldn't you be out of bed by now? You've got chores to do."

"I don't have to get out of bed to do them, though, unless you order me not to use magic." Arthur shivers at the idea of more magic, morning hardness increasing somewhat. Merlin laughs. "I can see we're going to have to work on that. Not exactly the ideal reaction if you see me using magic to aid in a battle."

"Use it now," Arthur says, lips moving against the vivid bitemark on Merlin's shoulder from last night. It sits an inch or two below the mark Arthur had made on Merlin's neck a bare two days ago. Arthur finds he likes the brands. He wraps his arms around Merlin's waist and flicks his tongue over them in turn before returning to rest his chin on a pale shoulder.

"As you desire, my lord." Gods, Merlin makes even the simplest of obediences seem filthy. His hand raises, palm facing the room at large, and the gravelly syllables spill from his tongue and slide down Arthur's spine.

Clothes jump into the air, stains and creases vanishing slowly before they fold themselves and return to chests and wardrobes. The remains of many meals turn to dust and are tilted by their plates into the fire that yet again has burnt through the night, aided by magic. Candles trim themselves and unsightly dribbles of wax remove themselves.

By the time the room is at the state of cleanliness Arthur has come to expect when Merlin does eventually get his act together he's shaking with trying to control the urge to tip Merlin forward and take him on his hands and knees, making him face the evidence of what his magic can do and feeling what it does to Arthur.

Arthur whispers what he wants to do, and more, into Merlin's ear as his hands glide over smooth skin and dip under the sheets pooled around Merlin's waist.

Merlin's voice still holds some of the roughness Arthur irrevocably associates with magic when he reaches back to wrap his hand behind Arthur's neck and make another suggestion.

Arthur gets fucked to the sounds of his armour cleaning itself.

—-

One remarkably quiet (in public, at least; Arthur's bedchamber is another matter) week later Morgana pulls Merlin into her rooms. She's pallid instead of pale, surpassing even Merlin's untanned complexion, and looks less polished than usual.

"I need to tell you something," she begins, looking uncharacteristically nervous. Merlin feels the first stirrings of unease; she doesn't tend to be hesitant like this, wearing her emotions clearly. "But I need to know you won't think any differently of me once I do."

They're almost exactly the same words Merlin had rehearsed for when he told Arthur about his own magic, before Nimueh had negated the need for such things as words. He reaches out and places his hands over hers, stopping her twisting the trailing sleeve of her dress into a wreck that will make Gwen cry.

"Morgana, whatever you say, I will not think anything less of you." Merlin swallows hard. "I only ask that you do the same for me." Her eyes are penetratingly bright when she looks at him, and he can practically hear the pieces falling into place for her.

She nods decisively and clasps his hands with hers. "I dreamt of you. In the woods, a hollow darkened and fouled by evil magic. There was a woman - a sorceress - and a cave. She waits and schemes, planning for your death." Her voice grows increasingly desperate. "Merlin, I saw you enter the hollow and die by her magic. You could not defend yourself."

"Did you see why not?"

"Some spell; I don't know the nature of it." She looks at him, scared but defiant. "I would not have told you this, because I know you will travel there, but something told me I must."

Merlin nods, smiling wryly. "It's probably something to do with my Destiny."

"Ah. Destiny. That old thing." They share a smile that borders on amusement, then Merlin bows over their hands. Morgana sighs. "You go there now?"

"Best to get it over with."

"If you don't tell Arthur he won't forgive you, however small such a thing may seem to you."

"Then I'll be leaving tomorrow; there's that damn feast tonight. How many feasts do you need to celebrate Harvest, anyway?"

Morgana rolls her eyes. "Two too many, by my reckoning, but Uther likes a show."

She hugs Merlin briefly before he leaves, her dark eyes the only thing showing her worries about his plans. Merlin smiles as cheerfully as he can manage and goes to find Arthur to tell him, without mentioning Morgana, about Nimueh.

—-

Arthur refuses point blank to go to the feast. He tells his father in no uncertain terms that he won't be attending, to which Uther apparently replies with an understanding nod and a reminder to be prompt to morning training. Merlin has to take Arthur's word for it, because the prince had stormed out of the room and gone before Merlin could even blink.

They ride out at dusk when anyone who would raise questions is inside and occupied with the first course; the people of the town don't spare the Crown Prince and his manservant a second glance, even if they are leaving when Arthur should be in his seat next to Uther.

Merlin's riding has improved enough for them to set a fast pace through the trees even in the dark, and for once Arthur can't make a comment about Merlin's abysmal navigational skills because he gives him no chance to; even allowing for the effect of time on his memories of the path Gwen and he had taken to the hollow three months ago, Merlin unerringly leads them to it.

It's obvious they're near the right place after an hour of riding. The waves of dark magic emanating from the cave Merlin can barely distinguish as a darker patch of blackness in the cliff bordering one edge of the hollow make him feel nauseous, to the extent that he has to lean over the side of his saddle to retch.

"Merlin?" Arthur's hand is warm on his back, comforting and grounding.

"Can't you feel that?"

Arthur looks ahead, concentrating. After a pause he replies: "What the hell is that?" He straightens his shoulders, missing the weight of his armour. "It's like... slime, crawling over my skin."

"Dark magic." Merlin spits, tries to clear his mouth of the taste of it. "Remember how it feels; it'll help you tell the difference in the future." He sounds different even to himself, sure and strong in a way he rarely feels, let alone sounds. Arthur's expression is dark, angry and something more private.

"It didn't feel like this the other night."

"That's because it was only a tiny thread, outweighed by my own magic and that of the dragon." Arthur nods and starts to dismount. "Arthur, no."

"I'm coming with you."

"I have to do this on my own-"

"Because of your sodding Destiny?" The last of the light faded as they entered the thicker foliage of the oldest part of the forest, and it's as hard to see Arthur as it is to see the cave. Nevertheless, Merlin can just make out the angry set of his jaw.

"No, because of my sodding pride. I'm sure you understand that," snaps Merlin, then wishes he hadn't. Arthur's horse whinnies softly and skitters as he unconsciously tightens the reins. Merlin waits; he won't go to his possible death with anger the last emotion expressed. At last Arthur sighs.

"Alright. But here, take this." He pulls his long dagger free of its sheath and hands it to Merlin hilt first, fingers confident and capable even so close to the perilous blade. "You said she'd have a spell waiting for you, so she clearly has some faith in your sorcery. She probably won't have any in your combat skills, so this might-" Arthur cuts himself off, but Merlin knows what he was about to say.

This might help you last a little longer.

Merlin takes it carefully and nods, holding it well out of the way as he dismounts. Tendrils of foul magic curl curiously around him then withdraw sharply; Nimueh knows he's here. The creaking of leather and faint jangling of a harness makes him turn to see Arthur striding towards him.

Merlin flails as Arthur kisses him hard, momentarily worried about the dagger in his hand until Arthur wraps a hand around his wrist and keeps it firmly by his side. Merlin curves his other hand over Arthur's hip, pulling him close as Arthur does the same thing with Merlin's neck. They break apart, panting, and Arthur steps back jerkily.

"Go. I'll wait here."

Merlin hesitates, but after the struggle he had to get Arthur to leave when he was changing back knows it's a lost cause to try and make Arthur get to a safe distance just in case. Instead he nods, feeling far more like the warlock the dragon insists he is to become than he ever has before.

Heading down into the hollow proper, and to the threshold of the cave is easy, but once he reaches the entrance he starts to feel weighed down, as if he's walking through air as thick as Arthur's last attempt at making porridge. He has to force his legs to keep moving and step into the cave, but when he does his magic-

Stops.

Merlin halts, hands gripping the dagger's hilt so tightly pain shoots up his arm. He shuts his eyes and tries to remember anything the dragon has said about sensing the magic within him, a laughable concept when he was in that other cave, but here and now it provides a slight measure of hope.

A few moments later, in which his hatred of Nimueh and her methods coalesces into more manageable and useful contempt, Merlin finally feels the faint stirrings of his powers. They're not gone, as he'd feared, but dampened down like a charcoal fire. He can't undo whatever it is that Nimueh has done, hasn't the training.

He's got no choice but to continue without his magic, as she had planned.

Merlin's not a coward, whatever accusations Arthur may once have thrown at him, so he presses on down the rock tunnel, heading towards the source of dark magic that he can still (sadly) feel against his skin and taste at the back of his throat.

—-

Nimueh is waiting for him when he rounds the final twist and reaches the inner chamber of the cave. It's not natural, the smoothness of the walls and the carvings on them making that much evident as soon as he walks in. The taint of magic extends to the rock itself in here, surrounding Merlin in a cocoon of wrongness that makes him want to gag.

The sorceress is standing behind a tall pillar of rock that Merlin would liken to the font of a church if it were not such a patently ridiculous comparison, scarlet mouth curving into a mocking smile. "Emrys." She bows her head in faint tribute.

"Nimueh."

"What brings you here, when you knew what I had prepared?" She trails her fingers through the water in the cradle of stone in front of her, a clear threat that she was, and will always be, watching him.

"You know why."

"The young Pendragon, yes." Her words match the dragon's, but where his were grudgingly respectful, bordering on fond, Nimueh's are derisive. "Are you really willing to risk your life in an attempt to make me pay for trying to get my revenge?" Merlin stays silent, keeping the dagger out of sight in the shadows behind him. "You could join me, you know."

"Become like you?"

Nimueh smiles, steps around the rock pillar and walks slowly towards him. "And what is so wrong with that? We both know I am not your match in terms of raw power, but when it comes to knowing what to do with that power I am by far your superior." She's close now, standing just out of striking distance to raise her arms to her sides and increase the magic in the air.

"I could teach you, train you to be the most powerful warlock this land has ever seen. You could rule, Merlin; you could make it so that we magic users would not have to hide and skulk in the shadows anymore."

"And the price?" Merlin yells, "The price I pay, what would that be?"

"Knowledge is worth any price," she returns, voice low and filled with power that makes Merlin's knees weak and his head throb. "It is worth the deaths of the Pendragons and their oppressive laws. Their deaths will be the start of a new reign, the reign of magic!"

A rumbling fills the cave, the sound of powerful sorcery being wrought. Merlin pulls together the last of his strength, thinking of Arthur out in the forest, waiting for him, and strikes.

The dagger slashes at Nimueh's arm, makes her cry out and look at him with eyes that are practically all pupil. Merlin lashes out again, driving her back into the centre of the cave with a series of jabs that Arthur had taught him in the hope that Merlin would be able to hold off an attacker long enough for Arthur to reach him.

The pain of Merlin's unexpected attack weakens Nimueh's hold on her spells, freeing Merlin's magic in an intense flood. He reaches for it, trying to think of something, anything, that he can do to stop her. She's recovering from the first shock, gathering her power and preparing to strike back.

He won't let her, not this time.

"You will not" he shouts, the rock reverberating with the magic in his voice, "kill Arthur. Not while I am here to protect him."

With that, he pulls down the ceiling of the cave.

Tons of rock grind and tremble, caught above their heads by Merlin's magic for a brief moment. Then they come thundering down, Merlin making sure to direct a few boulders specifically onto the rock bowl she used to spy on them all. Nimueh throws up a hasty barrier, protecting herself from the worst of the fall, but Merlin can see weaknesses in it and know it's not going to last long.

He scrambles back to the tunnel, his own instinctive shield holding thanks to the adrenaline fuelling his hold on his magic. Behind him Nimueh's screams blend with the screeching of rock against rock, the sounds and smaller falls following him out of the tunnel and across the hollow. Merlin stumbles, reaches out a hand to break his fall but is not surprised to find himself caught and held by strong arms instead.

They stand together and watch a plume of stone dust billow out of the rapidly disappearing cave entrance, Nimueh's exhortations of rage and fragments of spells cut off as the cave finally vanishes with a final ground-shaking rumble. Arthur's arm is almost painfully tight around Merlin's waist, but it feels right.

"That was actually pretty impressive." Arthur's voice shakes enough to show the major understatement of his comment. Merlin grins.

"Glad you liked it. I'm not completely incompetent, you know."

"I'm learning." Arthur pulls Merlin round to face him, eyes faint spots of white in the darkness. "Can you give us some light?"

"Would a glowing ball of blue magic-stuff be okay?"

"More than." Merlin flicks his fingers, the magic leaping to form an orb bright enough to see as if it's still daytime. Arthur is looking at him, eyes searching his face as soon as the glow hits it. Warm fingers trace feather-light over his face, looking for cuts that aren't there, trailing down his face to brush over his lips. Arthur pauses, fingers pressed so barely against Merlin's lower lip that he can only just feel it.

"You're an idiot," he says softly, eyes never leaving Merlin's, "going in there like that. If you'd died-" He can't carry that on any further, can't make that admission.

At least, not yet.

Merlin saves him further agony by pulling back enough to hand Arthur the dagger he'd miraculously managed to keep hold of. "Yet again, it's your fault that I'm alive. This came in very useful."

Arthur stares at it for a long moment, running a fingertip along the top of one of the edges. Merlin knows what has him frowning; there's no blood on it, even though Nimueh had bled freely from her wounds. He slides it back into it's sheath, shoulders relaxing.

"We should return to Camelot." He casts a look toward what was once a cave, still exuding the odd boom as the rock settles. "Is it safe to leave this as it is?"

"As safe as it ever is to leave a fresh rockfall." Arthur rolls his eyes. "If she's alive, she can't get out. Whatever power she had stored in the rocks has gone, broken with the cave. She's got no powers other than what she has inside her, and from what I could tell that wasn't much."

"Fine. We'll come back and see in daylight."

Arthur guides them to the horses, which he'd had to move further back for fear that they would bolt when the first rumbles of falling rock had begun. Merlin pauses with one hand on his saddle, looking back. "I think I know a binding spell that might lock her in there; I'll have to ask Gaius, but I'm fairly certain it'll work."

"Good," says Arthur with a grunt, swinging himself into his own saddle. "The less we see of that witch, the better."

They ride for a while, the blue light bobbing gently in front of them with just enough light to ensure they stay on the path and don't hit any trees. Merlin lets them put some distance between themselves and the cave before asking a question.

"Will you miss me being a girl?"

Arthur glances swiftly at him, then returns his gaze to the ground in front. The corners of his mouth twitch slightly as he answers. "Not especially. I prefer this you. Although," he adds with a teasing note, "you as a girl did seem to be a much better servant. I liked that."

"Is that all you liked, sire?" Even at a mild distance and while riding a horse Merlin can see the shiver that runs through Arthur at the way he says the title.

"No, and you know it."

"Oh good. Because I know a spell that'll turn me into a girl again - temporarily, thank the gods - and I thought it'd be fun to try." Merlin refrains from mentioning he's already tried it; somehow, he imagines that his childish use of the incantation to even the numbers at the May Day dance won't compare to his use of it now.

"Fun. Of course." Arthur sounds strangled, kicking his horse into a faster trot. Merlin grins, the blue light giving it a devilish look.

The ride passes in silence, Merlin leaving Arthur to his no doubt entertaining thoughts.

—-

Whatever Arthur tells his father about their late-night excursion, it involves something of what occurred with Nimueh, because the next morning Merlin is summoned to see the king.

Uther sits in his throne, the great hall ringed with clerks and petitioners hoping for him to solve various petty disputes. Merlin follows Gaius to stand by the king's side, the physician waiting for a lull in the clamour of noise to clear his throat and motion Merlin forward. Uther looks at him consideringly.

"My son has informed me of your bravery when attacked by the sorceress last night." He avoids her name, Merlin notes not for the first time and longs to know why. "I refrained from asking him what the two of you were doing out so late, and on a feast-night too; I have the feeling I would like the answer as much as I like the thought of that woman in my lands again."

Merlin swallows and hopes nothing shows on his face. Uther continues.

"I, like my son, commend your bravery in luring her into an unstable cave. Such an act has most likely rid Albion of a sincere menace, and will not go unrewarded." Merlin thinks back to the last time he was awarded for his bravery and coughs nervously.

"That's really not necessary, your majesty. I just acted as I thought best."

"And saved this kingdom in the process." Well, he can't exactly argue there, knowledge is worth any price, worth the deaths of the Pendragons and their oppressive laws. Their deaths will be the start of a new reign, the reign of magic appearing in his mind like a particularly gruesome echo. "Consider what you would like, and return when you have an answer."

He's dismissed with a wave of one regal hand, and follows Gaius back to their chambers.

Gaius seats himself behind a merrily bubbling bowl of something Merlin really doesn‘t want to know the exact ingredients of, and eyes him. "What?"

"I'm wondering what you're going to ask for."

Merlin thinks about it, absently setting the jars of potion ingredients to tidy themselves away onto the right shelves as he replaces books and clears the table of general detritus around where Gaius is working. He thinks about the dragon's predictions of a glorious destiny, thinks about the thread of reluctant respect that had crept into Nimueh's voice when she had spoken about the strength of his powers.

Then he hears the distant sound of Arthur in the courtyard below, voice raised as he drills his knights, and thinks about them, the things they've done to each other, the things they will do to each other, and the things they will achieve.

He thinks about the magic he has yet to show Arthur, what it can do, what it already does to the prince, and how much more it's going to do.

He thinks about Merlin and Arthur, and turns to smile at a waiting Gaius.

"Nothing. I've already got everything I want."

♥

Dewiniaeth - Part Four

Wed, 24 Dec 2008 01:28:51 GMT

Part One Part Two Part Three

In a show of willpower that will probably never be repeated, they keep their hands off each other for the walk to Arthur's chambers. Arthur watches Merlin out of the corner of his eye and suspects he's controlling more than just the same urges that Arthur himself is; tapestries rise in a non-existent breeze, torches flare as they hurry by, and he would swear Merlin's eyes glow gold every now and then.

Merlin pauses at the door to Arthur's room to tell a passing servant that, apparently, 'his highness won't require waking up in the morning, orders of the king.' Arthur spares a moment to admire Merlin's foresight, then wraps a hand around his wrist and yanks him into the room.

"If he saw that-"

"He'd assume what everyone else is already thinking."

Merlin lifts an eyebrow. "True. What's with you and pushing me against walls?"

"It's not a wall," Arthur points out, "it's a door. Why, are you objecting?" He pushes Merlin's legs apart slightly with his thigh, pressing in and up. Merlin's breathing quickens, eyes going wide.

"Not—not especially, but there's a perfectly good bed over there." Arthur takes a certain amount of satisfaction in making Merlin sound breathless in such a short time, but due to probably being helped along by the spell, decides he can do better.

"Are you—did you and Gar—I mean—" Where did that come from, and at such a moment?

Merlin's got some of his composure back, rolling his eyes. "We did, you prat, and it's not really polite to ask."

"I was just wondering! I don't want to hurt you, or anything. I'm not in the habit of deflowering maidens, whatever the sorceress thinks."

"I'm not a maiden in either body, thank you very much," says Merlin tartly. Arthur stares at him.

"But, the unicorn..."

"If enough people believe in a legend, it can become true. The legend of the unicorns was written by some very narrow-minded men who either didn't know or ignored the...other way of no longer being virginal."

"What—" the dawning comprehension on Arthur's makes Merlin burst into laughter, dropping his head onto Arthur's shoulder and shaking with it. "I'm not sure I like that," he hears himself say, and just like that the cloying sense of magic rises around them. It's much stronger than it was before, at the feast, and much more invasive. Arthur can feel it on his skin, sliding over him as Merlin raises his head and looks at him with eyes tinged gold.

"Is that so?" Nimueh's magic seems to have affected him more; he looks nothing like the Merlin Arthur knows and gets exasperated with. The Merlin looking back at him now, caught between the door and Arthur, is a fey thing, wild-eyed with a teasing mouth, brazen in the way he tilts forward to press himself against Arthur.

Arthur groans, and Merlin falls back onto the door with a thud. "This is what the dragon meant, isn't it, about the rest of her spell." He's battling something, obvious in the way his eyes flash gold and his hands, either holding Arthur close or keeping him a vital distance away, clench on the solid muscles of his arms.

"I imagine so. Are you alright?"

The tainted magic around them objects to this conversation, energy wasted on words when it could be used for other things. It curls over Arthur's skin with more pressure, filling his senses with a metallic smell, glimmers of something at the corner of his vision, the bits not taken up by Merlin.

Merlin who looks like everything Arthur has ever wanted, and why did it take him being turned into a girl for him to see it?

The admission gives the magic an opening, and in any other circumstances Arthur would be horrified at how easy it is for him to be caught in a spell. Not now, though, not when he's being compelled to nip and suck at the column of Merlin's neck, to make the already-fading mark he'd left there bigger and bolder, to elicit those delightful gasps from that pale throat.

Arthur frees his mouth long enough to ask: "Do you trust the dragon?" then lowers his head again, trailing his tongue over the line of faint marks he's just made. Merlin is silent, breath coming in uneven bursts. Arthur pulls back to look at him, not enough to lose any body contact, but enough to see Merlin's face.

"Do you?" Merlin's voice is shaky, his control still holding but minimal.

"Yes." Arthur sees the exact moment Merlin gives in, lets Nimueh's magic take control. His flickering eyes settle, the ring of gold the only outward sign that he's probably capable of freeing himself from Arthur's hold with a mere word. Arthur half-expects him to do this, for Nimueh to have meant for Merlin to kill him swiftly, to be stuck as a girl for ever once Arthur is dead.

Instead Merlin moves his hands to the back of Arthur's neck and pulls him in for a searing kiss, body pressed tight against his and breaking the last of Arthur's well-honed control into fragments. Crown Prince or not, there is no way he could resist the slide of Merlin's tongue against his own, or the heat of his lips.

It's every bit as intense at their kiss in the dragon's cave, except warmer and with more chance of continuing beyond.

At least, Arthur had thought there was, but Merlin is pushing him back again - with hands pressed flat against his chest this time, not magic - and moving away from the door. "What the hell?" says Arthur somewhat hoarsely, "I thought we'd got past the pushing away part."

"We have. But while I still have a say in the matter, I'd rather not do this against a wall." He pauses, eyes flicking over Arthur's body in a way he'd be willing to give pretty much anything for the proper Merlin to do. "At least, not the first time."

"Oh. Good."

Merlin grins and steps out of reach as Arthur makes a grab for him, skirts swirling but somehow not tripping over them. Arthur growls, which only makes Merlin grin even more, and applies diversionary tactics. Namely, he feints going one way, changes direction swiftly, and gets Merlin pinned against one of the posts on his bed.

Why that should be a catalyst, as compared to what else they've been doing Arthur can't and doesn't care to understand, but it is, and he finds himself divested of coat, tunic and skirt in very quick succession, Merlin's fingers like brands as they flick over fastenings and slide the clothing off.

Arthur turn Merlin round, kisses the back of his neck just to hear another delightful gasp and see the way he grasps tightly at the bedpost. The laces keeping the dress tight on Merlin's body are a nuisance, keeping Arthur from skin, and he works at getting them undone.

At least, he tries to.

Merlin gasps and laughs, twisting his arm back so he can stop Arthur. "That's the wrong way, you idiot. How have you ever bedded a woman if you can't get her dress off?"

"They usually did it themselves" Arthur says, then sucks in air as Merlin's hand returns to hold the bedpost and the laces start coming undone, revealing the line of Merlin's spine with tantalising slowness. He swallows hard at the knowledge that Merlin has been bare underneath his dress the entire night. Merlin's back is tantalisingly pale, broken only by a few long healed scars that Arthur makes sure to pay attention to as he sinks to his knees.

Merlin groans as Arthur kiss the curve at the base of his spine, hands solid and hot on his hips as he gets turned around and pressed back against the post again. Arthur looks up at him, arousal gliding through his blood, renewing his grip on those tempting hips. Merlin's smile has a twist to it that makes a curl of something darker makes itself known the pit of Arthur's stomach.

"Well well, look at this. The Prince of Camelot on his knees." It's not Merlin's voice, but it's not Nimueh's either. It's what Merlin could become, given time and the freedom to be the sorcerer Arthur knows he has the potential to be. Even with the feminine tone it's powerful and more than a little possessive.

It turns the arousal to burning lust, Merlin's eyes reflecting the animalistic need Arthur knows is showing in his own. He pulls sharply on the fabric of Merlin's dress and watches it pool to the floor, letting his gaze slide up, up, up to where Merlin is still looking down at him with that mocking expression.

Neither of them remember much after that. The night dissolves into a dizzy haze of sweat, sounds and skin, all bound together by the sweep of magic. They can feel it in the very atmosphere around them every time they pull in much needed air, but more than that Merlin can feel it tangling around the sensations Arthur wrings from him, body arching and moving almost without his consent, and Arthur can feel it sparking from Merlin's fingers where they clutch at his back.

Nimueh knows her magic; Merlin speaks nonsense words, harsh guttural syllables that Arthur cannot understand but nevertheless fears, reacts to them the same way he reacts to everything that he fears: he conquers. Catches Merlin's wrists and presses them above his head, bites his way down Merlin's neck to reach high, flushed peaks that beg for attention from his mouth.

Merlin groans, the words meant to kill spilling from his mouth and getting caught in the dragon's web of old magic. Arthur's tongue slides lower and lower to touch against what is apparently a vitally sensitive part of the female anatomy, wringing a sobbing cry from Merlin and making the words glow with the fire of a dozen torches.

Light and heat is mostly what they will remember; words that bind instead of kill, glimpses of the way Merlin's legs curled around Arthur's waist to the sound of an ornament breaking, the way Merlin's magic had slid over them like liquid metal and replaced blood with fire as they moved together.

Deep below the castle the dragon senses the swirl and roar of magic being allowed to race wild between two people who really should've got a clue before now, and rests his head on his claws contentedly.

Then lifts it again in irritation. Consummating the Bond between two Souls Intertwined by Destiny is all well and good, but this many times?

Anyone would think they actually like each other.

——

Arthur wakes to the dim dawn light, the sound of birds, and the uneasy feeling of someone who has been exposed to a lot of magic and wasn't quite ready for it. He props himself up to look at Merlin's disgrace of a bedhead, and thinks, I wasn‘t quite ready for you either.

Because it's such a nice morning, and because he's still a bit of a prat, he pokes Merlin awake.

Merlin says "nngrmph?" and turns over, rubbing his eyes in a way anyone not the dignified Crown Prince would think adorable. "You, and by that I mean we, are not meant to be awake this early," he complains, pushing himself into a sitting position. Arthur blinks.

"And you're not meant to be a girl." Then: "Is that my nightshirt?"

"I got cold," he replies through a yawn. "What do you mean, not a-" Merlin looks down. Arthur looks with him, and probably appreciates the sight a whole lot more. As good as Merlin had looked in the dress last night (Arthur must remember to thank Gwen for that, because there is no way Merlin had picked it for himself), and as even better he'd looked out of the dress, Merlin first thing in the morning might be Arthur's favourite.

Might have been for some time, actually, although not quite like this.

The plain cotton nightshirt clings and hints in all the right places, the curves of Merlin's still-female body highlighted in silhouette by the fire impossibly still warming his chambers. It's an entirely glorious sight, and it makes Arthur's mouth water.

This, of course, leads to Arthur silencing Merlin's rant about blasted sorceress' who can't get even one spell right, and isn't it time he was allowed the easy way out for once? by kissing him senseless and sliding down between his legs to repeat the application of his tongue to certain soft folds and that deliciously responsive nub that had made Merlin tense and scream, and possibly make the walls of the room shake.

Only after Merlin recovers from nearly blacking out, returns the favour to Arthur with similar results, and they kiss until both feel lightheaded does Arthur answer Merlin's broken-off question. "Yes, you're still a girl."

Merlin hits him.

Arthur really regrets teaching him how to do that.

"I'd- oh, gods, no." Whatever Merlin was about to say is lost as his face contorts in pain, body curling inwards. Arthur leans over him in sudden fear, remembering a time like this not so long ago.

"Merlin?"

"It's the spell, it's—oh gods, it hurts." Merlin shakes- no, shudders, his whole body wracked with spasms accompanied by pained whimpers. They aren't sounds Arthur ever wants Merlin to make while in his bed - or anywhere else, for that matter. He reaches out to touch Merlin's shoulder but jerks his hand back in shock.

Merlin's skin is... well, burning, but not the right kind of burning. It's more like an ice burn, the sort Arthur gets when he isn't careful with his armour in the winter and lets it touch bare skin for too long. It's white-hot and, honestly, terrifying. Arthur pulls the bedcovers over Merlin, watches his eyelids flicker as he fights whatever this is.

No. Not whatever. Nimueh's spell, it has to be. "I'll get Gaius," he says, and tries not to notice how shaky his voice is. A Prince does not lose his calm, especially not over a servant-

"Like that's bothered you before." Merlin sounds raspy and far too quiet, but as insubordinate as ever. Arthur smiles tightly. "Don't get Gaius; he'd only worry, and he can't—he can't do anything."

"Is this her doing?"

"Yes." Merlin twists and arches, breathing going shallow as his already pale skin slowly goes dead white. "I think the dragon's spell delayed it, or is drawing the change out."

"What can I do?" Arthur has the suspicion that short of finding Nimueh and demanding she turn Merlin back to how he's supposed to be faster (in which case she's likely to take advantage and kill him herself), he won't be able to do anything. It's not a comforting thought.

"You could get the hell out," answers Merlin, who now appears to be glowing. Honestly, glowing. And- wait, what?

Arthur stares down at him, more than a little disturbed by how much he wants to touch but setting that aside for another, more opportune time. "If you think I'm leaving then you've clearly forgotten how attached I've become to you. Which is ridiculous, because you're an idiot and a buffoon and the worst manservant I've ever had."

"Arthur." Merlin's voice is soft but steady, the latticework of magic visible under his skin only serving to make Arthur want to reach out again. He may have a little bit of a thing for magic, or for Merlin's magic, both of which are thoughts he sets aside. "This could be dangerous."

"I don‘t care," replies Arthur fiercely.

"But I do."

"Clearly you've also forgotten how stubborn I am." He risks touching Merlin's cotton clad shoulder, bites his lip at the coldness emanating from it. "I'm staying, and I'm the Prince here, so you can't argue."

"Wouldn't dream of it" is the last thing Merlin says for quite some time, coherent words abandoned in favour of pathetic cries and gasping syllables that make the hairs on the back of Arthur's neck stand on end. Merlin's hands clench in the sheets, knuckles as white as his face as he battles whatever the spell is doing to him. Arthur can see it happening, can hear it, but cannot do anything to stop it.

He hates it.

Hates that this is happening to Merlin, who's never done anything other than help and protect him, who would seemingly have rather stayed a girl for the rest of his life than risk that Arthur would do as Nimueh predicted, who has been around for so long but never received the attention he deserves from Arthur.

Arthur has to force himself not to run and get Gaius, tells himself that Merlin is right not to worry the physician with something he can't fix. He settles down next to Merlin, lying alongside but not touching, tries to squash the urge to go and hit something, anything, even the wall as Merlin starts trembling.

"T-this is going to take a w-w-while," he gasps out, eyes once again gold-rimmed as he turns just enough to look at Arthur. "It's not meant" gasp "to be a pleas-" gasp "pleasant process."

"I am not-"

"Arthur." Arthur shuts up, because somewhere along the line he actually started listening to Merlin. "If you stay you'll only" gasp "get angry, and when you get an-" gasp "angry it never goes well for me."

"So, what, I'm just supposed to leave you here?" His voice doesn't break, it doesn‘t.

"For your own safety, yes."

"Merlin, I seriously doubt you could do anything to harm me." Arthur tries to sound as derisive as he usually does when saying something of that sort, and mostly succeeds. It's comforting, in a way.

"I'm holding back more magic than Uther has ever destroyed; do you really want to test me?" Merlin sounds stronger, angrier, like he had the previous night when looking at Arthur down on his knees. For a moment, a bare moment, his eyes flare fully gold and the stones of Camelot shake. Then his eyes squeeze shut, body tensing as he fights the lingering effects of Nimueh's magic.

Arthur lets out a heavy breath, wanting to argue but knowing his decision is made for him. He tucks a sweat damp strand of Merlin's girl-hair behind his ear, careful not to touch skin, and slides off the bed. The lack of comments about his laziness while he dresses makes something in his chest, already perilously tight, twist even further.

A glance at Merlin as he shrugs into his coat makes him stop. The web of magic has expanded, Merlin lying lax in the middle of it, like he can't fight any more. Arthur is by his side in an instant; he knows desperation is in his eyes, knows it because he feels as he did after Merlin drank the poison and Gaius told him in a gentle voice why Uther had looked at him that way.

Merlin opens his eyes, the gold almost painfully bright. "Go, you prat. Train, yell at your knights. Take Lord Kynan hunting and accidentally shoot him."

"That last had better only be a suggestion." Merlin smiles, barely.

"Well, he was very persistent. And he did keep touching me."

"Consider him dead." Arthur tells himself he doesn't sound jealous, and doesn't look like a lovestruck fool worrying over his beloved. Yet again he's only partially successful. Merlin's smile grows, but becomes a grimace as the glow flares. It touches Arthur's hand where he rests it slightly too close to Merlin, and he stares at the vivid mark.

"I'll make sure no one can get in, don't worry."

Arthur finds himself propelled towards the door, and cannot, no matter how hard he searches in his head for the rest of the day, find it in himself to ever want to betray Merlin's magic. The door shuts firmly behind him and he sags back against it, hands braced to keep himself upright.

This must be part of the spell, he thinks, must be part of Nimueh's spell that has also been delayed, this feeling in his chest that makes him want to tear into shreds anyone else who dares touch Merlin; Kynan and Gareth and Nimueh.

Then he remembers the poison, and Ealdor, and stops on his way to pick a weapon with which to beat his knights.

Oh.

Arthur might not like being a fool, but he's starting to understand that for Merlin he'll be just about anything.

—-

Merlin wakes up with the feeling of being jolted back in time, because he feels exactly as he did all that time ago when he'd sat in front of Gaius and had to put up with an interrogation when he was feeling rather less than his best. He aches all over, skin feeling like it's stretched too tightly over his slightly different body.

Arthur's bed is a much better place to stretch out and try to get rid of some of the tension making him wince than his own would be, and Merlin takes full advantage. By the shadows on the wall the sun has just moved past midday, which means Arthur won't be back for quite a while yet; still sleepy and more than a little disorientated, Merlin follows a curious thread of his magic to Arthur and through it watches Arthur point the hunting party into the forest.

Merlin smiles as Arthur glares at the back of Lord Kynan's head, who looks none too happy about being flanked by several of Camelot's knights. Then the vision vanishes as Merlin wakes up properly and remembers he shouldn't be able to do that.

"Fantastic." He untangles the sheets from where his pained twisting had wrapped them around his body, then stands.

And immediately stumbles as he tries to walk briskly towards the door, conveniently forgetting he's dressed only in one of Arthur's nightshirts. Clearly he's going to have to relearn the equilibrium of his old body before he can go anywhere.

—-

When Merlin does manage to regain his balance, and puts on actual clothes (his own; a summoning spell was necessary, and about the limit of what control he has right now, but it had worked) he makes his way down to the cave, thankful that most of the servants are either clearing up after last night's feast or preparing for the third and final one tonight.

"Hello?" he calls out into the cavernous space. "I wanted to thank you for what you did last night." The clanking of the chain and flap of leathery wings precedes the dragon as he emerges from the gloom, settling onto his customary rock and eyeing Merlin.

"Ensuring the Destiny of the young Pendragon and yourself, so that you both continue on the Path that Fate has—"

"Okay, yes, I know. Would it kill you to accept my thanks without capitalising anything?"

The dragon scrapes his claws over the rock with what would be irritation in a human, but looks like an imminent sign of fire breathing and roaring in a dragon. "When you're chained into a cave underneath a castle by a fool of a king, see how much you can think of to keep yourself occupied."

Merlin's never thought about it like that before. The dragon nods, following his thought with an ease born of many interactions. "Young warlock, you have much to learn."

"All I'm concerned with right now is learning this body." He props the burning torch against the wall and drops down to sit cross-legged at the edge of the ledge, trying not to think about the way he's sore where there isn't a place to be sore anymore.

"Show me your magic," the dragon rumbles, making the dragon equivalent of a chuckle when Merlin blanches and stares. "I can aid you in this, if you are willing to listen and not shout when something is not immediately clear."

And that's how Merlin spends his first day back as a guy, actually listening to the dragon and taking the time to work out what he means when he says stuff like 'let the sound of the Earth guide you' or 'Destiny is a web into which you are woven.'

Merlin's really starting to be concerned about how unflappable he is.

—-
Gaius is not expecting Arthur to crash through the door to his workroom as the light fades from the sky.

He is not expecting Arthur to stride past him without so much as a nod to fling open the door to Merlin's small room.

And he most certainly isn't expecting Arthur to stride back to stand in front of him, place one hand on his hip and the other on the hilt of his sword and ask, very quietly (and therefore very dangerously): "I checked my chambers, and he was gone. Where is he?"

Gaius considers asking 'who', but decides he likes life without any injuries. "Am I to understand that he spent the night with you?" It does not, however, prevent him from being curious.

"Yes," answers Arthur tightly, "and as you can see, I'm alive. Merlin, on the other hand-"

"Is alive and well and back as he should be." Arthur turns sharply, hand not leaving his sword. Gaius peers over his shoulder and sees a Merlin he's not seen... well, ever, truly. He's pretty sure the Merlin before Nimueh's blasted spell had never leant against the doorframe with such a provocative air, nor smiled with such a predatory twist.

Gaius is reminded, somewhat perplexingly, of Arthur.

"Where did you go?" The prince's back is facing him, but his tone is enough to tell Gaius all he needs to know. Anger, annoyance and worry blend seamlessly into a hot possessiveness that should make Gaius feel uncomfortable, and should definitely make Merlin uncomfortable and bemused, like every other thing Arthur does always seems to.

It does neither.

It makes several things fall into place for Gaius, and it makes Merlin's grin just a little sharper. He knows what's going on, that much is obvious, and the tilt of his hips as he pushes away from the doorframe only encourages it. Arthur takes a step forward, making Gaius think he should vacate swiftly for the sake of his poor old eyes - and then, with one of her customary flourishes, Morgana interrupts.

"Gaius, have you- oh, Arthur, there you are." She appears oblivious to the tension between the two boys; Gaius reconsiders the strength of her gifts. "Uther wants to see you, about the business with Lord Kynan."

She's gone in a flash of silks, and Merlin lifts an eyebrow. "You didn't really kill him, did you?"

"Like I'd waste a spear on him." Gaius is glad to see Arthur keeps his hands to himself as he passes Merlin on his way out. "You're to come with me, obviously."

"Obviously, sire."

The honorific has probably never sounded so dirty.

—-

"In light of your conduct this afternoon, my lord, I can say without doubt that you are much reduced in my estimation." Uther is in full regal mode, lips pressed tightly together and holding court like only he can. "I am not entirely certain that Camelot wishes to make treaties with someone who has so little honour."

Arthur leans against his favourite pillar and hopes that Merlin doesn't step near to ask what the hell is going on. That he doesn't is fairly worrying in itself; it means he's most likely guessed, and is saving his comments for when he can safely call Arthur prat and get away with it. Arthur attempts to focus on what his father is saying and ignores Merlin, just visible in his peripheral vision.

This becomes a lot more difficult when Merlin moves, now entirely visible and entirely too tempting for Arthur's self-control. He's in his old- no, his normal clothes, the customary scarf making Arthur long to find out if Merlin's neck still bears the wide bruise he'd taken such pleasure in putting there. Uther condemns (in a non 'this will lead to pain' way) Lord Kynan, and Merlin folds his hands behind his back, his fingers laced through each other.

Arthur swallows heavily at the remembrance of those fingers on his skin, and hastily looks away. Now is not the time to remember what those long, clever fingers can do, except it really is, because Merlin shifts to wrap those selfsame fingers around his wrists, holding them exactly as Arthur had last night, and it's- Uther just called his name.

Arthur wrenches his mind away from Merlin and looks up - to meet Merlin's innocent gaze. Blue eyes meet clear brown, and Uther beckons him forward. "Yes, father?"

"I am right in saying that the maid in question has left Camelot?" No, Arthur wants to say, she‘s still here, just not, and is licking her lips in an attempt to destroy my sanity.

"Yes," he says instead, resolving to punish Merlin most severely for this. At that thought a memory of Merlin on the ledge in the dragon's cave returns to him, wrists held out for the shackles. It makes his blood heat and start to travel lower, and Merlin knows because his eyes darken and his smile turns just a little sharper.

Apparently that's all his father wanted; Uther's moved on to verbally tear Lord Kynan into pieces, and literally tear the treaty up. Arthur spares a brief thought for Ceridwen but carefully doesn't look her way; marriageable age or not, she's nowhere near ready to catch what he knows must be in his eyes right now.

He turns it on Merlin instead, and gets a very satisfactory widening of the warlock's (oh, how that sends a shiver up his spine) eyes.

"We shall meet again to discuss a treaty when you have learnt civility and respect for the customs of my land; treating a serving girl, especially that of Prince Arthur, as a common whore is not tolerated, and neither is starting a brawl with my son in the middle of a hunting foray. Take your knights and leave; we shall meet again in one year."

"Your majesty." Arthur takes probably too much enjoyment of knowing Lord Kynan can't bow properly because he landed a particularly vicious blow to the lord's ribcage, and that the black eye won't go down for at least two weeks - plenty of time for him to be back in his own estates, and for all to see the results of his diplomatic mission.

"The mercenaries stay." Uther's voice is like a whipcrack. Lord Kynan doesn't bother protesting, simply cuts a look of hatred in Arthur's direction as he gestures for the men to remain in the hall as he and his retinue of bound knights exit.

Uther stands, signalling an end to the meeting as he nods for his clerk to see to the mercenaries. They troop out as one body, and Arthur can't help but look at them with the eyes of a man who will have to train them into a proper fighting force.

"Merlin." Uther's voice snaps him back, makes him automatically stand straighter even though he isn't being addressed. Merlin steps closer and waits, close enough to Arthur that he can look like a deferential servant but still drive Arthur mad with the heat of his body. "I trust all is well in Ealdor?"

Merlin nearly laughs at the repetition. "Yes, your majesty."

"And your cousin? I notice you are here and she is not."

"She left early this afternoon, your majesty; I returned late this morning. No sense in wasting daylight, after all."

Arthur bites down on his laughter. For all Merlin claims he can't lie, he sure knows how to edit the truth when he wants to. Uther nods, something approaching a smile on his face. "I must say, it is good to see you back here. For one thing it's more appropriate a situation for my son" they both bite down on laughter at that, "and for another life seems to be more... interesting when you're around, Merlin."

"Of course, your majesty." Merlin grins and bows in a way he never bothers to for Arthur. He prays that's it, that he can finally drag Merlin off somewhere and make sure that this Merlin is truly as well as he claims he is.

Either his father can read his mind and wants him to never have any pleasure, or he's utterly oblivious to the tension between them.

On second thoughts, Arthur hopes it's the latter.

"Good. Now, Arthur, you should prepare for the feast."

"You're going ahead with it?"

Uther looks up from the papers that he has returned to, frowning slightly. "Of course. It's a harvest celebration, regardless of whether Lord Kynan is here or not."

"Right, of course."

—-
If he'd thought the previous night's feast was bad, then this one is excruciating. They hadn't spoken at all when getting Arthur ready by unspoken assent; for his part, Arthur knows that if Merlin had said anything he would've been flat against the nearest wall (yes, okay, he has a thing about doing that), and they never would have made it to the feast.

It's almost mocking in it's repetitiveness. He sits through toast after toast from visiting nobles that haven't been disgraced, listens to interminably boring conversations with ladies he wishes would stop flirting and grow old gracefully, dances with a quietly smug Morgana - who still hasn't asked for her favour, worryingly - and sits through yet more conversations with court maidens who pale in comparison to the boy talking with Gwen at the other end of the room.

Arthur circles round as soon as is polite, stepping behind Merlin and relishing the shiver that runs through him when Arthur speaks. "Does this all seem a little..."

"Samey?"

"I was going to say repetitive, but why use a long word when you can make one up." Merlin grins, turning under the pretext of offering him a goblet of wine. His eyes offer something different, though, and Arthur fights down his rising arousal.

"Arthur." Uther can still move as quietly as a hunter when he needs to, which seems to amount to when he wants to interrupt a moment rapidly falling into the nearest gutter. "You can leave if you want to, you've done your duty."

Arthur doesn't bother with a show of deference; Uther's eyes have passed over them, his sharp mind seeing and understanding what they've only just begun to piece together. His dismissal is more than a release for the Prince; it's his approval for the boy.

Arthur waits for any further words, suppresses a completely undignified shout of victory (that's not stupid, no matter what Merlin thinks) when his father turns away to talk to some other noble. His pace is fast but not hurried as he makes his way to his chambers, Merlin matching him step for step.

Merlin doesn't bother complaining about being pressed against the door this time, letting Arthur pin him with hips and strong hands, lips and teeth clashing. It's not the same as before, last night and that morning, and it takes Arthur's breath away. Well, what little he has left from their kisses, that is.

"You don't have to be careful, you know," says Merlin breathlessly, "I'm fine."

Arthur pulls back from where he was pressing kisses against Merlin's (stronger) jaw and looks at him. "You were a girl this morning."

"And now I'm not. Funny how magic works, isn't it." He tilts his hips, presses forward a little, and ohhh, Arthur definitely wants to explore this Merlin as much as he had the other one. He resists pushing back like he wants to, sticks with rolling his hips a little and watching Merlin's eyes go glassy.

"You still might be-"

"Arthur. I am not a girl. Again. And I'm not fragile; I'm not going to sodding break."

"But-" Why, why, why is he arguing? Merlin may have been right about his noble moments.

"If you don't fuck me, or do something equally good, then I will find someone who will. Sir Gawain might-" Arthur knows Merlin knows what he's doing, playing on Arthur's newly discovered (or at least newly accepted) possessiveness, and shuts him up with a hard kiss before he makes it any worse. Merlin gives as good as he gets, matching Arthur's force with enough of his own that Arthur automatically shoves him just a little harder against the damn door.

Merlin makes a small sound into Arthur's mouth, hands tightening almost to the point of pain in his hair, and Arthur breaks away, panting. Merlin looks thoroughly debauched, (flat) chest heaving as he tries to move his hips. Arthur glances down, unable to help himself.

Merlin is most definitely male again, and Arthur has his hips pushed hard against the wood with an iron grip formed from being trained to kill since birth. He looks up to see Merlin watching him with an almost hungry expression.

Arthur smirks. "You're not getting me on my knees again." Total lie, and Merlin knows it.

"Is that so?" Merlin shifts, hooks his foot behind Arthur's leg, and he really should've seen that one coming as he stumbles forward to end up pressed against Merlin from chest to toe, the most wonderful friction building as Merlin gently moves his hips. "I think you could be persuaded."

He really can be.

Clothes literally remove themselves from his body, and holy gods he's going to have to get Merlin to do a lot of magic in front of him, because if they're ever in a combat situation and he sees those eyes flickering gold, well. He definitely won't be concentrating on the right things, that's for sure.

Merlin walks him backwards while he's still lost in the shimmer of magic, back until Arthur's knees hit the edge of the bed and he ends up on his back with a lapful of Merlin. "This is possibly the best feast I've ever been to."

Merlin quirks an eyebrow, utters syllables that make it impossible for Arthur to keep thinking straight as he's pulled until his head hits the pillows, body stretched out and feeling like he's on display. Which he is, in a way; Merlin crawls until he's braced over Arthur, eyes hot and dark as they take in the view.

"Why," asks Arthur lowly, pulling Merlin close by the simple method of a hand behind his neck, "are you still dressed? I'm sure it's a crime to be dressed while I'm not."

"Is that so?" Merlin leans down for the briefest of kisses, palm improbably cool against Arthur's cheek. The rustle of coarse cloth and the startling sensation of rough friction against certain... sensitive parts of Arthur makes him gasp sharply. Merlin sniggers. "What, you don't like it?"

"You, besides being a shite servant, are a bloody tease," accuses Arthur, the words lifting into breathlessness at the end as Merlin's hand wraps around his cock. Cool fingers on hot skin feels so wonderful Arthur can't see for a moment, vision going white as his eyes roll back. Merlin's hand is slow and teasing, as if Arthur expected anything else after saying that, and it makes him drag Merlin down for a kiss so he doesn't give in to the begging words gathering at the back of his throat.

Merlin grins against his mouth, takes his hand away and trails his fingers up to flick over Arthur's nipples, as talented as he'd been before but more sure of himself. Arthur forces his eyes open, and stares in unashamed possessiveness at the sight in front of him.

Pale skin covering lean muscles that he takes a private pride in, because without Arthur forcing Merlin to train he wouldn't have this whipcord strength to him that allows him to resist, even for a moment, the hands Arthur wraps around his upper arms to drag him down. They lie flush against each other, time and their kisses slowing down as they learn this with a slightly different way of fitting together.

Arthur grins at the canopy of his bed as a thought strikes him, Merlin intent on wringing shivers and moans from him by biting his way along Arthur's collarbones. He gathers enough of his mind together to ask: "So, I could order you to do your chores without magic now, right?"

Merlin does something with his hips that makes Arthur's vision go blurry at the edges, and sits back. "You could. But why," he asks, eyes flashing gold, "would you want to when magic has so many uses?"

Arthur is not surprised when he tries to sit up and can't. "You consider me a chore?" he asks instead of struggling. Merlin doesn't reply, simply tilts his head and bites his lip. "Merlin, come on, let me up."

"But this is so much more fun."

"I am ordering you to let me go, and as I'm the prince and not you, you have to obey." It's never worked before, never has done, and doesn't work now. Merlin slides down the bed, propping himself between Arthur's legs, arms resting along his thighs and hands tight on Arthur's hips. Arthur does not whimper, because that would be undignified.

"And you're in a position to be giving orders, are you?" Arthur never gets a chance to answer, because Merlin's mouth is on his cock, hot and wet and Arthur is going to kill whoever taught Merlin how to do this because it's not fair that someone got to feel it first, got Merlin first.

Merlin slides his mouth off with an obscene noise. "Stop working out how to kill whoever taught me this." There's an edge to his voice that Arthur simultaneously wants to hear over and over, and never wants to hear again, because it tells him that the person is already dead. Merlin's luscious mouth closes over him again, and the feeling of his throat as he takes Arthur's cock all the way in is almost enough to make the prince damn near sob.

It's wonderful and perfect and everything Arthur needs after being wound so tightly by Merlin through the feast, but then Merlin stops. A modicum of coherency returns to Arthur as Merlin crawls back up to kneel over him, so close but not quite touching.

"You've stopped," says Arthur accusingly. Merlin's grin is wicked as he tilts his head questioningly.

"I'm sorry, sire," he draws the word out. Arthur shivers. "I thought, maybe, you'd like to try the request I made earlier."

Arthur struggles to remember, but it's in vain. He glares wordlessly at Merlin, still a teasing distance away. At least, he is until he moves a leg between Arthur's and presses up. Arthur's groan is choked off as Merlin leans down to whisper in his ear: "I told you to fuck me."

Whether by design or by virtue of feeling as overwhelmed as Arthur does, as he speaks the words Merlin releases the hold his magic has on Arthur - who blesses his reflexes as they allow him to have Merlin on his back within seconds of being able to move again.

"This feels familiar." Arthur grins down at Merlin, twisting his hips to watch Merlin flush and feel him shudder.

There's something to be said for a straightforward approach; Merlin's eyes spark gold and a pot of oil Arthur forgets the original use of lifts itself from its place and hovers insistently by Merlin's shoulder. Arthur raises an eyebrow as he pushes Merlin's legs apart, reaching for the pot which has helpfully removed its lid.

"I'm probably," gasps Merlin as Arthur's finger press against and into him, "the only person who can compare—more, please, more," his mouth opens wide in a silent cry as Arthur pushes another finger in, staring down at Merlin with a hot possessiveness in his eyes that's only been fueled by the display of magic, "what you're like when bedding a man and a woman" Arthur tries for three fingers and growls at the implications when Merlin takes them easily, biting sharply at his collarbone, "from firsthand experience, Arthur please."

It goes like so many other situations of this sort have gone before; Merlin takes Arthur's hard thrusts with a sharp gasp and long fingers pressing against Arthur's back, keeping him close for burning kisses. He encourages Arthur with rough words, only some of which are understandable and some of which add to the thickening atmosphere of magic around them.

Arthur lifts his head from nipping at Merlin's neck long enough to ask "you're not going to set the bed on fire, are you?" in a strained voice. Merlin doesn't answer him directly, whispers a spell that takes what he's feeling and loops it to Arthur, a useful spell on its own but right now...it's priceless.

The magic, and accompanying flash in Merlin's eyes, makes Arthur groan and pull Merlin's legs higher around his hips, one hand left to support him as the other slide between them to firmly slide his hand along Merlin's dick and send him shuddering over the edge that Arthur can see looming.

Merlin's hands stay tight on his back as his hips stutter and he loses the rhythm, heedless of causing pain as he bites down on Merlin's shoulder to muffle the hoarse scream lodged in his throat. Merlin speaks, another spell or nonsense words, Arthur doesn‘t care, but it tips him over and sends him into blinding ecstasy.

He feels far too many hands tilt him to one side as he shakily lowers himself down, and Arthur dredges up a shiver at yet another flash of gold in the corner of his rapidly blurring vision. Merlin makes a small sound of satiation and contentment when Arthur drapes himself over him, wrapping himself around Merlin.

Merlin relishes the blissful feeling of being absolutely fucked out and follows Arthur into sleep; there'll be time for talk in the morning.

Later in the morning, if the last time they did this was any indication.

—-

Part Five

Dewiniaeth - Part Three

Wed, 24 Dec 2008 01:20:24 GMT

Part One Part Two

The duel is set for the morning of the Harvest Festival, Uther allowing the public to watch instead of limiting it to the knights and various noblemen currently in residence. Gaius and Merlin sit up until the small hours of the morning working out how to break Nimueh's spell, testing the words of power on bowls Gaius no longer has a use for.

By the time the sun casts its clear light over Camelot, there's a heap of bowl fragments littering Gaius' workbench and Merlin has what feels like a swarm of butterflies wreaking havoc on his insides. Everything's going so well, so smoothly, that something is bound to go wrong. It did before, with the stupid scar and Arthur dredging up some observational skills from somewhere, and Merlin can't help being pessimistic.

The threat of execution if he gets caught tends to do that to him.

"Hurry hurry hurry!" Gwen sounds, if possible even more nervous than Merlin, her hands clutching fitfully at her skirt as they practically jog to Sir Owain's quarters. "Llew will keep him occupied in the armoury once he's fitted his armour, and stop him coming back up here for anything, so we should be okay, but for goodness sake hurry."

"Gwen, I know," says Merlin through gritted teeth. Opening the door is harder than last time, his nerves making it difficult to keep hold of his magic. With a force of effort the lock clicks, and he stumbles across to the cupboard before he's truly upright, hampered by his skirts. Gwen stands just inside the door, bouncing on her toes with nervous energy as she keeps watch.

The bowl is right where it should be, although the water level has gone down; it's been used recently. Merlin wonders what Owain had told Nimueh, or what the sorceress had asked the knight, but lets go of the thought in favour of concentrating at the job in hand. He moves the bowl to the table, pulling a face at the feel of the dark magic imbued in the stone.

Giving off a faintly malevolent air, the object resists Merlin's first attempts at touching it with his magic. He frowns and tries to ignore Gwen, still bouncing. This is turning out to be more difficult than he'd imagined, or planned for. There's another layer of spells on top of the ones which make the bowl into a scrying charm, that aren't affected by any of the words he's learnt to destroy the thing.

Resting his chin on the table, so his eyes are level with the bowl, Merlin concentrates and focuses his magic. It resists, but then—

Oh. That's new.

"Gwen, this is some pretty clever magic."

She doesn't look round, just answers, voice tense. "As in, clever but you've got rid of it and just forgot to use the past tense?"

"As in, Sir Owain didn't even have to be here for Nimueh to speak with him. She spelled the bowl to record her messages, like words on parchment, and then to reveal themselves to him when he spoke the words of power she gave him."

"That's all well and good, but get rid of it?!"

"Okay, okay, destroying!" Merlin grins, unable to help himself, because it really is an amazing work of magic. It's almost a shame to get rid of it, but...

He pulls together the words he thinks will unravel the first layer of spells and speaks them, hoping nothing dramatic will happen. The last thing they need is an explosion of magic that'll have half of Camelot... Merlin leans back sharply as Nimueh's image appears, looking just as Merlin remembers her.

He's too shocked to hear all of the message, but catches something about a reward, and Sir Owain's 'rightful place', probably a reference to the knight's well-known resentment of being fourth in line to the family estates.

"She bribed him." Merlin stares at Nimueh's smiling, manipulative face and feels the magic surge to the tip of his tongue. A few guttural words and a sharp gesture later the bowl is a pile of shards, scattered over the tabletop while the liquid filling it holds form for a moment then vanishes like smoke.

Gwen says nothing as they slip out of the room and down towards the hastily constructed duelling ring. She knows how corrupt the court is, how often money changes hands for favours small and large. This goes beyond that; taking aside Merlin's condition, Sir Owain was aiding a sorceress, a known enemy.

The combatants are about to start when Merlin and Gwen enter, facing Uther and saluting with upraised swords. Merlin curtseys and takes the seat reserved for him as the defended (oh how Morgana teased him last night about all this), hands clenching as he takes in Arthur's blank expression.

Gwen mistakes his action for anxiety, and leans over. "He'll win, don't worry. Arthur's the best knight in Camelot."

"I know," Merlin whispers back, "I just feel guilty for getting him into this without even knowing what's going on. He'd probably have helped anyway."

"We can explain after this is done, if you want?"

"I'll have to, if Gaius can't find anything." He sounds hollow to his own ears, flinching as Arthur and Owain begin with a clash of swords. Arthur's carefully controlled mask falls as he attacks, anger now evident in the set of his jaw, the way his strikes are barely within the limits of a formal duel, the way he gives absolutely no quarter.

This goes beyond a simple duel for a woman's honour, Merlin realises.

It's not a happy thought.

Sir Owain stumbles under the speed of the sword wielded against him, manages to right himself and parry Arthur's next jab with a cut of his own. It's to no end; he's already lost and he knows it, now simply trying to survive. Arthur's next stroke is vicious, an uppercut that disarms his opponent and sends Owain's sword spinning away as Arthur's foot deftly hooks around his ankle and drops him neatly to the floor.

Arthur is taut with anger as he once again levels his weapon at Owain's throat, shaking with the obvious and barely suppressed desire to run the knight through there and then. Uther stands and proclaims the terms of the duel for those watching, which happens to be most of Camelot, plus the majority of those visiting for the festival.

Owain lost, and he pays the price of exile.

Not out of the kingdom; a servant's honour, or even that of all the women affected by him is not worth banishing him from Albion. Just from Camelot, a forced return to the estates he has no hope of ever commanding, and Merlin has never been happier to see a man punished. Morgana calls to Gwen and 'Mary', eyes understanding as the three of them wind their way between the throngs of people and back to the castle.

Arthur catches up with them as they mount the steps, still in his armour, sword barely sliding back into it's sheath as he appears in front of them. "Morgana, if I may borrow my maid from you?"

"Come now Arthur, it's a feast day. Surely you can manage by yourself for once?" Her voice is light and teasing; either Morgana hasn't seen the signs of Arthur's impending anger, or she's choosing to ignore them. Merlin steps forward to Arthur's side as the prince speaks again, not sparing a glance for his 'maid.'

"Morgana, do not test me," he says, voice curt. He turns and strides into the entrance hall, back stiff. Merlin glances at Gwen and receives a reassuring nod before hurrying after Arthur, trying desperately to figure out what the hell to say.

Blinding pain forces him to fumble at the wall for support as Arthur turns a corner ahead, angry footsteps carrying him along quickly. Merlin's head feels as if it's about to split in half, his vision swimming as a voice fills his mind. He recognises it through the horrible feeling of a magic not his own crawling over his skin as Nimueh's.

"You disappoint me, young Emrys. You've convinced him to do everything else for you, why not this?" Merlin grits his teeth and says nothing, aware that somehow she would hear. "You have left me with no choice, through your stubbornness." As in the forest those long months ago, Merlin is left with her laughter as the pain slowly fades. One thing at a time thinks Merlin pleadingly as he hurries on.

Arthur's door is wide open, he himself standing facing the window. "Arthur-"

"Shut the door." Merlin complies, hands starting to shake. This is not his Arthur, insomuch as he has an Arthur to call his own. This one is cold, icy with a rage Merlin can sense barely held in check under the armour and flesh. "Now, Merlin, explain to me why I just fought a duel for your honour when I know I've taught you enough to get out of a situation like the one I found you in."

Merlin opens his mouth to speak but promptly shuts it again as Arthur holds up a hand. "And then, if you please, explain to me why one of the servants saw you and Gwen sneaking out of Sir Owain's chamber, the very knight I was fighting, and also happened to see a granite bowl broken into fragments in the table. Tell me all, and maybe I won't have you put in the dungeons."

Merlin speaks, telling him everything.

Really. Everything.

He starts with his magic, through all of the things he's done for Arthur and Camelot, through meeting Nimueh in the woods, to her plans for him, and consequently for Arthur, right up to Sir Gareth. By the time he's done explaining about the bowl, and the magic he used to shatter it, Arthur could be stone himself for all Merlin can read off him.

Finally whatever it is that Nimueh had done, and that Merlin was too stupid to figure out she'd done in his rush to follow Arthur, releases his tongue.

Merlin claps his hands over his mouth and runs.

—-

The dragon wisely assumes that Merlin wants to be left alone, probably because he doesn't run out onto the small ledge demanding help and/or answers, and stays hidden away wherever it is he goes when not confusing Merlin with talk of coins and destiny.

Merlin sits against the cave wall, skirts pooling around him, and waits.

It doesn't take long. Arthur might consider Merlin an idiot, but it's mostly for show these days and he thinks along the lines of someone with more to them than meets the eye, affected by magic, and comes up with a dragon no one else is supposed to know about. He pauses before stepping out onto the ledge, unsure of how to proceed.

Merlin turns his head at the soft scuff of boots. "Come to clap me in irons and haul me off to the dungeons?" He holds his hands out mockingly, wrists pressed together.

"Believe me, Merlin, if I were to clap you in irons it wouldn't be to haul you to the dungeons." Merlin very carefully doesn't look as he gracefully drops down to lean against the opposite wall, sword laid by his side. That comment, whatever it may mean, hit a little too close to Nimueh's plan for Merlin's liking.

"Then... what are you doing here?"

"Tracking you down."

"And?" Arthur simply looks at him. "Arthur, you were there, in your room, about half an hour ago, right?"

"Yes, idiot. I'm surprised you managed to hide from me for that long, actually. You're not as stupid as I thought you were."

Merlin blinks slowly. "But... you were really angry, before. With me, I think. And now you look like you're, well. Like you've beaten me at sparring again. Forgive me for being a bit confused."

"Searching the castle is a good opportunity to get your anger in check."

"Ah." Merlin waits for more, but that appears to be it. Clearly he's going to have to keep the conversation he never wanted to have going, because otherwise he might possibly go mad. "You do realise I was telling the truth? Not that I wanted to, obviously, but still. It's true. All of it."

Arthur crosses his legs and leans his elbows on his knees, fixing Merlin with his typically intense gaze. "You didn't want to tell me the truth about your magic."

So that's what this comes down to. Merlin sighs.

He should've known Arthur's bruised pride would be the first thing on the cards.

"No."

"Why not? I thought—I thought we could trust each other." Arthur's voice is bitter, traces of anger slipping through.

"I trust you with my life, Arthur; if I'd told you about my magic, would you have trusted me with yours?"

"You think that little of me?"

"I think you're that loyal to your father."

"I'm loyal to my friends as well. You should know that by now." He sounds accusatory, like it's been obvious all along. Merlin feels his own anger flare up, finds himself glaring at Arthur.

"If we're friends, as you imply, then why have you been avoiding me for the few weeks?" Arthur opens his mouth to speak but Merlin overrides him. "I'm a girl, I've needed all the friends I can manage right now."

"I avoided you to make it easier for Sir Gareth!" snaps Arthur, and isn't that something.

"... What?"

Arthur sighs, looking away. "I thought - well, actually Morgana thought - that if I was always around, and treating you the way I always did, then he'd get the wrong idea."

"The wrong—oh." Merlin swallows. "Why on earth would anyone get that idea?"

The rattling of a chain alerts them to the dragon's imminent entrance. Merlin stays where he is, really not wanting to deal with this in the middle of what he suspects is going to be quite a revelation, but Arthur's on his feet in an instant. Merlin lets himself admire his movements this time; at this point his future can go in any direction, so what's the harm?

"Arthur Pendragon, this is a surprise. I had not thought to see you here for many years to come; this is most auspicious," the dragon rumbles, "although it would perhaps have been better if you were on better terms with the young warlock here. The two of you are two sides of a coi-"

"Could you please, for once, shut up?"

The dragon huffs in an indignant way which almost blows them halfway back to the dungeons, and takes off again. Arthur's hand leaves his belt where his sword should be but isn't, all the anger Merlin wants because he can deal with that, and the consequences, better than this eerily calm Arthur once again evident in the lines of his body.

"Arthur-" Merlin breaks off as Arthur turns smartly on one heel, gasps as he's pulled up and held firmly against the rock. His skirts, amazingly, don't rip.

"I know you're dense, Merlin, but surely even you could work out that things between us aren't entirely pure?"

"Well, I—" Evidently Arthur isn't really asking questions, if the way his hands tighten warningly on the fabric at Merlin's shoulder and waist is anything to go by. Merlin, along with the dragon, shuts up.

"I've avoided you because otherwise people, including that knight you were so eager to bed, would've assumed that I was bedding you!" Arthur bends his head until all Merlin can see is unruly blond hair, tangled after the duel. "It wouldn't matter that I'm not, or wasn't; Sir Gareth wouldn't have touched you."

"So..."

"So I made things easier for you and kept out of your way. Less for the gossips to make lies out of." He abruptly lets Merlin go, stepping away to stare out over the depths of the cave. Merlin knows that if he reached out and touched he would end up in irons, or at least with a black eye.

He does the only thing he can think of, and tells the truth.

Again.

In case Arthur missed it the first time, which he appears to have done.

"It was me, not Will, who raised the wind against the raiders. And before that, I helped Lancelot kill the gryphon." Merlin might be reading too much into Arthur's back right now, but it seems as if he tenses a little more at the almost-knight's name. "A-and, um, I helped you kill the afank, the thing poisoning the water."

"When I was in the Caves of Balor, fetching that plant, there was a light."

"That was me too. Although, in my defence, I was unconscious at the time."

Arthur's watching him now, no longer hiding or controlling his anger, no longer even trying to. It's a relief, if Merlin's honest. Now he can be angry as well. "Do you think my father will see the difference?"

"No. But will you?" Arthur says nothing. Merlin smiles bitterly, holds his wrists out again. "Then I guess it's the irons for me after all."

"Merlin," Arthur says warningly, "don't."

"And then what? How will Uther have me killed? Beheaded as a common sorcerer, maybe?" He ignores the further warning on Arthur's face and carries on. "Or perhaps something more showy, and no doubt more painful, for the sorcerer who dared get so close to the Crown Prince of Camelot?"

Before he even notices Arthur move Merlin finds himself shoved against the wall again, wrists caught tightly in Arthur's grip and pressed against the rock at eye level.

"Not close enough." Arthur grits the words out as if he'd rather not say them, but can't help himself.

Merlin knows that feeling, gets it every time he uses magic where he might be seen.

"I won't tell. I'd never—I won‘t." Arthur sounds broken, another admission wrung from him with only partial consent. Merlin fixes his gaze at a point over Arthur's head and tries to resettle their conversation into something he can understand, something that isn't making his magic ache.

"You're going to miss the feast." Arthur's head snaps up, and he looks at Merlin incredulously.

"What?"

"The feast. You're going to miss it if we stay, um, here." Merlin twists his wrists experimentally, but if anything Arthur's grip tightens. "Doing this."

"You're thinking about the feast at a time like this?"

"Arthur, you can't miss it." Merlin's voice is soft, but he feels himself start to tremble as Arthur presses even closer, body tight against Merlin's own in a way that feels dangerously good.

"I can be late," he says, and stops Merlin from contradicting him with the simple method of sealing his lips over Merlin's. Merlin makes a muffled squeak, which he will later deny, and kisses back with everything he has. It's barely enough to meet Arthur, let alone match him; Arthur kisses rough and wild, biting at Merlin's lower lip and sliding his tongue inside to map out every dark place of Merlin's mouth.

It's everything the gentle Gareth wasn't, and it's going to get Arthur killed.

Merlin isn't proud of it, and never will be, but he uses his magic to push Arthur back.

Arthur looks like he's been punched, just stands there with swollen lips and flushed cheeks. Merlin knows that if he gives Arthur an inch he's going to end up shoved against the wall again, skirts around his waist and too far gone within moments to stop. He holds a hand up between them, his wrists aching, and tells Arthur this, fully expecting Arthur's anger.

Instead, Arthur smirks. "What's the problem with that?"

"Stop being such a prat!" Merlin puts his hands on his hips without realising, something he's done a lot more now that he's actually got hips. "I thought I went through this back in your room."

"The magic could be fun as well." Merlin gives Arthur a warning look. "Fine, fine; you'd think I really was threatening to have you beheaded - sorry. I shouldn't joke," he adds, seeing Merlin's face pale. "To be honest, after you told me you have magic, I didn't really listen. It sort of caught my attention. I think you might've done something to stop whatever you were saying making sense, too; I thought it was the firelight, but your eyes flashed the same way as they did when you pushed me away just then."

Merlin vaguely remembers trying to do something like that; good to know it worked.

"Oh. And you're really, you know, alright? Only, you're not threatening me with your sword" Merlin cast a wary look at where it was still lying on the floor, "or yelling at me for lying, or anything, and I have to admit it's worrying me."

"You're worried that I'm not threatening to turn you in?" Arthur looks incredulous. Merlin shrugs and nods slightly. "I'm not my father, Merlin." He says it with such sincerity and conviction, a stony look on his face, that Merlin decides to stop worrying and be thankful that Arthur's so accepting; it might not last, after all, so he'll take this while he can.

“Okay, moving on to more important things."

"Like why I don't have you up against the wall anymore?"

Merlin swallows. "Like that, yes. I, um, the the thing is..." Arthur starts advancing on him, his intent obvious. "Ifwehavesexmymagicwillkillyou!" Arthur stops and blinks.

"What. The. Hell? That's the most ridiculous thing you've ever- well, not the most ridiculous thing, but certainly the most ridiculous excuse not to sleep with me I've ever heard." Anyone else would look insulted; Arthur just looks like he's paused for a second. Which he has, because Merlin has to hold up both hands and press them against Arthur's chest to keep them a vital few inches apart.

"I'm serious. Nimueh bound some of her magic to my own, as part of the spell that did this." He moves a hand to gesture roughly at his current state of femininity, hurriedly replacing it when Arthur leans forward testingly. "She meant for me to tell you about it, and for you to have a noble moment-"

"Only a moment?"

"In between your prattish ones, yes, stop interrupting." Arthur grins and stops pressing against Merlin's hands, raising his eyebrows to prompt him on. "You'd have a noble moment, offer to 'help', which is exactly what she wants, and the bit of her magic linked to mine would use my magic to kill you. And probably me, but that's not really the issue."

"It's part of it, you idiot. If you're as powerful as she clearly believes you to be, then it stands to reason she'd want you dead as well as the Crown Prince."

"... You might have something there." Arthur leers and presses forward, the gap between them narrowing in an alarming manner. Merlin can feel the rush of magic grow, the thread of Nimueh's twisting it into something that wants to take and devour and kill with an intensity Merlin can't quite shut out. He realises it's been quiescent up until now, the flashes of too-hot desire he's previously felt around Arthur nothing compared to this.

Those flashes were just me, thinks Merlin as he tilts his head to let Arthur carry on doing whatever it is that feels so good to his neck, which makes things a bit complicated.

Arthur bites down at the join of Merlin's neck and shoulder, and his magic surges up to spark at his fingertips. The small part of Merlin not making choked off whimpers and curling his hands in the fabric of Arthur's shirt vaguely remembers there's a reason this is a bad idea, and that Arthur's not listening to him, but then Arthur sucks at the bitemark he's made and the last vestiges of coherent thought flee.

The dragon's roar makes them jerk apart, both breathing heavily. Arthur looks angry, turning his head to send a glare towards the beast that would probably wipe out the last Great Dragon in Albion if it wasn't such a tough old thing. Merlin stares fixedly at the side of Arthur's head, forcing the magic down and away.

"Young warlock, as untried as you are, I thought you had more sense than this!" Merlin's never heard the dragon shout like this before, not even when he's being particularly rude and demanding answers so he doesn't have to make a difficult decision.

"It's not him, it's the sorceress' magic!" yells back Arthur equally loudly, not even a little intimidated, which isn't all that surprising. The dragon shifts in his rock perch, claws grinding into the stone. He looks somewhat more understanding - at least, Merlin thinks he does.

It's a little difficult to tell, what with it being a dragon and all.

"Why did you not come to me with this, Merlin?" If he didn't know better, and hadn't been down here so many times trying to get answers from the infuriatingly cryptic dragon, Merlin would swear his voice is tender.

"Because every time I come down here to ask for help, you give me some ramblings about Arthur and me being two sides of the coin, or our destinies being intertwined, or something, and then fly off to your ledge!" It's possible the shouting is contagious.

"With the demise of my kind, and my imprisonment here, my magic is severely weakened," continues the dragon, seemingly ignoring Merlin's outburst, "but I can still help."

"How?" Arthur's direct and authoritative tone is at odds with the way his hands are bracketing Merlin's waist, thumbs pressing into the hollows of his hipbones in the best way possible.

Merlin steps back and twists out of Arthur's grasp gently.

It doesn't do to tempt magic, after all.

"I can make it so that Nimueh's foul magic does not entice Merlin's to kill you, but burns itself instead."

"If you have magic, why haven't you freed yourself." Merlin regrets the question as soon as it leaves his mouth, wondering why on earth he's interrupting at such a crucial moment.

The dragons resettles his wings the way he always does before capitalizing random words and confusing the living daylights out of Merlin. "The Laws of Magic are Complex and Varied; I am bound by them as much as you are, young Warlock. To help myself is forbidden; to help the young Pendragon is allowed."

Arthur looks impressed. Clearly this is the first time he's been on the receiving end of the dragonsramblings. He'll learn.

"And that will make it safe for us?" Arthur catches hold of Merlin, without looking, just before he gets out of arms reach. He doesn't do anything, simply keeps a firm hold on Merlin's arm.

"Yes," booms the dragon, stretching his wings. "It will not, however, be enough to keep the other effects of Nimueh's magic from coming to bear. What those are, I cannot say, and this is all I can do."

"It will be enough." Arthur leaves no room for Merlin to argue, interrupt again, or even question what he thinks he's doing.

"Then I shall prepare. I will inform you when my preparations are complete, and it is safe." The dragon flaps and then, like usual, throws a parting comment over his shoulder as he vanishes up into the vaulted heights of the cave. "This is all part of your destiny, young warlock, another piece fitting into the-"

"Map of my future, I know." Merlin sighs and tries to ignore the way Arthur is looking at him, a disturbing mix of fondness and predatory. He fails. "I'm getting worried about you."

Arthur's fingers start stroking over Merlin's wrist in a most distracting manner. "And why is that?"

"You haven't arrested me for lying about my magic, you haven't insulted me in a pretty long time - for us, anyway - and you're looking at me like... like I'm special. And not in a bad way, either."

"Are any of those things bad?" Arthur sighs at Merlin's pointed look. "Fine. I might, just possibly, have been waylaid in my search for you by Morgana. And Gwen. They had some things to say to me."

"They wouldn- what am I saying, of course they would." Arthur starts to slide his hand further up Merlin's arm, pushing the sleeve of his dress aside smoothly. "No no no, stop it. You've got to get yourself into your fancy coat and get to the feast, or we won't have to worry about Nimueh's magic because Uther will have already killed you."

Arthur... well, he pouts. That's the only word Merlin has to describe it. "He wouldn't kill me. Chastise, maybe, but not kill."

"Lord Kynan and his daughter - marriageable daughter - are the guests of honour tonight."

"Ah. Death might be foreseeable, in that case."

Something not nearly so human as laughter goes unheard as they hurry away to make Arthur presentable for the feast, Merlin only just able to keep out of reach of Arthur's teasing hands, and the dragon settles down to craft a spell using his diminished magic in only a few short hours.

How they're going to stop the patently obvious bond of tension and want between them from being noticed by all and sundry, he doesn't care to imagine - although maybe he could have told them what else Nimueh's enchantment was woven to do...

The dragon snorts. When has he ever been that helpful?

Besides, it'll be fun for them both.

—-
Arthur has never been to a more frustrating feast, and for the Crown Prince of Camelot that's saying something. Uther has, predictably, sat him next to Lord Kynan's daughter, with orders to make sure she is happy and content. This would be more bearable if she wasn't twelve and at the age where any man who deigns to talk to her makes her simper and giggle.

It goes without saying what a man who looks like Arthur does to her.

Sometime during the third course Arthur catches sight of Merlin, moving between the rows of lesser nobles with considerably more grace than he usually does, and has to clench his hands on the arms of his chair to stop himself moving. Whatever it is that Nimueh's spell was designed to do, other than kill him, it appears to be working; the feeling rushing through his body feels similar to the rush he'd felt when Merlin had pushed him back with magic.

In honour of Lord Kynan's daughter, whose birthday this past summer means she is now of marriageable age (as Merlin had oh-so-helpfully reminded him at the worst possible moment), a bard has been commissioned to write and perform an appropriately long and dull poem. Ceridwen she may be called, but Arthur does not feel blessed to be forced to listen to this stuff when he has more important things to be doing.

Five verses, far too many pauses and a lot of emotive music later, Uther calls for dancing, as relief before the rest of the epic poem. Arthur slides on his 'gracious Prince' mask and asks Ceridwen to dance as Lord Kynan leads Morgana out, who looks as happy as Arthur feels about the whole thing.

Ceridwen dances as she talks; a lot of enthusiasm, but with annoying girlishness, her (frequently wrong) steps interspersed with comments about the other guests that are either shockingly indiscreet gossip or her idea of clever conversation.

Arthur isn't sure which would be worse, and focuses on not strangling her with one of the ridiculous ribbons draped over her dress.

Then he catches sight of Merlin again, and forgets about the simpering girl in his arms immediately. Arthur had assumed that Merlin hasn't been wearing his scarf because it belongs to Merlin and not whatever he's been calling himself for nearly three months, but right now the logic couldn't be further from his mind because all he can see is pale, perfect skin marred by a single red mark, nowhere near concealed by the neck of Merlin's dress.

Arthur's overriding thought as he dances is: I made that mark.

He put that there, on Merlin's soft skin, and now everyone can see it. Merlin trades his empty tray of goblets for a fresh one, looking round as Gwen nudges him. She says something, too far away for Arthur to hear, but the way Merlin's free hand flies to his neck makes it obvious what it was.

Merlin's eyes find Arthur's, and any pretence at resisting the pull between them that they've been managing crumbles into dust.

Arthur knows his gaze is burning, doesn't try and hold it down, because Merlin's is the same. Ceridwen says something inane and childish, Merlin licks his lips, and Arthur thinks he'd be willing to give Lord Kynan whatever he's asking for in the negotiations now just so he can get out of here and have Merlin against a wall again.

The dance ends, another one starting almost immediately, and Arthur hands Ceridwen off to his father without really paying attention, so fixed is he on the slope of Merlin's stupid hips in his dress. Then Morgana steps on his foot and positions his hands for the next pattern.

"Keep looking at him like that and we'll be expecting you to take him in the middle of the room."

"And you tell me off for being crass."

Morgana's smile is sharp, her eyes mocking. "I'm only saying. Anyone would think you want him."

"Don't you mean her?" Arthur says warningly as another pair come slightly too close within hearing range, gritting his teeth as he sees Merlin smiling at Lord Kynan, of all people.

"Whatever you say, Arthur." She narrows her look, seemingly contemplating something through the next round of steps. "If you hurt him, or send him away once he's back as he should be, I will make sure the Pendragon line ends with you."

Arthur does not look down just in case. "Why do you care?" He asks, conveniently forgetting that he hadn't thought about Merlin like that, let alone cared who Merlin did that with (that's new, and not a nice idea. Arthur makes a note to avoid thinking about Merlin with anyone else from now on, not that it'll be an issue) up until relatively recently.

"Upsetting Merlin would upset Gwen, and I do not want that. She's had a hard enough time as it is." Arthur raises an eyebrow. Morgana steps gracefully on his foot again. Hard. "Enough of that. Now, if you want to make your excuses to your father, I'll keep the little twit occupied for the rest of the evening."

That makes Arthur suspicious. "You never do anything nice for me, and I'm pretty sure this counts as nice." If 'nice' means giving him images of Merlin spread out across his bed, - girl or boy, no matter - willing to do any number of things any number of times, then yes, she's being nice.

"I like Merlin," replies Morgana smartly, "he's much more tolerable than you. Besides" she adds with a wicked smirk, "he'll wear you out, and you won't be quite so insufferable tomorrow."

Arthur opens his mouth to protest and tell Morgana that if anyone's going to be worn out, it'll be Merlin, but the words freeze in his throat as a voice makes itself known in is head.

::I have completed the spell, young prince. It will last as long as there is dark sorcery bound to Merlin, and no longer.::

That they both hear the dragon goes unsaid; Arthur can feel another presence in his head, through the dragon's, one that swirls and glitters like gold.

Merlin.

Arthur searches him out, sees him still being talked at by Lord Kynan. Hm. Time for that to stop. "I believe I will do what you so kindly suggest, my lady." Morgana's eyes are bright and knowing, her curtsey a shade less teasing than usual. "Save your end of the bargain for tomorrow; I can't promise you'll get it, mind, but I'll probably be in a better mood to hear it."

"Of course. Go, before Lord Kynan decides to take him- her to bed." Morgana laughs at Arthur's expression, turning away to no doubt gossip with Gwen and plan what she wants in return for spending the evening with a girl who will never match Morgana's intelligence or wit.

Then Lord Kynan touches Merlin's arm, and Arthur promptly forgets about Morgana, Ceridwen and everything else that isn't Merlin and mine and don‘t fucking touch him. Arthur's about to stride over and pull Merlin out of the room when something, no doubt part of Nimueh's spell meant to ensure that once they've started this, they'll finish it, makes him pause.

Arthur dragging his manservant away looks fine and proper; no one who knows Merlin's total incompetence as a servant would question it. But if he drags a maid away, well. That's another thing entirely. Checking his angry stride into something more leisurely and befitting a feast, he forces himself to ignore the way Merlin is completely tense and make small talk with various nobles instead.

He purposely goes in the opposite direction, choosing to draw out the delicious tension coursing through him. It's like being on the tourney field, the adrenaline and the heightened senses. Except this time, instead of being attuned to his opponent's attacks, he's increasingly aware of every single movement Merlin makes, even if he's out of sight.

By the time Arthur gets close enough to see Merlin and Lord Kynan again, he knows that Merlin is starting to get angry with the lord, his back stiff and the hand not still balancing the tray of wine clenching the fabric of his skirts. One of Lord Kynan's hands is still resting heavily on Merlin's arm, and he doesn't move it as Arthur steps alongside them.

"Ah, your highness. I was just telling this young woman here about my own estates." Arthur's jaw tightens. He knows exactly what that means; Kynan wants Merlin to be part of the negotiations, a small token of regard that won't appear on any official treaties but will most surely be granted if Uther sees the way Lord Kynan's eyes are wandering all over Merlin's body.

Arthur lets none of his anger, or indeed anything else he is feeling, show as he replies. "I understand you have some especially fine hunting there?"

"Yes, my lord." Arthur discreetly rests his hand at the small of Merlin's back, trying to communicate the necessity of being somewhere more private and preferably more horizontal right now, although the horizontal part it optional because Arthur would sort-of-kind-of-really like Merlin up against a wall again.

It's possible that you can't convey all of that through a simple press of hand against fabric, but by the way Merlin leans back into the touch he understands enough.

Arthur waits for Lord Kynan to pause in his wittering about deer, or something, and politely interrupts. "If your lordship would enjoy it, I would be honoured to take you hunting around Camelot." And not bring you back he thinks with anger, because the hand keeping Merlin in place and close by hasn't moved at all.

"It would be my honour, your highness." Kynan half bows, but Arthur catches the flicker of his gaze from Arthur's hand, twitching perilously close to his belt knife without him even noticing, to his own hand on (he thinks) an inconsequential maid's arm. "Would tomorrow afternoon allow for a good ride?"

Arthur has to use all of his willpower to not lay Lord Kynan flat on the floor with a good uppercut and throw Merlin over his shoulder just to get out of here. He understands perfectly the words going unsaid here; the afternoon would be preferable, your highness, because I‘ll need the morning to recover from getting drunk and bedding your maid.

It's lucky that Uther chooses that moment to appear, because the small noise of protest Merlin makes as Kynan's grip tightens is almost enough for Arthur to ruin the negotiations of the past week.

If this feeling of absolute possession and want is part of Nimueh's spell, Arthur has to give her a modicum of grudging respect. She really does know how to make two people fall into unbridled lust.

Arthur pulls himself out of visions of stripping that dress off Merlin (probably not thanks to Nimueh) in time to hear his father speaking. "... of course, I would be delighted to join you. Arthur?"

"Of course, father. We had agreed on tomorrow afternoon." Arthur's pointed look makes it clear to Kynan that he has the morning to recover from the wine only, but before the lord can retaliate with an answering look, probably along the lines of 'do you want those extra soldiers or not?", Uther tilts his head at Arthur, looking concerned.

"Are you quite well? You look a little flushed."

"Probably too much wine," jokes Kynan, and Arthur allows himself am inward flash of victory. The lord's jovial tone and smile are clearly forced, the knuckles on the hand holding his goblet white with strain.

"I think not. Arthur, you had better retire; you need to be fit for leading the hunting party tomorrow." Arthur bows, his head filling with ideas and images of what he is finally free to do to Merlin. Uther points at Merlin and adds sharply: "You, go with him. See that he is safely into bed, and call Gaius if needs be."

"Yes, your highness." Merlin curtsies with far more alacrity than he has ever bowed, Kynan's hand jerking away from his arm as if burnt. Arthur nods to their guest of honour, forcing himself not to grab Merlin's hand and run as they thread their way through groups of other guests.

The great doors beckon, corridors and Arthur's bedchamber only moments beyond.

What sounds remarkably like draconic laughter speeds Arthur's steps.

——

Part Four

Dewiniaeth - Part Two

Wed, 24 Dec 2008 01:11:22 GMT

Part One

He gets away with it for about two months, much to his surprise. In a similar way to his magic, he walks around with the perpetual feeling that someone will notice, but they don't. Gwen shrugs and tells him it's because it happened right before harvest; one more face at court goes ignored in the rush of tasks which need doing, as does the lack of one.

By the time everything's calmed down a bit, and Merlin no longer walks round with scratches on his arms from helping pick fruits, or smelling of the ungents and elixirs Gaius has him mixing, everyone's used to Mary, Merlin's cousin come to take his place at Camelot.

Merlin relaxes and tries to be normal, or as normal as he ever is. He helps Gaius deliver medicines and runs errands, does the thousand and one tasks Arthur manages to find for him (along with attempting to ignore the remarks Arthur sometimes murmurs about his 'cousin' in a tone of voice Merlin can't quite place), and attempts to put into practice some of the things Morgana and Gwen teach him about flirting.

He feels less foolish each time he tries something, because apparently the girls are right about this sort of thing. Gareth gets even more attentive, and each time they part after exchanging breathless kisses Merlin can't help thinking he might manage to get himself out of this without help, and foil Nimueh, which will always be a good thing.

Of course, a plan that works this well can't last without something going wrong.

And it does.

Arthur finds out, or rather works it out, as summer comes to an end. Merlin and Gwen had discussed this eventuality already, so he's mostly prepared. Arthur isn't all that stupid, and because the summer is almost over he's back at the castle for longer between hunts, which means Merlin has had to be extra careful about not letting too much of himself slip when being 'Mary'.

That said, it really isn't his fault that Arthur does work it out.

It's the dress.

Although near autumn, the days are still hot without much of a breeze, so the ladies in Camelot have taken to wearing loose, billowing shirts of cooler cotton underneath their dresses, instead of the fitted sleeves that usually fasten on. The upside is they're cooler, which pretty much everyone is grateful for. The downside is, they aren't fastened at the wrists.

Arthur and he are both in the Prince's chambers after a busy day being roped into helping with any and all tasks that still need doing before autumn hits—being royalty hadn't exempted Arthur from being made to help with preserving the fruit harvests, Merlin had been pleased to see—and Merlin lifts his arm to take down a torch from the wall.

The sleeve slips down to his elbow, and Arthur looks up at the annoyed noise Merlin makes. With a speed he usually reserves for tournaments, sparring and impromptu battles with possibly magical creatures, Arthur is by his side and gripping his wrist tight enough to bruise. Merlin freezes. He knows what Arthur has seen.

It's a scar, and a fairly distinctive one at that. There's no way he can dismiss it as a childhood injury, 'cousins' playing at blood brothers, because Arthur was there when he got the blasted thing.

Arthur is very still. His grip lessens slightly, and he raises his other hand to trace the curved edges of the mark. His eyes close as Merlin tries not to do anything at all, and he sighs deeply. "Merlin?"

"Oh, hell." That about sums it up, really. For Merlin, at least; it appears Arthur has other ideas, like making him explain.

"All this time?"

"Yes."

"How?"

"How do you think?" Arthur's head snaps up and he glares at Merlin, although it isn't really a glare. Merlin pulls his arm out of Arthur's grip and echoes his earlier sigh. "Nimueh, who else."
"Why?" Merlin shrugs, and finds himself vaguely impressed by the way Arthur's eyes don't automatically drop down to his bodice.

"No idea." He's damned if he's going to share that with Arthur.

"Has Gaius-"

"If Gaius had found a way to change me back, believe me, I'd be back." He can't help sounding a little angry, because even though he's adapted (Gaius' word, not his; it makes him feel like an experiment) pretty well to being a girl, he still wants to be a boy again really badly.

"Oh. Right. So." Arthur looks...well, happy, that's the only word for it. Merlin gives him a wary look, because Arthur happy like this usually means pain for him, but Arthur just looks a bit happier, and seems more relaxed than he has in weeks. Merlin's still trying to work out what the hell is going on when Arthur gives him a narrow-eyed look. "Wait, so what's going on with you and Sir Gareth?"

Oh helli>.

He raises an eyebrow. "You really want to go there?" Arthur splutters.

"But, but, you're Merlin."

"Yes?" Merlin likes pretending to be even more obtuse than Arthur thinks he is, because it sends Arthur all sorts of interesting colours as he tries to work out how serious Merlin is. "And?"

"You're a man."

"Not at the moment." And, oh, here's one secret Merlin can share without potentially being beheaded. "And even if I wasn't, it, um, wouldn'tmakethatmuchdifference."

"What do y- oh. Really?" Merlin nods, biting his lip to stop the bubble of hysterical laughter threatening to burst out of his throat. Arthur worries at his own lip for a moment before shrugging. "Heh. Doesn't matter to me." Merlin rolls his eyes and tries not to look pathetically relieved.

"So long as I still pick up after you?"

"Yeah, that's about it." Arthur grins, unrepentant, and this is what Merlin's been missing for so long, the easy banter, treading the line between teasing and insulting, the best kind they can share. Being 'Mary' is fairly easy - she's the means to getting his true self back, after all - but for all the help Gwen and Morgana have given him they couldn't make not being himself around Arthur any easier.

"Can I ask you something?" Merlin shocks himself a little with the question, but keeps his chin up as Arthur looks at him in surprise.

"Uh, sure?" This is treading the line between Prince and servant far more precariously than they have before, at least without insults, but in this moment neither notices.

"What do I look like?"

"Don't you have a mirror?" Merlin stays silent. He does, but it's tiny. Arthur rubs the back of his neck, looking uncomfortable. "What about Gwen? Or Morgana - do they know?"

"Gwen was with me when it happened, and you know how Morgana is." Oh how they do. Many's the time she's interrupted them setting out to pull some sort of prank, because she somehow knew what they were planning. "I sort of wanted a, um, man's opinion?"

"Merlin, I'm not sure—" Merlin contemplates making Arthur stumble his way through saying nothing at all with a lot of words, then takes pity and waves a hand to dismiss the question, moving away to collect up the remains of Arthur's meal.

"Doesn't matter. I'll ask Gareth later on." He sweeps out of the room in a swirl of skirts, technique courtesy of Gwen but the bounce in his step courtesy of Arthur's bemused and faintly shocked expression.

This is going to be fun.

—-

Not long after that particular conversation, barely time enough for Merlin to catch his breath and let go of his worries concerning Arthur's reaction, Uther sends out groups of knights to safely escort folk from the outlying villages into Camelot for the upcoming Harvest Festival. Not surprisingly, several of the groups get attacked.

Merlin gives himself no time to mock himself for being such a thorough girl as he hurries to Gareth's quarters. The knight's fellow warriors have told him, not without some gentle teasing, that he's unharmed, but Merlin wants- no, needs to see Gareth for himself. Herself, Merlin thinks as he knocks on the door, I‘m Mary.

"Miss- Mary?" He looks confused but not annoyed, definitely a good sign.

Merlin hopes.

He ducks his head and swallows, suddenly nervous. "I, ah, thought you might need some bruise balm." So pathetic; Morgana would be ashamed of you! He risks a glance up through his lashes, aware that it's something the girls had tried to teach him. Gareth smiles slowly as he steps back to let Merlin inside, courteous as ever.

"Thank you, it is most welcome." His smile takes away any stiffness from the formal words, as does the gentleness of his hands as he takes the small pot away from Merlin to place it on the table. "May I ask a favour, unless you are needed elsewhere?"

"I'm not, go ahead." Curious, Merlin momentarily forgets his nerves.

"Could you help me out of my armour? I took a heavy blow to my arm, and it hurts to twist." Merlin grins; this, at least, is something he can do without feeling awkward.

"Of course, my good sir," he says, grinning in a way that is probably completely inappropriate as he crosses to Gareth's side and starts working at the various buckles holding his armour on. Merlin knows which arm is hurt when Gareth hisses sharply as Merlin removes his chainmail, lowering his left arm with a wince and a pained expression.

"Wait, don't." Merlin stops the knight with a hand on his chest, concerned. "Can you keep it up for a moment while I get your shirt off?" Merlin feels curiously detached, previous worries fading in the intimate atmosphere of the room. He barely waits for Gareth's nod before making short work of the ties on the plain linen shirt, helping Gareth take it off without jostling his arm. Merlin frowns at the vivid bruise spreading across his upper arm and over his shoulder, fingers ghosting over the edges as Gareth simply stands.

"Hold this." Gareth smiles at Merlin's bossiness, but does as he's told, taking the small pot from Merlin and waiting for further orders. "Turn towards the light? Thanks. This will be cold."

"Do you chill this stuff before putting it on unsuspecting knights?" Gareth complains, and Merlin grins.

"If its cold that means it's working, cooling down the bruise." That's not all it's doing; only last week Merlin had finished applying the spell he'd used on the women's elixir to all of Gaius' creations, making them successful by tenfold, or even simply successful—like the anti-pregnancy charm currently around his neck, hidden by his bodice, which he is resolutely not thinking about.

The pungent but not unpleasant smell of herbs fills the air between them as Merlin rubs it into the bruise with tender fingers, mindful of every noise Gareth makes. For all the knight is stoic and apparently trying to hide any discomfort, Merlin has had a lot of practice at interpreting Arthur's reactions after a skirmish, and the prince is much better at it than Gareth.

"Stop trying to be brave, you great idiot. I can't put this balm where it's most needed if I don't know where that is because you're being the strong, silent, stupid knight!"

"Sorry, ma'am." He sounds contrite enough, but when Merlin next touches his arm Gareth lets out a groan of pain more fitting for a broken leg than a mere bruise. Merlin pokes him in the side and gets a wide smile in return.

Nerves are a thing of the past.

He works in silence for another moment or two, stepping back to make sure he's applied the healing ointment to the entire portion of the bruise on Gareth's arm before starting on his shoulder. Gareth shifts restlessly, unused to being immobile for such a long period of time. Even removing his armour hadn't taken this long.

Merlin steps behind him to cover the back of the bruise last, unable to see Gareth's face when he speaks. "My brothers and I had a message from our mother today." Merlin, unsure of what answer to give, and unguided by anything either Gwen or Morgana had said to him, makes a curious noise.

At least, he hopes it's curious.

Gareth seems to think so, and continues. "She informs us that our father has fallen ill, and asks if one of us will return to help carry the burden of the estates while he recovers. As the youngest, it is not my place, but my brothers," he sounds hesitant, "they do not want such responsibility. They ask that I return."

Oh, thinks Merlin with a sense of disappointment, he‘s leaving. Out loud he says "such a duty cannot be avoided, naturally." Moving to pick up the discarded shirt, Merlin feels a hand catch hold of his wrist and turns with the gentle pull. Gareth's face is sad but hopeful; too much a Knight of Camelot to simply take, but too much of a man not to hope.

Merlin barely thinks beyond letting the voice in his head (which sounds annoyingly like Arthur) ask what the hell he thinks he's doing before he steps forward and kisses Gareth.

It's hard yet sweet, impossibly flavoured by the herbs of the balm. Merlin lets the natural instincts his body seems to have guide his movements and hooks his arms behind Gareth's neck, mindful of putting too much pressure on the bruised shoulder. Gareth's hands feel huge at his hips, holding Merlin close as securely as Merlin is holding him.

"Please, I want—" Merlin gasps, barely aware that he's speaking, nuzzling at the line of Gareth's neck in lieu of kissing him, inhaling the sharp scent of male sweat.

Gareth leans back and asks, in a voice barely above a whisper, "are you sure?" It's not even a true question; Merlin's nodding as soon as he sees Gareth forming the words, trying to tug the knight towards the neatly made bed without having to unwind his arms. Merlin laughs, surprised, as Gareth lifts him by the hips and swings him to stand next to his intended destination.

"Are you always this chivalrous, not even making a lady walk to your bed?" Merlin says breathlessly, but if Gareth answers he doesn't hear it. His attention is wholly focused on Gareth's clever fingers making short work of the ties at either side of his bodice. The two parts fall away without sound, leaving Merlin in a plain shift and his skirt, feeling shockingly comfortable.

Definitely unflappable.

As comfortable as Merlin is with his body, there's a big difference between looking at it when alone and looking at it in the company of another. Merlin fights the urge to cover himself up as his skirt pools on the ground, letting his hair fall forward to hide the blush he knows is staining his cheeks. Gareth's soft touch tilts his chin up.

"Mary? I...you don't...I leave tomorrow, you don't have to..." Merlin raises his eyes, past the evidence of how much Gareth wants this that makes his blush deepen, and looks Gareth in the eyes.

"I want to," he says firmly, and shoves any last lingering doubts away. Gareth smiles and captures his lips again, kissing him with an intensity that leaves Merlin feeling embarrassingly weak at the knees.

He vaguely registers being picked up again, and laid out on the bed, but Gareth is doing something delicious to the side of his neck with his tongue and everything else pales into insignificance. Until, that is, he cups Merlin's breast through the thin material of his shift, thumb brushing over the nipple. Gods, Merlin hadn't known they were mean to be that sensitive.

After that things go a bit fuzzy, although never so much so that Merlin loses track of what's going on. It's just, well, Gareth's hands are so careful and soft as they trace contours and places Merlin's sure have never felt so good to be touched before, that feel amazing through cloth but unbelievable against bare skin.

Gareth's breeches go the same way as his shift at some point, although Merlin makes a not-entirely conscious effort to stamp on any rising awkwardness before it could interfere with whatever Gareth's fingers are doing to his nipple, because he never wanted that to stop.

Except for the knight to use his mouth instead, ohh.

Merlin gasps and arches, feeling a little ridiculous as he does so, but doesn't care. Gareth laughs quietly as he leans on one elbow—the bruised arm, Merlin notes vaguely—and hooks the pregnancy charm on one finger. "Planning ahead?" Luckily for him his voice holds only amusement, otherwise, middle of sex (oh gods) or not, Merlin would have some choice words for him.

"Of course. I am apprenticed to the physician, after all." Merlin intends it to be teasing, but Gareth chooses that moment to smile wickedly and lower his mouth to trace the curves of Merlin's breasts with his tongue and it ends up being rather more breathless.

"That is" says Gareth, kissing the soft skin between the soft mounds, "admirable" kiss "intelligent" kiss "and very useful." Merlin squeezes his eyes shut and gathers fistfuls of the sheets as Gareth kisses the inside of first one thigh and then the other, coming perilously close to where most of Merlin's blood seems to be pooling.

Merlin forces his eyes open as Gareth moves back to hover over him, keeping what he probably deems a safe distance from the timid girl beneath him. Merlin reaches up to curl one arm behind Gareth's neck again, and flicks his eyes downwards.

That, at least, he knows what to do with.

Sliding his other hand down the warm planes of the knight's chest, Merlin wraps it around hot flesh and strokes, once, twice, drinking in the burning look of aroused surprise on Gareth's face. The time for talking has passed; apart from Gareth's rough groan, the only sounds come from the crackling of the fire and their combined breathing, uneven and louder than usual.

Gareth catches Merlin's wrist again, eyes warning when Merlin smiles as dirtily as he knows how and tightens his grip before letting go and instead moves his hand to Gareth's neck, pulling him down. This, Merlin has discovered, is a much safer way to achieve the same feeling of being absolutely alive that he gets whenever he uses his magic for something big.

His breathing quickens as Gareth skims a hand down his side, because he knows what point they've reached, and he knows this bit, has done this bit out of curiosity and wonder, but with someone else it's- oh.

It's different, and better. Gareth can reach deeper with his finger, can put pressure where it makes Merlin's toes curl even as he digs his nails into Gareth's back, reacting to the twinge of pain. Merlin laughs breathlessly as Gareth slows, the already gentle slide of his finger falling to barely anything.

Merlin can't, he can't think, can't summon a rational thought, settles for opening his legs a little wider and moving his hips, hoping to convey without words his need for more. Gareth is either telepathic or he's had practice at reading women, because with the gentlest of pressures one finger becomes two, uncomfortable and slightly more painful but intensely better once Merlin figures out how to relax muscles he wasn't aware he had.

It's some unfathomable time later that Merlin nods jerkily, bracing a leg behind Gareth's thigh to pull him down and in, back arching and breaths coming in shuddering gulps as he's filled, it's the only word. Merlin laughs again, blood and magic and happiness singing through his veins, Gareth careful and slow above him, in him, around him.

A flash of vicious amusement strikes Merlin as he rocks his hips more-or-less in time with Gareth; surely Nimueh hadn't meant him to have this much fun and pleasure out of her enchantment? He laughs, the sound cut off partway through by Gareth's hot mouth covering his, tongues sliding against each other as he intensifies the heat coursing through Merlin.

The peak of the sensations sneaks up on him, probably because he isn't used to it. Gareth drops his head to suck at a nipple, the angle awkward for him but so worth it for Merlin. The heat reaches an intensity that makes Merlin shake, Gareth still solid and measured between his legs as the pleasure spikes.

Merlin tries to gasp in a breath, choking as he tries not to flop like a landed fish. His body doesn't feel like his own, and he'll appreciate that irony when he's done being drowned in sensations and just pure bliss, the like of which he's never felt before.

He can't muster any particular feelings as Gareth slows above him, and he feels a warm rush inside, other than a hazy feeling of pride. Drawn out and satisfied, Merlin pulls Gareth down for a lazy, sloppy kiss that gets interrupted as the knight carefully eases out and stretches out alongside him, hand sliding over Merlin's waist to pull him close.

Warm, relaxed and feeling stupidly smug, Merlin stays awake long enough to register Gareth pulling a blanket over them and pressing a soft kiss to his forehead, but anything after that is lost in a rush of comforting darkness that claims him.

——

Morning finds Merlin helping Gareth into his armour, smiling to himself at the much improved condition of the huge bruise. They part with soft kisses and teasing words, a comforting level of camaraderie between them in place of the awkwardness of regrets that Merlin had, irrationally, feared.

Walking back to Gaius' rooms, and hoping he doesn't look too dishevelled, Merlin lets himself feel smug, just for this short time. When he gets back Gaius will no doubt point out that he's still a woman, which means Nimueh hadn't lied, the annoying woman, and he's doomed to be female for the rest of his life. He is not seducing Arthur.

Gaius has already left for his morning rounds, thankfully, which means Merlin doesn't have to go through an interrogation which will no doubt be highly embarrassing, and is free to go straight down to the courtyard and see Gareth off after he's finished with Arthur's chamber. Gwen finds him as he's finishing, looking knowing.

"Is it that obvious?"

"Yup." She smiles brightly and makes a 'tell me' gesture. Merlin sighs and folds Arthur's cloak with meticulous care. Gwen taps her foot.

"What?"

"How was it?" Merlin raises his eyebrows and just looks at her.

"Oh come on, you didn't expect me to not ask?" She raises her eyebrows back.

"Fine." Merlin raises his eyes to he ceiling and smiles to himself. "It was...amazing." His voice conveys much more than the simple phrase. Gwen rushes over and hugs him tightly.

"Was it different?"

Merlin frowns. "Different to what?"

"Bedding a man when you were one yourself. Not that you're not a man, I mean," she adds hurriedly at Merlin's expression, "more a man in a woman's body, but still you. Still...Merlin. Should I not have asked?"

"I-it's, ah, different, yeah. Less...um, there's more...can we really not talk about it?" Gwen pats his arm and smiles understandingly.

"When you're ready, you can talk to me about it. Not that you'd want to, or anything, and you really don't have to at all, but it's nice to have someone talk to about your first, right?"

Merlin makes a strangled noise and tries to shut Gwen up. She means well, but gods is this embarrassing. "Gareth wasn't the first. Well, while I'm a girl, obviously, but not—not otherwise."

Gwen blinks at him and her eyes go very wide, her mouth almost a perfect O of understanding. She opens and closes it several times before nodding jerkily, raising a hand to hide awkward giggles. Merlin smiles self-consciously, and Gwen abruptly hugs him again. Then she lets go, expression dropping slightly.

"This means she was telling the truth, doesn't it, about Arthur being the one to...well."

"Yeah."

"What're you going to do?"

He shrugs. "No idea. Hope Gaius and I can find something, I guess." Gwen simply looks at him, sympathetic, then pulls him towards the door, all awkwardness forgotten.

"Come on, let's say goodbye to your knight." They make it down in time for Merlin to exchange a chaste kiss before Gareth mounts, awkward with his amour and sore arm. Merlin presses a kiss to his hand, feeling less foolish than he'd expected. He stands at the base of the castle's steps as Gareth rides out with his manservant, raising an arm in acknowledgement of Gareth's parting wave.

Merlin catches sight of Arthur as he turns to go back inside. The prince looks...not angry, particularly, more like he can't decide what to be. He avoids Merlin's gaze and strides across to where his knights are waiting for him, the sound as he draws his sword ringing loud in the confined space between Camelot's walls.

Merlin will never understand Arthur, not if he lives beyond a hundred.

—-
It's Gwen that thinks of it, which is mortifying for Merlin because of all the people, it should've been him, or at the very least Gaius, to wonder how Nimueh knew they were going to be in the forest on that particular day.

"Because I don't see her hanging around on the off chance we'd be there," says Gwen, "so how did she know?" She looks at Gaius for an answer, who shrugs.

"Most likely she was scrying you, watching and waiting for an opportunity."

"Probably. What a horrible thought, that someone can watch you wherever you are."
"She wasn't." They both turn to look at Merlin, hands frozen in the middle of preparing pale strips of willow bark. "I would've known, since the last time."

Gwen is silent, frowning. Merlin knows exactly what's going through her head, and it's puzzling him as well.

It's Gaius who comes up with a solution.

"Maybe she was using someone in the castle for information?"

And that innocuous sentence is the reason why Arthur ends up fighting a duel for Merlin's honour.

Funny how things work out, isn't it.

What happens is this. Once they've blinked at each other, and silently wondered why the hell it's taken them almost two months to realise that maybe, just maybe, Nimueh had had help with this, they start to wonder who would be willing to risk death to help a sorceress turn an (apparently) insignificant servant into a girl.

Two days later Gwen rushes into Gaius's workroom, flushed and panting. "Sir Owain!"

Merlin blinks. "Who?"

"Sir Owain." Gwen looks impatient, hands waving. "You know, the one with the horse you keep saying tries to eat you every time you go near it."

"With the seven brothers?"

"Yes!"

Merlin isn't trying to be obtuse this time, although Arthur probably wouldn't be able to see the difference.

"What about him."

"It's HIM!" Her voice reaches a shriek. Merlin winces, then-

"Oh! Helping Nimueh?" Gwen nods vigorously, grabbing Merlin's hand and dragging him out into the corridor. She pulls him along, breathlessly explaining.

"I had to go and put some of his clothes away - his manservant is ill, so we're sharing the duties - and I didn't know where they went, so I was opening all the cupboards and things, looking, and there it was!"

Merlin tries desperately not to trip over his dress, and at the same time not crash into a wall as Gwen turns a corner and doesn't make room for him.

Gwen isn't used to dragging people along with her, it seems.

"There what was?!"

"The bowl-thing, for the, you know, oh, for God's sake-!" Merlin steps back from the locked door he's just been spun into, shaking out his wrist. "Sorry," says Gwen, sounding less manic and more sheepish. "Can you open it? You should really see the bowl-thing."

"I gathered that from the way you hauled me up here," Merlin replies dryly, as he checks the corridor carefully before waving a hand over the lock. It turns with a soft click, the metal flashing gold for a brief second.

Gwen pushes him inside, and this time he really does trip over his skirts. On the other side of the room already, Gwen pulls open a large cupboard and waits for his reaction. "Merlin, what - oh. Oops." She hurries back to help pull him upright, brushing him down automatically. Merlin bats her off and goes to take a look at the scrying tool; the damn dress can wait, there are more important things at stake here.

"Huh."

"Good huh or bad huh?"

"In what way could finding a scrying bowl in the room of one of Uther's knights be a good thing?"

"...point."

Merlin leans down and follows the curling patterns along the edges with his finger, careful not to actually touch it. The stone bowl sits passively on the shelf, feeling faintly malevolent for all it's smallness. This is definitely Nimueh's work; the thread of her power bound to his own reacts to it, drawn to the greater power used in the bowl's creation like mist to water.

Gwen leans in and watches how the water doesn't react when Merlin gently blows over it. "We can't just leave it here."

"I think I might be able to break the enchantment on it, but I'll need to speak to Gaius."

"You can't do it now?"

Merlin shakes his head with a wry smile. "I'm not all that great with my magic yet. Little things, like the door, that's fine, but trying to do anything bigger deliberately doesn't tend to work that well."

"We'll have to come back, then." Gwen shuts the cupboard carefully, checking that they disturbed nothing else before leaving. A safe distance down the corridor to Morgana's rooms, Gwen stops suddenly. "The knights will be given three days off starting tomorrow, for the Harvest festival and feasts."

"I know; I'm going be stuck doing my duties with Arthur in the room again, getting in the way. I'm hoping he'll have one of his sudden passions for extended training sessions."

"Merlin!" He shrugs; it's true, after all, although he is starting to miss Arthur's company. They haven't really seen much of each other since Arthur worked out his manservant is still his manservant, just...not. "I mean, Sir Owain is going to have some time on his hands."

"Oh."

"Exactly." With her hands on her hips, and glaring at him the way she is now, Merlin reckons she could give Arthur a run for his money in intimidation. "We can't leave that thing there any longer, Merlin; it's dangerous."

Merlin chews his lip and pulls Gwen (rather more carefully than she had pulled him) into an alcove out of earshot of anyone happening to walk past. "What do you suggest we do then?"

Their voices lower to whispers, an unavoidable effect of being in an alcove, apparently.

"Would Arthur be able to call him for something?" Merlin grimaces.

"Yes, because that'd go down well. 'Hey, Arthur, could you keep this knight occupied while I destroy, with my magic, an enchanted bowl that Nimueh uses to spy on us all?'"

"Fine, fine." Gwen frowns hard, thinking. Merlin takes a less strenuous route and simply waits for a solution to come to him.

Shockingly, it works.

"Isn't he the one who got into trouble over that maid a while ago?"

"Think so," Gwen says distractedly, "apparently he tried to force himself on her and got called up in front of Uther. Nothing came of it."

"But he's got a reputation for that sort of thing?"

He's got her attention now, if not her understanding. "Yes. Most of the maids here have had to deal with him at one time or another. Why Uther lets him stay I can't understand." She straightens abruptly, or as much as she can in the cramped space. "Merlin, what are you thinking?"

"Maybe Arthur can help after all."

——-
Getting a man to proposition you in a lewd and unsavoury manner turns out to be far easier than Merlin had imagined it to be. All he has to do is walk into the armoury while Sir Owain is there, and the knight does the rest. The trickiest part of the entire plan is timing it so that Owain has time to work himself up to insult Merlin's honour just as Arthur arrives, although hopefully he'll go a little further than that.

You can‘t trust magic to act like you want it to, but you can trust men thinks Merlin a shade bitterly.

He's leaning backwards slightly, trying to avoid the smell of sweaty and unwashed knight currently wafting over him from Sir Owain. Not surprisingly he finds it repulsive, and catches himself wishing for the fresher scent of a knight who knows what a bath is, like Gareth, or Arthur - not going there not going there this needs to work don‘t get distracted - as he takes a step back.

Sir Owain smiles, gaptoothed and equally repulsive. "Now then, young missy, what's a nice lass like you doin' down 'ere on yer own?"

Merlin chokes down the sarcastic comment that naturally tries to trip off his tongue. "Delivering this armour for cleaning, sir."

"Sure that's all you're 'ere for?"

Ew. Hurry up, Arthur, or I‘ll kill him myself.

"If you would excuse me, sir, I have duties to complete." Heh. Merlin spares a moment to be impressed at how exactly like a castle maid he sounds like.

"I'm sure you do, pretty lass like you." The smile turns into a leer of almost shocking filthiness. On anyone else it might make Merlin laugh, but all it does is make him wish he'd followed Gwen's advice and brought one of the discrete daggers most of the women carry. "'m sure we could find somethin' more interesting to do, eh?"

"Sir, I don't-" The knight grabs Merlin's wrist, puling him sharply forward. The armour falls to the floor in a resounding crash of metal on stone, and Merlin ends up pressed tightly against a man he desperately wants to throw into the lake. "Sir!"

Gods, he hates being a woman, if this is how he gets treated.

A slight tug in the low hum of energy permanently running through his body tells Merlin that Arthur is close, steps even and measured. The thread of Nimueh's magic has it's uses, beyond the whole wanting to kill Arthur thing; he knows exactly how far away Arthur is, knows that a good shout will reach him.

Knowing that means there's only one thing to do.

Merlin screams.

And struggles, and possibly tries to scratch at Sir Owain's eyes, hoping he'll remember to thank Morgana for teaching him how to do that. The tugging intensifies as Arthur's footsteps speed up, and within moments he appears in the doorway, eyes alert and looking for trouble. Merlin very carefully doesn't look at him. Right now Arthur has to see a woman being touched against her will, something not tolerated in this castle.

If he sees his idiot of a manservant getting into another scrape, everything will be for naught.

Sir Owain, perfectly positioned with his back to the door, twists Merlin's wrist and leans right in, breath as foul as the rest of him. "Bet you 'n' me can 'ave some fun, right? Bet you're used to this, workin' for that prince of ours."

For a fleeting moment Merlin considers thanking Owain for doing such a good job of condemning himself.

Then Arthur's there, wrenching Sir Owain back and away, finally, face angry and fierce. The knight stumbles as he turns, making a noise of outrage as he blindly swings a fist at whoever is interrupting him. Arthur ducks to the side and easily dodges the wild punch, drawing his sword with customary speed. He regains his footing and waits for Sir Owain to do the same, the point of his sword ready and levelled at the knight's throat.

Arthur says nothing, waits for Sir Owain to realise who he is. When the shock of recognition crosses Owain's face, followed immediately by horror, Arthur says, tightly, "You will pay for this insult to the lady's honour."

Simple and effective. Merlin approves.

Sir Owain opens his mouth, most probably to make a claim that the 'lady's' honour is far from pure, or something of the sort, but Arthur stops him with an abrupt gesture. "Your reputation precedes you, Sir Owain; regardless, in this instance I am more inclined to believe her word than yours. Now" he lowers the sword and motions for Owain to walk in front of him, one hand tight on a meaty shoulder to discourage any fleeting ideas of escaping, "we shall take this matter to my father."

A jerk of his head indicates Merlin is to follow them, although even he can work that bit out.

Plan accomplished.

—-

Part Three

Merlin fic - Dewiniaeth

Wed, 24 Dec 2008 00:54:27 GMT

In retrospect, going collecting herbs and other assorted plants in one of the more isolated parts of the forest with only Gwen for company was a bad idea. Going on to investigate an even darker hollow without Gwen was an even worse idea, but as Arthur constantly reminds him, Merlin frequently forgets to make the distinction between good and bad ideas.

Which is probably why he ends up curled into a ball on the forest floor, body racked with pain and wishing he could get even the barest ounce of control back so he could blast the sorceress currently standing over him with a cruel smile on her lips. Nimueh is, if possible, even more set on killing him this time around, although it does cross Merlin's mind, in between all the whimpering and wishing he'd never agreed to work for Gaius, why she hasn't just finished him off.

Then she starts to talk, and of course she's going to explain while he can barely hear through the rushing in his ears.

He catches something about destiny, and manages a groan at hearing the damned word again. It's starting to lose all meaning, what with the amount of times the dragon booms it at him during their incredibly confusing chats. Then she says something about Arthur, which makes Merlin try even harder to break whatever spell she's cast this time, but it's still impossible.

He hears Gwen shouting his name, drawing Nimueh's attention long enough for her hold to weaken the barest amount. Gwen comes crashing through the trees, heedless of the danger, and drops to her knees by Merlin's side.

Merlin tries to croak out a warning, but he's too weak to make anything other than a sound which may or may not be Gwen's name, and gesture roughly in the direction of the sorceress. Worryingly, Nimueh isn't doing anything, is merely watching with the same cruel smile twisting her mouth.

"Wha—" Merlin coughs harshly and tries again, "what the hell?" Okay, so it's not elegant, or even particularly clear, but it'll do. Nimueh watches him silently for a moment. Just as he's about to think sod it and give into the darkness pressing against the edges of his eyes, she speaks.

"If you want to be yourself again, young warlock, it is simple. You will have to lie with a man." Merlin knows that word, he really does, but it makes no sense. Gwen makes a small, choked off sound behind him and Nimueh's smile gets wider. "And I think we both know who that will have to be, don't we."

She raises her arms and the wind starts to swirl around them, unnatural in its speed and intensity, the way it focuses on Nimueh and leaves Merlin and Gwen alone, for the most part. Nimueh's form begins to shift and waver; Merlin tries desperately to reach his magic, to stop her before she escapes again, but he can't.

"Do this for me and you might even live." Her words reach him through the windstorm, their tone mocking. "Of course, I can't say the same for him."

Her laughter echoes around the hollow as the wind suddenly drops, and with it goes the spell binding Merlin. Magic snaps back into his body, the rush helping clear his head. He pushes himself up onto his hands and takes a deep breath, fervently wishing he'd never set foot in the blasted forest. "Gwen? Are you alright?"

"Am I alright?" She sounds slightly hysterical, but her hands are steady as she helps Merlin sit up. "Merlin, are you—how did—why did—you're a GIRL!"

Merlin looks down and hey, what do you know, he is.

This could take some explaining.
—-

Gwen makes him sit still with his head between his knees, which makes him feel utterly foolish but also helps get rid of the residual dizziness. His trousers are much too tight around his hips, but apart from that Merlin can't tell by simply looking that he's not what he's supposed to be.

Namely, male.

Every movement feels strange and like he doesn't have complete control of himself, which is fun in a sort of bizarre way, right up until it becomes frustrating and makes him fumble the waterskin that Gwen hands him. A few drops of the cold liquid fall onto the bare skin of his wrist where his sleeve has been pushed up, making him jump.

Even that feels like too much.

Merlin wipes the water droplets away angrily and makes a frustrated noise. Gwen still looks stunned, although Merlin isn't exactly sure why. It could be the way Nimueh had vanished, it could be the thought of Merlin with a man, or it could be a combination of the two. "Gwen?"

"Is that something all you magic people can do? Simply...disappear?"

Merlin's mouth gapes for a moment before he shrugs. If he can't trust Gwen, he might as well give up now. "No idea. I can't do that, or at least not yet."

"Right." Gwen looks less stunned, which is a step in the right direction for her, at least. For Merlin, not so much. She nods decisively and turns to face him, hands on her hips. "Now all we need to do is find you a man, which shouldn't be that hard."

"..." says Merlin.

"You're sort of cute, in a skinny, country-girl way." Gwen scrutinises him, which surprisingly wasn't fun when he was male and is even less fun now that she looks like she's eyeing him for the cook pot. "Think you can use that magic of yours to do something about your clothes?"

Merlin nods dumbly and allows Gwen to pull him towards their baskets, where she yanks her cloak out and holds it towards him. "To cover you when we get back to the castle. You might be a girl, but you still look like Merlin, and the less attention we get on the way to Gaius the better."

He's never going to underestimate Gwen again, oh no.

—-

To Merlin's relief, his magic is unaffected. He'd had horrors of it being lessened, or, worse, gone entirely, the feeling of it flooding his body as Nimueh disappeared a figment of his imagination. It wouldn't have been too much to expect for Nimueh to have stolen it along with his original gender, but no, it's still there, a sort of tingling at the edge of his mind as they walk back towards Camelot.

Merlin stretches his fingers experimentally, and looks sideways at Gwen. He doesn't want to scare her, but on the other hand... "Gwen, would you mind if I, uh..."

"Tried some magic?" Oh yeah, never underestimate this woman. "Go ahead. But, Merlin, be careful."

"Right, like I was planning on making it obvious that there's a sorcerer riding towards Camelot."

"Don't you mean sorceress?" There's nothing Merlin can say, or wants to say, to that, so instead he thinks of small things he can do to test his powers. A stain from Gwen's dress slowly vanishes, and a rip in his trousers, now spelled to be much more comfortable around his new hips, knits together after much concentration. Then a low hung branch lifts itself out of Gwen's way, and suddenly the various insects around them can't get close enough to bite.

"Must be useful, being able to do all that," is Gwen's only comment, but although she hides it well, she's impressed. Merlin smiles and calls a bunch of wildflowers from the forest for her, magically tying them (not without difficulty) onto the handle of her basket.

Getting back into Camelot is stupidly easy. Gwen, as Morgana's personal maid, is asked no questions, and the servant accompanying her on a gathering expedition for Gaius earns nothing more than a glance from the guards. It's one of those times, Merlin reflects, where honesty really is the best policy, because it's so ambiguous.

Then she starts talking about the linen cupboard, and dresses, and underclothes, and he wants one of the guards to recognise him so he can get put in the dungeons, away from this clothes fiend who has taken the place of Gwen.

—

His whole body aches, in every possible way. Gaius manages about a minute of sympathy before he's prodding and poking and generally making Merlin feel like one of the physician's experiments. He asks a lot of questions, most of which Merlin can't answer, and finally flings his hands in the air and demands to know what Merlin does know.

"It was Nimueh, it was a spell, it hurt." "That's it?"

"Yes that's it," Merlin shouts, "what else do you want?! I was on the floor and in pain, Gaius, sorry I didn't manage to catch the exact spell she used."

"Now that would have been useful." Gaius either ignores Merlin's near-scream of annoyance, or just doesn't notice; Merlin's betting on the latter, honestly. Gwen lays a calming hand on his shoulder and gently reminds him to breathe.

"Sorry, Gwen."

"How do you feel?" The only thing that keeps Merlin from shouting at her as well is the sincere note of sympathy in her voice. He sighs and crumples into a chair, resting his head on his arms and speaking to the rough wood of Gaius's work table.

"My body has been forced to change genders, Gwen, so I feel pretty ill." That's actually true; Merlin briefly thinks about asking Gaius for a potion to settle his stomach, but that would mean lifting his head so Gaius can hear him, and it's just too much effort. "I'm sore, and I keep thinking I'm going to fall over when I walk, and I think I'm more flexible than before, which is weird."

Gwen sits next to him and replaces her hand on his shoulder, rubbing gently. "You should've said something on the way back, I didn't know it was that bad."

"It wasn't, then. I think I was running on adrenaline."

"Come on then, get this down your neck." Merlin raises his head in time to see Gaius set a mug of something steaming in front of him. The smell of it makes Merlin want to retch, but he's learnt that, generally, the worse Gaius's concoctions smell, the better they work. He reaches out and grasps the mug firmly, determined not to repeat the incident with the water, and downs it in one.

He coughs and splutters but doesn't throw up, and, wonder of wonders, actually starts to feel a little better.

"Right, now that's out of the way, lets think about this." Merlin eyes Gaius balefully as he wipes streaming eyes. "Oh don't look at me like that, it was for your own good."

"It was foul!" Gwen laughs a little, before cutting herself off and looking at Merlin in dismay. "Oh, for goodness sakes Gwen, you can still laugh at me. I'm still Merlin, just, well...a little different."

"Just a little, yes." She laughs properly then, the sound bringing a smile to Merlin's lips. Even Gaius looks amused, before he leans forward and looks serious. Gwen swallows the rest of her laughter, and Merlin braces himself.

"Now then. What are you going to call yourself?"

Things just keep getting even more surreal after that.

—-

Gwen pulls Merlin down to where the seamstresses work, intent on getting him some clothes that will fit properly and - this is the bit that scares him - make him look 'pretty'.

Merlin maybe wants to crawl into a hole and hide for the next hundred years.

When he voices this plan, Gwen just laughs and tells him it "won't be that bad, stop being such a coward." Merlin would tell her that he's plenty brave, thank you very much, but then she comes at him with a measuring string and he squeaks in the most cowardly way possible while edging away.

She ropes in two of the other maids to help her keep Merlin still, which is just as humiliating as it sounds, and finally gets enough measurements to let him sidle over to a chair out of the way of the working women and try to blend into the background. Gwen collects a series of dresses from somewhere and sets about checking them for signs of wear.

"Did you have to do that?"

She doesn't look up from her perusal of a deep blue dress that Merlin actually quite likes the look of, but he can tell she's rolling her eyes. "Don't be such a baby, it was your own fault."

"Why do people keep telling me that?!" Gwen looks up at him sharply.

"Are you—"

"I am not going to cry!" He fights down the prickly feeling at the back of his throat and scowls. Gwen nods slowly and leaves him to it, fingers deft on the fabric.

Slowly the room empties, all the other women leaving for meals or taking mended clothing back to their various master or mistresses. Merlin's own pointed comments about Morgana needing Gwen go unheeded, apart from a pert comment that Morgana is quite capable of fending for herself, and she'll call for Gwen when she's needed.

Merlin acquiesces without further struggle when Gwen holds up one of the dresses, because he's tired and still a bit unstable, and doesn't feel like making this any harder than it already is. Gwen pulls out a screen and hands him the dress, telling him to take as much time as he needs. Merlin stares at it for a goodly time before he drapes it over the top of the screen and sets to work getting his clothes off.

The shirt comes off first, and Merlin surprises himself with the extent of how well he's taking this whole episode. He looks down, takes in the swell of small but curvy breasts, and doesn't faint. He looks again, and still nothing. He lifts one hesitant hand and brushes his fingers over the outer edge, and...yeah, nothing.

Either he's handling this incredibly well, or the shock hasn't hit yet.

All it feels like is a breast. Sure, it's weird because it's his own breast, but honestly, the gryphon was weirder. Merlin shrugs, gets momentarily distracted by what this does to his new chest, and then sets to work on his trousers. The sight of smooth skin under coarse hair, where before there had been something most definitely different, makes him feel a little dizzy but it passes.

The shock should‘ve hit by now, thinks Merlin, and even I could tell Gaius just gave me something for my stomach.

He resigns himself to being pretty much unflappable, and yanks the dress on over his head, stepping put from behind the screen to hand himself over to a patient Gwen.

**

"Do you think that sorceress had anyone in mind for you? I mean, she mentioned it, but not who." Merlin, lost in a daydream of a world where he's happily engrossed in his book of magic and not being fitted for a dress or something equally feminine, answers without thinking.

"Nimueh? Probably Arthur." The sharp pain of a pin in his leg shatters the daydream. "Ow, Gwen, what the hell? Is dressmaking always this painful, or are you taking your anger out on me!?"

She stares up at him incredulously. "Arthur?"

"Wha- oh. Yeah. She has a—thing for trying to kill him by using other people." Gwen nods slowly and goes back to her pinning, although to Merlin's relief she appears to take more care than usual.

"So, what, she hopes you'll spontaneously use magic in the middle of sex and kill him?" That brings it home, really, what the reason for all this is, and Merlin tries desperately not to fall off the small platform Gwen has him standing on.

"Something like that."

Gwen merely says "hmm," whatever that means, and starts working on the hem of Merlin's new dress. Merlin looks down at her head and thanks whatever gods can hear him that he's got a friend like her; anyone else would be mocking him for that remark, whereas Gwen will save it for when he can handle it.

As he turns and feels his skirts brush against his legs, Merlin feels that this is definitely not that time.

—

He gets called into Uther's presence a day later, something he was expecting but still isn't ready for. The receiving chamber looks different somehow, and then Merlin realises that's because it's mostly empty. Most of the knights are still out on their hunting trip, which also explains why he hasn't received any summons from Arthur for the last week—or why Merlin hasn't, at least. The summons was for Mary, cousin of Merlin, and he's having a hard time remembering that.

Uther sits in his throne, the table in front of him covered with the scrolls and tally sheets necessary for the running of a good castle, and he isn't wearing his crown. He looks more like a simple nobleman than the King of Camelot, and, like always when he sees Uther like this, some of the nervousness drains out of Merlin. "You asked to see me, your majesty?"

Oh, gods, he even sounds like a girl. The acoustics in this place make it so much more obvious than in his own room, or in Gwen's, and the nervousness comes crashing back. He twists the material in his hastily-made skirt and waits for Uther to look up. When he does, it's with a softer expression than he's ever looked at Merlin, apart from that first time he'd saved Arthur's life. The nervousness lifts, and for pity's sake, can't his emotions make up their mind?

"Ah, yes. You are Mary, correct? Merlin's cousin?" Merlin nods jerkily. "I understand that he has had to leave us and return to his village. Not more problems with raiders, I hope?" The hint of humour must be accidental, thinks Merlin; there is no way Uther now finds that incident amusing.

"N-no, you majesty. Personal matters. His mother."

Uther nods understandingly. "Say no more." Fine by Merlin; anything more and he'd probably betray himself. "I have been told that you've taken over his work as Gaius's apprentice, which is to be expected, but I am curious to know if you have been informed as to the total extent of your cousin's duties?" Merlin makes to nod his head, than remembers that he wouldn't know, because Arthur has been gone this past week, and shakes it instead. "I thought as much. He also served as manservant to Prince Arthur, duties which you will be expected to take on as well."

"Yes, your majesty." Uther nods, makes a notation on a piece of parchment and gives it to a clerk. Merlin makes to follow him out and flee back to Gaius, but Uther's voice stops him dead.

"If I hear of any misconduct on your part, anything at all, you will be sent back in disgrace and neither you nor your cousin will work in this castle again, do you understand?"

Merlin's sure that every female servant gets this threat, and he's also sure that most of them ignore it. "Of course, my King."

With that he's free, and once out of the door he all but runs for it.

Gwen's waiting for him when he reaches Gaius's quarters, and beams brightly at his thumbs up. Then she looks worried again. Merlin raises his eyebrows questioningly. "Morgana knows. I didn't tell her, but she guessed, somehow."

The news isn't really a shock. Morgana has a way of getting information that may or may not be entirely allowed under the current rules, something Merlin keeps meaning to investigate. "Will she say anything, do you think?"

Gwen shakes her head emphatically. "She told me she wouldn't. It's just, she, well, wants to help."

"...in what way, exactly?" Gwen looks guilty.

"She wants to do the whole 'dressing you up' thing. I never let her help me with that sort of stuff, and I think she wants to show you how to be discreet about the whole maid thing." She says it all in a bit of a rush, and Merlin looks at her suspiciously.

"You told her that Nimueh probably wants me to sleep with Arthur, didn't you."

"Sort of." Merlin glares. "Okay, yes! She already knew about the girl thing, so I figured it wouldn't do any harm!"

"Gwen, she'll either kill me or try to help me, and I'm not sure which would be worse!" The door opens then, making Merlin spin round in sudden fear at how loud his voice has become, and hey, swirling skirts? Kinda nice. It's only Gaius, thankfully, but Merlin makes sure to keep his voice at a normal level when he rounds on Gwen again. "She can help, because she knows, but she can't help."

Gaius frowns at the two of them and clears his throat. "If I may interrupt?" Gwen sighs but nods at Merlin, before they turn to listen. "Gwen, might I suggest you make the most of this time without Arthur to teach Merlin how to be a proper maid, mm?" He makes a weird sort of movement with his eyebrows that Merlin doesn't understand, but apparently Gwen does because she agrees and starts pulling Merlin out of the room.

"Uh, Gwen, what...?"

"Gaius is right. You'll never pass as a girl without some help." Merlin recognises the route through the corridors that they're taking; it leads to Morgana's rooms, which is not where he wants to go at all. He tries to dig his heels in, but the shoes Gwen had found him have softer soles than his usual boots, and are also slightly too big on feet which seem to have shrunk a little, so he can't get any purchase to resist. "Stop it, this is for your own good!"

Merlin sighs dramatically and lets her drag him again. She's usually right about this sort of stuff, it can't hurt.

—

Merlin's wrong.

It can, and does, hurt.

Beside him, Gwen drops gracefully to her knees once more, demonstrating the correct way for a maid to get down in order to tend the fire and stack logs into their basket. She looks up and tugs impatiently on Merlin's skirt, gesturing downwards with her other hand. Merlin drops his shoulders, takes a relaxing breath and drops. Surprisingly, it doesn't hurt. Gwen looks at him proudly. "Well done; that was actually graceful."

"Makes a change." They straighten together—that, at least, Merlin had mastered after the tenth time he tried to drop without bruising himself any further—and Gwen nods her approval. "What's next?" Gwen gives him a funny look.

"You're really not scared, or worried, or anything, are you."

Merlin shrugs. "Nope."

"But why not?" Gwen tugs at a lock of hair curling out from where Merlin's shoved it behind his ear, letting the long strands slip through her fingers as she stares at him. Nimueh's spell had been thorough, but Merlin has still needed to use some of his own magic to make his hair longer otherwise he'd've just looked like Merlin in a dress.

"Because...I'm just not?" Merlin smiles as Gwen rolls her eyes. "I was born with magic, Gwen; I'm used to weird things happening around me."

"Shh!" She flaps her hands at him, looking hastily at the door. Predictably, there's no one there. "You might not want to say that so loudly." It occurs to Merlin that he hasn't thanked Gwen for still trusting him, or for swearing to never tell as they walked back to Camelot, so he rectifies that immediately. Gwen's expression goes soft.

"Never, okay? Not unless you tell me it's alright. Now" she continues briskly, a transparent attempt to break the atmosphere that's threatening to become unreservedly soppy that Merlin loves her for, "walking."

"Walking?"

"Walking," she repeats firmly, grinning at Merlin's confusion. "It's important that you draw as little attention to yourself when performing your duties-"

"Oh, I know that." He just doesn't try that hard. It's so much more fun to annoy Arthur.

"In skirts that swing, and get caught, and tangle around your legs?"

"..."

"Didn't think so. Come on, try and copy me."

Roughly a candlemark later, after Merlin has tripped over his new skirts enough times for any man to have to cope with, Gwen deems him "acceptable, with the potential to be a pretty okay girl." His relief is so obvious she starts giggling and can't stop for quite a while. She wipes away tears as Merlin folds his arms and glares, then takes up a pile of sewing, divides it into half and beckons for Merlin to join her at the table. "You girls have it pretty hard, don't you."

Gwen shrugs. "Sort of. We have to be more careful than you men, that's a given, but Uther doesn't tolerate crude behaviour towards the servants from his knights, which makes it better than some places I've worked." Merlin thinks about that for a while, letting the rhythm of his needle soothe his worries. When he's done with a plain shirt, Gwen takes it off him and inspects it. "This is actually good work. Fine enough for a lady's maid, in fact."

"Can't do everything with magic, you know. Besides, I had to learn how to sew just so I could do some of my chores in Arthur's room. It'd look suspicious if I went somewhere else to do it all."

"Aren't you worried he's going to guess?" Gwen's hands are still on her own ripped shirt, anxiety clear in her voice.

"No. He'll glare at me, ask about the village and then cover it up with a comment about how he hopes I won't be as incompetent as my cousin."

Gwen giggles, and together they set about the pile of mending in earnest. They work in a companionable silence for a while, but Merlin can tell Gwen is trying to figure out how to ask him something. Her brow is furrowed, she's biting her lip and she keeps periodically stopping to stare at her hands.

He sighs. "Gwen, what is it?" She looks up, startled, and smiles sheepishly.

"I was just, well, wondering..."

"Yes?"

"Why don't you...I mean, why haven't you..." She flinches as her preoccupation means the needle jabs into the soft pad of her thumb, blood welling in seconds. Merlin sighs again, tilts his head in a silent request for permission, then applies a little magic. "Thank you. Does Gaius - of course he does. Is he teaching you to do that sort of-"

"Gwen."

"Oh. Um." She shuts her eyes and says, in a rush: "Why haven't you just bedded one of the kitchen boys, or a stablehand, or an apprentice, or...someone like that?"

Merlin makes a strangled noise, staring at Gwen as if she's grown two heads and started breathing fire. "WHAT?!"

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, but you know, you're taking this so well, I thought you'd be alright with just, well, you know."

"Bedding a man when I'm a woman?" Gwen narrows her eyes and uh oh he's underestimated her again. "Say a word and I'll turn you into something unpleasant." She grins, and not in a way that gives Merlin any comfort.

"So, a man when you're a—" Merlin glares and tries to do that thing where his eyes turn gold, which Gaius informs him is very impressive, but he can never seem to do without being on the brink of performing some highly dangerous and highly illegal magic. From the way Gwen keeps on grinning it doesn't work this time either.

He settles for deflection instead, although that might be an equally bad move.

"When I'm ready, Gwen. I don't think Nimueh's going to send anything else our way while she thinks there's the possibility I'm going to do what she wants - which I'm not, by the way, - so it'll take as long as it takes."

"How accepting of you." Merlin shrugs. He hadn't been lying when he'd said he's used to weird things happening to him, and, although he'll never admit it, this isn't the first time he's been a girl.

There was a May Day dance lacking a maiden, and...well. Yeah. The villagers had assumed that he'd used a wig and some subtle padding to stop every young girl in Ealdor descending into a full-scale sulk, but for a few hours he'd been truly female. It's given him a headstart on coping this time around; exploring your body, even if it's not the one you were born with, is a lot easier when you live by a forest.

Lots of places to hide, you see.

"What about if the, the...spell" Gwen takes a look round after she whispers it, and Merlin pokes her arm. "Ow, hey! I'm just saying, what if the spell isn't just aimed at Arthur? What if..."

"It is. Don't ask how, but I know it's only for Arthur." He can feel the tug of warped power every time he and Arthur get a little too close, an insidious thread of magic alongside his own that wants to rip and tear and take and burn and destroy. Merlin has to take a deep breath, force it down. Merlin opens his eyes to see Gwen looking at him, concern filling her warm eyes.

She doesn't say anything, just rests her arm over his shoulders and waits. When he takes a shuddering breath all she does is squeeze his shoulder, then points out where he's going wrong with his sewing.

By the time Morgana returns from...wherever she's been all day, the atmosphere is restored, the mending is finished, and Gwen is trying to teach Merlin how to walk in a more feminine way. Morgana sweeps in just as Gwen tells Merlin "hips, Merlin, move your hips!", and immediately sets about helping.

If life could get any weirder, Merlin would never like to find out.

—

Sir Gareth is one of the few knights at Camelot that Merlin can stand being around, which makes it less uncomfortable being stuck in the armoury with him. The servants tasked with replacing the tapestries in Arthur's rooms had unceremoniously kicked Merlin out, or rather kicked Mary out, so they didn't have to work around him. Merlin could have offered to do it for them, and then done it in five seconds flat with magic, but instead he'd gathered up the heap of spare armour Arthur had demanded he clean 'just in case' and decamped to here.

Which is where Sir Gareth had found him. Her. Whatever Merlin classifies himself as these days. The point is, he'd sat down with his sword and whetstone, politely asking if Merlin minded the company. He's a third son, which would usually make Merlin avoid him like the plague, because third sons usually have the most to prove, but Gareth doesn't seem all that bad so far. He doesn't send Merlin on pointless tasks, for one thing, and he's polite when he genuinely needs something doing.

Merlin smiles a little and shakes his head, going back to his work. Sir Gareth works on the blade of his sword with sure, even strokes, and start asking Merlin about his village, and then what he thinks of Camelot, and around the time Merlin is laughing at a tale concerning Arthur, two chickens and a very confused Uther, Merlin realizes he's being gently courted. Merlin finds he doesn't mind all that much, and lets it carry on.

When he finishes with Arthur's armour, Gareth (he got told to drop the title half an hour into their conversation) offers to help him carry it back ready for the morning. Merlin isn't sure whether accepting is the proper thing to do, but he's tired and the armour is heavy, so sod it. Arthur isn't there when they enter, which is definitely a good thing because Merlin can't stop smiling.

He turns the smile on Gareth, to see what effect it has. He feels even bouncier when Gareth's own smile deepens, and takes Merlin's hand. "It was a pleasure to speak with you, miss."

He bows and kisses the back of Merlin's hand gently, and oh god Merlin needs to see Gwen now. He's getting way out of his depth here. Luckily that seems to be the end of it, as Gareth leaves without further ado. Inspection of his present emotional state convinces Merlin that no, he didn't mind the advances at all, and no, being a girl isn't all that bad.

Take that, Nimueh, he thinks, I‘ve found someone else!

—-

The cramps hit around two weeks into Merlin's forced femininity, along with a Gwen who can't decide whether she wants to be sympathetic or vindictive. Sympathy only wins out after Merlin uses his magic to increase the potency of the elixir she tells him most women take 'at this time' by tenfold, and he's grateful for it. Women, he reasons, are what hold the castle together, and if they can work through this then so can he.

It doesn't stop him from moaning to Gwen about it, though, or making sure the honey supply in the kitchens will never run out.

He's bitchier than usual to Arthur when getting him up, and a little more abrupt when putting his armour on. A part of his mind tells him it's really not a good idea to let this show, but the other part, the part that remembers when it didn't have to go through this every month, tells it to shut up and yanks a strap roughly. Arthur, for his part, has obviously never been exposed to a woman who doesn't hide how irritated the tiniest things make her, all because of a biological impulse.

After his third awkward attempt at offering to finish the armour himself, Merlin smiles ruefully and fastens the sword belt around Arthur's waist with a practiced efficiency. 'Sorry; I'll be alright once I've been to see Gaius. Sire ."

Arthur nods and practically runs from the room, leaving Merlin shaking with badly suppressed laughter and an even greater respect for the females among the castle staff.

—-

The cramps, and accompanying bleeding (oh, god, the bleeding) only last for a few days, but Merlin feels unbalanced for a whole week afterwards. He spends a lot of time with Gwen and the other maids watching them and learning how to not hit someone or burst into tears at the slightest provocation, something Merlin had thought was simply men being disparaging about their wives but which does occasionally happen.

He spends an equally large amount of time locked in his room trying not to set anything on fire.

He gets through it by constantly reminding himself that it's only temporary, and he should bear it without complaint because Gwen and Morgana have to deal with this year in, year out. Sir Gareth helps an inordinate amount by bringing him little treats, mostly sweetmeats begged from the kitchens, and sits with him as Merlin works on Arthur's armour.

It's on one such occasion that Gareth finally does what Merlin has resigned himself to wanting, and kisses him. Her. Whatever. Anyway, it's all ludicrously sweet and clichéd; Merlin brushes his grown-out bangs out of his eyes and ends up with a smudge of polish on his cheek, which leads to Gareth leaning in to wipe it away, and then...

Gareth's mouth is warm and soft against Merlin's own, his arm firm but gentle as he slides it around Merlin's waist. He doesn't press any further than a flick of his tongue against Merlin's lower lip to begin with, which is fine because it gives Merlin a chance to get used to the whole being kissed by a man-while-actually-a-woman thing. Perhaps unsurprisingly, he finds he doesn't care about it. Merlin moves his hands over Gareth's chest and up, curling them over broad shoulders and pulling the knight in a little closer.

Merlin can feel the pleased sound Gareth makes against his own chest, and it makes something bright and warm flare low in his stomach. It makes him bold, makes him open his mouth and initiate a tentative slid of tongue against tongue. It's toe-curlingly good, and then they get interrupted.

Someone, most likely a servant, rounds the corner into the armoury, drops a sword with a shocking clatter, stammers an apology and runs. Merlin reluctantly breaks away and smiles up at Gareth, conscious of his swollen lips and the way his hair seems to be messier than usual.

"I should probably, you know, get back to that. Um." Merlin gestures to the pile of armour he still has to clean and tries not to smile like an idiot. From the look on Gareth's face he's pretty sure he fails.

"Of course. Until later then, miss." Gareth gives him a final, soft kiss, then steps back as Merlin touches his fingers to reddened lips.

"Me- Mary. It's, ah, Mary."

Gareth's eyes crinkle with the size of his smile, and Merlin becomes aware that he's just gone another step down this road without meaning to, or even realising. "Until later, Mary." Gareth bows low as he speaks, which Merlin is very grateful for because he starts blushing, but manages to hide it by pretending to be focusing on his work as Gareth walks briskly out of the room.

Only when the sounds of his footsteps have faded does Merlin put aside the armour with shaking hands and run to find Gwen—although he has the presence of mind to move the abandoned sword onto a table first.

—-

Gwen reacts in the way Merlin had expected her to, honestly. She grins, claps her hands and immediately calls Morgana to tell her everything.

Merlin will kill her one day, if he can get away with it.

"Wait a moment," says Morgana, "I thought you were supposed to seduce Arthur?" Merlin feels the exasperation rising.

"I'm not going to seduce Arthur! It'd be wrong, and weird, and I'm not going to play into her hands like that."

"But-"

"Morgana, no."

"Gwen said-"

"Would you want to seduce Arthur?" Merlin points out when Morgana goes to argue again, and feels victorious when she clamps her mouth shut and looks uncomfortable. "Didn't think so. Look, this is just another one of Nimueh's twisted plans, so for all I know she could've been lying about the whole, you know," he waves a hand awkwardly.

"Sex thing?" Gwen supplies, grinning.

"Yes, that, thank you."

"Just trying to help." They both nod earnestly at him, making Merlin feel as if he's being ganged up on. "Well," continues Gwen briskly, "even if you aren't going to get Arthur, we can make sure you get someone."

"Uh oh." Merlin has the feeling that although he's pretty comfortable being a girl, the things Gwen and Morgana are planning to do to him are going to bring the discomfort right back again. They circle him like a pair of predators, talking about fabrics and patterns and things they say he needs to learn, like how to flirt, because apparently even though Gareth seems 'interested', you can never be too careful.

It's all a bit much for Merlin, and he finds himself wishing he were outside and sparring with Arthur, getting bruised black and blue, trading insults and breathlessly sarcastic comments.

It'd be painful, but at least Arthur's never tried to put cosmetics on him.

Part Two

Not Quite Mary Poppins

Fri, 19 Dec 2008 18:58:01 GMT

This is my first foray out of American fandoms in about two years, not counting that tiny Colin/Bradley ficlet I did a little while ago. It's the second of my two Merlin fics (so far), but the first one I've managed to finish. The other is at 27,000 words and climbing, so have this one in the meantime.

Title: Not Quite Mary Poppins
Pairing: Arthur/Merlin
Rating: PG-13
Summary: The one where Merlin is a nanny, Arthur’s both a prat and a normal human being, Morgana schemes and Uther does relatively little.
Wordcount: 7,564
A/N: Huge thanks to caedesdeo for the prompt and excellent beta, and for not running away screaming when I poked her (she’ll learn). Also for reminding me about childproof caps on children’s medicine bottles *looks sheepish*
Please tell me if I sound too American; I’ve been writing in American for so long that it’s difficult for me to tell if it came through in this.

"It is a truth universally acknowledged that a single man in possession of a young son must be in want of a nanny."

"Gwen, could you stop butchering poor Jane Austen and help me pick out a jacket?"

As far as beginnings go, it isn't a very good one, but then again that's actually pretty fitting. Not all epic tales have an auspicious start, and the ones that do, well. We all remember Romeo and Juliet, right? So, perhaps it's for the better for Merlin to have such a horrible feeling about this interview, the sort that makes him despair over his jackets and mutter in Welsh about how it'd look like he's trying too hard if he does take those references from the owner of Ealdor Agricultural Supplies with him after all.

Gwen, his friend, his bestest friend in the whole entire world who is helping to keep him sane long enough to get through this, removes the suit jacket in his hand with a sigh and replaces it with a much more casual blue blazer. "There. Much better."

"Thanks." He can't stop himself sounding small and pathetic.

"Honestly, Merlin, anyone would think you're nervous."

"It's Arthur Pendragon. You do remember that stuff with his father last month, right?" He sounds slightly desperate, hoping Gwen will say 'yes' and then tell him not to go because she doesn't want him to be eaten alive for not being who he's supposed to be (never mind that they don't know who he's supposed to be, but he can't help thinking he isn't it.)

"Yes." Merlin's hopes soar. "And this isn't him, and you aren't a company being taken over." His hopes crash like so many have done before.

"It wasn't a takeover, it was a massacre!" Gwen slings his messenger bag over his shoulder, pulls his limp arm through the strap and pushes him towards the door. "A ma-"

"Massacre, yes, we've established that. Look, if you don't get out of here and into the car I won't be around the next time you need someone to keep you sane." Merlin shuts up and gets into the car, Gwen giving off vibes that he'd think are smug were she not such a nice person.

A nice person who delivers him to his doom, otherwise known as the Pendragon estate. It's a stupidly large house set in parkland (parkland!), with what are apparently deer roaming over the driveway. Merlin stares. Gwen stares - although hopefully also keeping an eye on where she's driving.

"Okay, you have to get this job just so that my excuse for being late to work is 'I was navigating the five miles of driveway to Pendragon House'."

Merlin buries his face in his hands and prays for a miracle or three.

Not surprisingly, none are forthcoming.

———

"I just don't see why you feel it's necessary to hire a nanny, that's all!" The woman who opens that door after Merlin's yank on the stupidly ornate bell-pull is beautiful, in a sort of terrifying way. She turns around in a flourish of glossy hair and expensive silk, and by virtue of Merlin standing two steps down he ends up on eye level with her equally terrifying cleavage.

"Can I help you?" Behind her surprisingly polite question Merlin can see confusion; clearly, whoever she was waiting for, it's not him.

"I'm Merlin Emrys?"

Her eyebrows lift. Merlin waits for the rebuttal. "From the Albion Agency?"

"Yes?" He will stop talking in questions some day soon, he promises himself, and resists the urge to turn around because the sight of Gwen's car vanishing down the driveway would be too depressing.

"You're the new nanny then." Merlin nods, about to apologise (it became automatic after the fifth family who expected a nanny and got a guy with messy hair and too large ears instead), but gets beaten to it by the woman. "I'm so sorry, you'd better come in."

"I- oh. Okay."

The house, like the bell-pull, is stupidly ornate. Far too many painted eyes follow Merlin as he follows the scary lady (You're not the child, Merlin, stop saying that) across an entrance hall he's fairly sure could be marked out and used to play tennis in and into a surprisingly cozy sitting room.

That she yelled from the door to here and was heard is evident as the man waiting there re-starts the argument where they'd left off when the woman had gone to open the door. He apparently doesn't notice Merlin standing behind her, because his first words are:

"Because Sophia is a heartless, backstabbing betrayer who would probably like to kill me, and Gawain needs a female influence in his life that isn't her or you. Hence the nanny."

Merlin counts himself lucky that looks have never swayed his opinion about someone, because this guy is absolutely gorgeous, and yet Merlin still thinks he's a prat.

"You didn't leave her out in the hall, did you?" He glares. Merlin bites his lip to stop the smile tugging at his lips. If he does get the job, this is going to a lot of fun. "Morgana, if you've scared her away already-"
"Arthur, meet Merlin Emrys. Gawain's new nanny." She steps aside, Arthur sees Merlin, and that, as they say, is when it all goes to hell.

——

"The only reason I'm still here, and I mean that, is because I think your sister would disembowel me if I ran away." Merlin waves a piece of paper detailing times for Gawain's summer fencing lessons at Arthur and glares. Arthur glares back, arms folded in a way he probably thinks is menacing. "And, also, how much stuff did you sign your kid up for?"

"Step-sister, not that it's ever really mattered." Arthur shifts, looking the faintest bit uncomfortable. "And he needs stuff to do, when I'm not around."

Merlin raises his eyebrows. "There's got to be at least seven clubs here. Are you planning to be around at all?"

"Yes," Arthur snaps, "I'm not going to abandon him with you."

"But you'd abandon him with some woman?"

Arthur splutters in the face of such logic. "Well, yes, I mean, no, but, look, you're a man!"

"And you're a prat. Are we done stating the obvious?"

"I'm your employer, technically you can't talk to me like that!"

"Do you want to fire me and have Morgana after you?" Merlin takes a grim satisfaction at the look of abject horror on Arthur's face and returns to his heap of papers. "Horse riding? Piano? Archery? Ballroom dancing? Do you want him to be bullied or be the bully?!"

"I don't know what he likes," says Arthur, and Merlin would swear he sounds defensive. Deciding, in an obviously saintly moment, to let it go, he sighs.

"I'm going to need to make a proper schedule for him at this rate. Is there anything else you've got planned for him, like seeing any friends, or his mother-"

"No," interrupts Arthur, "that won't be an issue. Just those, and a weekly dinner with my father. His assistant will call to tell us when."

"Right. In that case, shove off while I get started." Merlin drags his laptop out of his bag and grins up at Arthur, who ignores the command and nods questioningly towards the computer. "Gwen - the girl who dropped me off - made me bring it. Thought it might be useful."

"Right." Arthur watches him for a while, seemingly content to lean against the fireplace as Merlin starts tackling Gawain's list of clubs and activities into something understandable. It's a little off-putting, but Merlin tries to tune him out, and eventually Arthur must decide he's had enough of watching the new nanny mutter Welsh swear words as he struggles to read the handwritten notes in various margins because he leaves.

Merlin waves a hand over his head in acknowledgment of the half-amused "there's something about you, Merlin. I can't quite put my finger on it" that Arthur sends his way as he goes, and makes a note to ask the boy if he even likes horses.

It always pays to pre-empt a terrifying situation, after all. Merlin briefly wishes he'd managed to do it with this one.

—-

Gwen looks sympathetic as she listens to Merlin about the ridiculous demands Arthur has for his son, all the little things like no TV after seven, and two hours of piano practice before he can go run wild in the stupidly large gardens.

Everything about Pendragon House, and the Pendragons themselves, is stupid, it seems.

Gwen points this out. "And you said Arthur's hair is stupid. What have you got against him already?"

"He doesn't want me there. It's Morgana that thinks a male nanny is a good idea, apparently. I think she thinks Gawain's been traumatised by his mother."

"Well, she was a bit...you know." Merlin nods but keeps silent, finding himself already planning the next day's schedule. "See, I knew you'd like this job."

"What?"

Gwen grins. "You've got that look on your face, the 'I'm planning a schedule' look. I don't know why you waste it on children, you'd be an amazing personal assistant. Not that you're a bad nanny, of course, I don't mean that, but-"

"I know, Gwen." Merlin curls up even smaller on his sofa, casting a look at his laptop which is glowing bright because he'd just lowered the lid when Gwen came over, the spreadsheet currently making glorious sense out of Gawain's summer waiting for him. "But you see how badly I'm getting along with Arthur, right? And that's one parent; imagine what I'd be like dealing with the amount of people a PA does."

Gwen pretends to wince, smiling. "Fair enough."

"And, alright, he's not that bad. I think he just isn't sure how to act like a human being."
"Can you blame him, with a dad like Uther Pendragon?"

There's not really much Merlin can say to that.

--—-

The next day goes much smoother, and if that's only because Gawain is there to act as a buffer (not that he knows it) between Merlin and Arthur, then Merlin has high hopes for this job.

Gawain is five years old and the spitting image of his father, although with a much better set of manners. Blond hair, blue eyes and a deceptively sweet smile make Merlin both cautious for future heartbroken five year old girls and wary of making Arthur smile like that. He looks carefully, when Arthur's not around, for any traces of the woman Arthur seems to hate so much, but can't find any.

He's not sure whether to be relieved about that yet.

In a quirk of fate that makes Merlin grin happily and just a little victoriously at Arthur over Gawain's head, Gawain seems to love him on sight. Within moments of introducing himself as 'Merlin, your new nanny' (bracing himself for the childish mocking), he's being asked a series of questions about wizards, and magic, and has he got an umbrella that lets him fly? Merlin grins even wider and answers with increasingly silly things, just to make Gawain giggle.

A phone call takes Arthur away for a good half hour, and when he comes back Merlin is teaching Gawain how to say please and thank you in Welsh, much to the boy's delight. Merlin's aware of Arthur watching, but does nothing to let on that he knows; something makes him want to keep that curiously soft expression on Arthur's face.

It's gone between one badly mangled 'ddiolch 'ch' and another, and Arthur clears his throat. "I have to go see my father; will you be alright here?"

Merlin isn't entirely sure who he's talking to, but Gawain answers for both of them. "We'll be fine, Dad." He looks up at Merlin with a serious expression once Arthur's gone, and scrutinises him carefully. Merlin holds still, well aware that how a child acts in front of their parents is not how they might act when alone with the nanny. "He likes you."

That's... not what he was expecting. "Do you like me?"

"Yeah," Gawain says with a shrug, "but not like Dad does." He watches Merlin flail at that, then hops down off his chair. "Come on, I'll show you my room."

"Were all you Pendragons precocious?" It's a rhetorical question directed towards one of the portraits hanging on the wall as Gawain pulls him up the stairs, but Merlin isn't surprised when the boy answers.

"Pretty much. Grandfather says Dad was worse than I am." He sounds awed.

Merlin doesn't doubt it.

--—-

Morgana is comfortably ensconced in one of the sitting rooms at Pendragon House, quite peaceful and content with a magazine, when Arthur wanders in and starts talking without any regard for whether she wants to talk or not. "He's got references from Ealdor. The agricultural company."

"Yes, Arthur."

"And Lord Bedevere, that guy who's always trying to get you to go flying. He's worth millions."

"Yes, Arthur. So are you."

"How did Merlin get references from them?"

Morgana sighs heavily and gives up on her magazine, her peace, and possibly Arthur's intelligence. "He worked for them, that's how."

"But this is Merlin. He can't even make toast without burning it." Morgana knows this. She knows because the fire alarm was still going off when she arrived for her daily session of annoying Arthur, finding all three of them in the kitchen. Arthur had been glaring, hands on hips, at a sheepish Merlin, while Gawain raced around making noises like a fire engine.

"But he can organise Gawain's summer stuff, make a non-burnt packed lunch, make sure he's got the right equipment and keep you on time for whatever meetings you've got, right?" Arthur shrugs, somehow managing to make it look grudging. "There's a reason he's one of the most sought after nannies in the country, you know."

"... He is?"

Morgana stares up at him. Arthur blinks down at her. "Did you not read his resume? My my, you are getting lax."

"I forgot." Morgana keeps looking at him. Arthur doesn't just forget to read a resume, and definitely not for someone who'll be working so close to him. "Besides, Gawain likes him, so it doesn't matter."

"Ah. Gawain likes him. Of course. You know," she stands up and taps him on the arm with her rolled-up magazine, "he's also gay."

"How the hell do you know that?! I'm pretty sure it's not on his resume. And why are you telling me," he adds belatedly, but Morgana has already started smirking.

"I have my sources." It's time, she thinks, leaving Arthur to worry about what else she's going to discover and/or say, to take Bedevere up on his offer. She feels like flying today.

--—-

The summer passes in an alarmingly pleasant way. Gawain takes to all of his classes, including ballroom dancing, with a show of talent Merlin can't help but attribute to his father. Once Merlin figures out that Arthur is capable of being a normal human being, and how exactly to make him act like it on a regular basis, he lets himself relax and concentrate on Gawain.

It's the day before Gawain goes to school for the first time, and Merlin is not a little surprised at his unconcerned attitude. "I went to preschool for a year already," shrugs Gawain when Merlin asks if he's nervous, "and some of the kids at my summer classes'll be there too."

Seeing the school he's starting at Merlin doesn't doubt it. Sitting in the warm kitchen with Arthur, both of them sorting through piles of papers, Merlin asks: "He's going to the Camelot Academy?"

Arthur must mistake the curious tone for something else, because his voice has that weirdly defensive tone Merlin hasn't heard since they first met. "Yeah. Something wrong?"

"No, no, not at all. It's just a bit, well, elite."

"What the hell do you know about it?" The you're just a nanny goes unsaid, but Merlin flinches anyway. Arthur sets his pen down with too much force, sending it skittering away to clatter to the floor. "I'm sorry, that was uncalled for."

"Just a bit, yeah." Arthur won't meet his gaze. "It's fine, don't worry about it."

"It's not fine, Merlin; I shouldn't talk to a friend like that," Arthur says fiercely, at last meeting Merlin's eyes with what he'd swear is pride. It makes sense, knowing Arthur's inability to apologise for anything, and takes the sting away from his snappish remark. Then; "We are... right?"

"Yes, although how I can be friends with such a prat I'll never understand." Arthur grins, the same sunny grin as Gawain, and Merlin does not look at the strip of skin exposed as Arthur leans down to pick up his pen.
"How do you know about it, though? I thought Bedevere's kid went to that boarding school, Avalon Somewhere, and everyone knows that Ealdor woman homeschools hers."

Merlin blinks. "You read my resume?" Arthur gives him a well-honed 'you're a moron' look. They both have them, and both use them a lot. "Right, right, sorry. Well, I worked for Dr. Gaius for a while, until his daughter started at Camelot."

"Did you ever find out his last name?"

Merlin laughs. "No, oddly enough." Arthur joins in, papers abandoned as he leans back in his chair, hands laced behind his head.

"You'd think, being one of the most prominent doctors in the country, that someone would know his last name. Hey, wait, what's the daughter's surname?"

"No such luck; she uses her mother's maiden name."

"Ah well, never mind," Arthur sighs, still smiling. "Who else?"

"That's, um, that's it. Just them."

"You're a rubbish liar, Merlin. That sort of disgust at an elite school only comes from knowing someone awful who has a kid there, I know it. Now, tell."

Merlin tries to ignore the teasing note in Arthur's voice and pretends to be focused on Gawain's uniform list as he replies. "I worked for Nimueh du Lac for a while." The silence is deafening. "She, ah, fired me."

"I know," says Arthur tightly. "I think most people know that, I just didn't realise that that nanny was...you." Merlin very carefully doesn't look up, waits for Arthur to carry this on. After a pause in which Merlin may possibly pray to any and all gods he can think of, and also Gwen for good measure, Arthur speaks. "I'm glad she did. Otherwise I- Gawain wouldn't have you around."

The grin spreads across Merlin's face as Arthur abruptly pushes his chair back, scraping over the stone floor, and vanishes into the depths of the house.

Yep, definitely a good summer.

--—-

They hit the first school-related snag about three weeks in, just before the October half term. Arthur, for all his insane workaholic tendencies, made it clear that he, not Merlin, will pick Gawain up from school each afternoon and the clubs that Gawain (of his own volition this time) has already joined.

Merlin is pleasantly surprised to find that Arthur remembers to do this every day without fail, even if he's had a five hour business meeting with his father and various board members.

Until one day he doesn't, and Merlin gets a call from a very worried headmistress (Camelot Academy believes in preferential service, apparently) that "Gawain is still waiting to be picked up, is everything alright at home?"

It's the first time Merlin hits Arthur, and to this day neither of them really know how they end up fighting, just that when they turn up to collect a sulky Gawain Arthur has a black eye and Merlin's got a split lip.
They're both grinning like idiots.

Much later, once Gawain has been placated with promises of a new set of encyclopaedias - Merlin heartily approves, because it isn't something else sharp and pointy for him to juggle with book bags and lunchboxes - Arthur quietly confides that Sophia had called.

Merlin looks at him, the flicker of the film they were watching until Arthur spoke lending his face an ethereal quality. "What did she want?" Time was it would've been inappropriate for him to ask that, but too many early mornings getting a sleepy Gawain ready for school and a sleepier Arthur ready for work (not strictly his job, but Merlin's conscience doesn't like letting him inflict morning Arthur on anyone else) has trained them out of such things as propriety.

That, and their fist-fight that afternoon.

"To see him." Arthur stretches; Merlin starts to look away, then thinks what the hell, it's dark. "Why now I haven't got a bloody clue; it's been two years."

"Are you gonna let her?"

He's silent for a long moment. Anyone else and Merlin would reach out, ground them with a comforting hand against the peculiar quality in the air that's making them lean in towards each other. Then;

"I don't know. I'll see what he wants to do."

"Precocious as he is, he'll probably be able to give you a bullet-pointed list of the pros and cons." Arthur laughs, the thread of tension that's been building snapping. Merlin sighs quietly and suggests another film.

Arthur must be more distracted than he's admitting, because he doesn't put up a fight when Merlin suggests Moulin Rouge out of sheer mischief.

--—-

One week, two days until Christmas, and Arthur decides to start the apparently obligatory 'needle the nanny about his sex life' questioning. It's happened to Merlin in every job he's had, once it comes out one way or another that he's gay, whether by slightly uncomfortable parents or slightly too interested ones.

At least Arthur pretends he doesn't know, although it doesn't last long because by this time Merlin can tell when he's lying. The conversation goes something like this:

"So, will you be bringing Gwen to the Christmas party?"

"No, because I wasn't planning on going myself."

At this point Arthur blinks at him, as if he didn't know this, hadn't been told it every day since informing Merlin about the giant party the Pendragons throw every year, and leans forward with an endearingly earnest expression on his face. "Merlin, it's a tradition."

"So is burning witches, and I don't see anyone prodding me into taking part in that." Merlin finishes wrapping a present for one of Gawain's teachers and reflects how fun it is to confuse Arthur, not that it takes much.

"Wha- you know, Merlin, sometimes I really don't get you."

"Good. Makes things more interesting."

Hmm," Arthur says, which could mean anything. Merlin keeps quiet. "Well? You're part of the family now, albeit an idiotic part who can't even curl ribbon properly, give me that." He leans over the low coffee table that they're kneeling either side of and steals the ribbon, the scissors and the present from Merlin. "And it's family tradition that we all bring our better halves to the stupidly over-the-top Christmas party."

Merlin chokes on the eggnog Gawain had insisted on making. Non-alcoholic, sadly. "And you think...me and Gwen?"

Arthur does a surprisingly good impression of clueless. "Yes? Why, did you break up?" Merlin senses he's about to be shown an attempt at an impression of pity for the non-existent ending to a non-existent relationship, and tilts his cup at Arthur.

"Stop it. I know you know I'm gay - Morgana let it slip - so enough of the frankly ridiculous pretending. I'm not going to the damn party." Arthur's next impression is of a fish, and not a terribly attractive one at that. Merlin grins and gets a faceful of ribbons.

"Okay, okay, fine. I was just trying to be..."

"Annoying?"

"Understanding, giving you a chance to tell me yourself."

"Riight. Wasn't so you could see if Gwen's available, of course." Arthur is the very image of Gawain getting caught sneaking extra snacks after dinner, and Merlin ends up rolling on the floor, unable to stop laughing. Arthur waits it out with another one of their shared expressions, this one more of a 'you're a moron and I don't know what's going on so I'll just leave you to it' face.

"Done?"

Merlin wipes away a tear or two. "Yes, thank you."

"I wasn't wondering about Gwen." Merlin just looks at him. "...well, maybe I was, but not for me! One of my friends is, well. Single."

"As much as I think she'd appreciate being set up with one of your friends - that is, she'd never forgive me for allowing it to happen - she's got a boyfriend. Lance. I think you'd like him, actually, he's into fencing and all that stuff."

"Why don't you invite them then? They'd be more than welcome to bring some sanity to the party."
"Sure." Merlin smiles and makes a note on his hand, carefully not watching the way Arthur watches him. They fall silent as Arthur expertly curls ribbons and fastens them to the tops of the pile of presents Merlin has already wrapped, while Merlin writes cards for Gawain to sign when he wakes up.

It's almost embarrassingly domestic, to the point where Merlin thinks he should put on one of the awfully cheesy Christmas CD's Gwen hid in his bag as a joke. Arthur senses it too, and starts laughing, eyes bright and reflecting the inexpertly hung (courtesy of Gawain, Merlin and a stepladder) lights on the (stupidly ornate) tree.

He could get used to this, thinks Merlin, and straight away loses a bit of his happiness.

Nannies don't last long enough to get this domestically comfortable, usually.

--—-

It's inevitable that Gwen and Morgana will get along like they've known each other forever, because that's just the way Arthur's luck runs. Merlin had warned him that this might happen, had said it with that teasing glint in his eye that made Arthur want to kiss him senseless sometimes and at others make him laugh until he cries.

It's just, he didn't expect them to be this obvious about it. Mistletoe and jokes about the von Trapp family are just so clichéd, somehow, and certainly not at the same level as Morgana's usual schemes. Although, actually, thinking about that, Arthur decides to be glad; this way he can see the traps coming and apply avoidance tactics.

He manages fine until he's carrying a heap of precariously balanced presents into the larger sitting room, grumbling about his father's insistence on bringing their gifts on the actual day. He always ends up stowing whatever large box Gawain receives under their tree long after all the other packages are neatly arranged, which is annoying.

There's a mild commotion in the room as hands from behind grab his waist and stop him in the doorway, and Arthur cringes. He can't see what's going on, vision blocked by the monstrosity Uther's bought for his grandson this year, but he can guess. By the strength of the person holding him it's Morgana, which means the person guiding (dragging) a confused Merlin towards them is sweet Gwen, who Arthur is now regretting introducing to his step-sister.

"Go on then, it's traditional!"

"Morgana-" Arthur tries to shift the box slightly to stop his voice being muffled. It doesn't work, mostly because he doesn't want it to end up on his foot. "It's only traditional if the people don't realise, not if they get press-ganged underneath."

He doesn't expect Merlin's laughter, or for the present to be carefully taken out of his hands. Merlin is there, flushed from helping Cook and smiling like he's the happiest he's ever been. "Don't be such a spoilsport, Arthur."

He definitely doesn't expect Merlin to lean in and press a kiss to his cheek, still grinning, before whirling away to deposit the present and carry on with whatever he was doing before they got grabbed.

Arthur stares. "Close you mouth, he didn't even use tongue," says Morgana, letting him go. She sounds inordinately pleased with herself.

"Saving that for after dinner," Merlin yells back from wherever he's gone, laughter in his voice, "I wouldn't want to shock him too much."

After that lunch seems a bit anticlimactic.

--—-

Gawain really doesn't want to go back to school in the New Year, and Arthur quite agrees with him. He still feels hungover from the party his friends had thrown to celebrate, even though he knows that's impossible. It could have something to do with the way Merlin still looks at him with a reproachful air, and Arthur desperately wants to know what he said or did when he got back at four am and proceeded to crash around until Merlin forcibly sent him to bed.

He gets over it, mostly, until Gwen comes to pick Merlin up one afternoon about a week later and chats to Arthur while they wait for him to finish whatever he's doing with Gawain. She smiles and talks about odd things, the sort of conversation Arthur's never really had because his father always wants there to be a purpose to talking.

Merlin's getting him used to it, slowly, with his ramblings and constant dashes from one topic to another.
"How was your New Year then?" She's smiling, probably expecting more of the alarmingly domestic behaviour she's witnessed over Christmas.

"Gawain stayed with my father, which is a normal thing, and I went to a party organised by some old friends of mine. I got so drunk it sometimes still feels like my stomach never wants to see solid foods again." The smile drops off Gwen's face.

"What about Merlin?"

Arthur frowns. "What about him? I thought he celebrated with you, like he said he always does."
"Lance took me away to Scotland for the entire weekend." They look at each other, and Arthur can practically hear the accusation in her eyes. "He was alone over New Year's?!"

"I-I didn't realise, I thought..." stammers Arthur. He doesn't actually know what he thought, just that he's getting the horrible feeling he missed something. Gwen's glaring at him, and he lets her; the tight feeling in his chest won't really let him do anything else.

Merlin comes flying down the stairs in his usual gangly way, sliding a little on the polished stone floor as he rushes over to where they're both leaning against a side of the huge doorway. "Sorry, maths homework was kicking both our asses. Ready?"

"Yep. Come on." Arthur watches them leave, Gwen still obviously angry with him. He's too busy wondering when Merlin stopped touching him to notice. When exactly they started resting a hand on the other's shoulder or back when one of them leaves, or even something so simple as a fleeting brush of hands when trading papers or whatever, Arthur can't pinpoint, but they have.

Arthur stays motionless, head bowed as he thinks deeply. He's almost sure Merlin hasn't touched him for a few weeks - longer than New Year, anyway - but any reason for it still eludes him.

He's still trying to work out what he can do to apologise and get Merlin touching him again without sounding too pathetic when Gawain wanders in for a drink, his tousled hair making it obvious that he and Merlin were more likely on the PlayStation than doing maths homework.

Gawain gets halfway out of the room before turning and saying, with all the drama of a five year old who thinks all adults are idiots, "he pretends like he doesn't mind, but he did really."

"I screwed up, didn't I." Gawain nods and clambers up to sit on the edge of the table. He's not strictly allowed, but Arthur knows Merlin lets him when he's making pancakes (his speciality, and now Gawain's favourite). Arthur gets the feeling his son is about to cross into much more important territory than the issue of Merlin's more relaxed rules.

"Yep. You like him, don't you."

There's no point in arguing; not only is Gawain ridiculously precocious, he's also perceptive. "I shouldn't, but I do."

"Why shouldn't you?" Precocious, yes, but he's still five.

"Because it'd be complicated. He works for me," Arthur explains, "and that puts him in an awkward position if I say anything about it."

Gawain shrugs. "So fire him." He says it with unshakable logic, as it appears to a five year old. "Then he can be my dad instead of my nanny." Arthur gapes, half-expecting to hear Merlin telling him to shut his mouth, he's not catching frogs. "That'd be good for everyone, except maybe granddad."

He abruptly hops down and runs off in typical five year old fashion, no doubt to carry on playing video games, leaving Arthur stunned into absolute silence and wondering if getting custody was a good idea after all.

An image of Sophia comes unwanted into his mind, permanently elegant and perfectly dressed without a crease, and it's joined by one of a ruffled Merlin dodging Arthur as he races to get Gawain's things ready for fencing.

Arthur's glad Gawain's not around to hear the groan he lets out. The boy would probably misinterpret (probably purposefully) and make a comment far beyond his years.
He's well and truly head-over-heels for the nanny.

——

The day after Arthur sends Gawain away to his room as soon as they get back from school, promising him takeaway pizza (something never usually allowed) so long as he stays out of the way for the rest of the evening. Gawain complies a little too fast for Arthur's peace of mind, and he has to stop himself explaining to his five year old that he's not planning on propositioning Merlin.

It's a quiet meal followed by the sort of laughter that makes your sides hurt and leaves you lightheaded, all because they watch one of the artsy films Morgana has taken to leaving around the house.

Arthur isn't sure whether it's a hint or just Morgana being Morgana, but it gets rid of the tension he's spotted - now that he's paying attention to it, which affords him no little shame - between Merlin's shoulders. Whether it's the film or the four hours they spend talking afterwards, Arthur doesn't care to work out, but whichever it is has the desired result.

Merlin starts touching him again.

Gawain walks around with a smug air for days afterwards, and Arthur would tell him off except he's pretty sure he looks like that himself.

—---

Valentines Day passes with a very quiet Arthur and a morose Gawain, who, when pressed, says he most certainly does not miss his mother, but wishes "Dad had someone to share today with, you know? Someone who'll love him properly."

Merlin swallows hard and distracts him with a Welsh lesson.

--—-

Then Easter rolls around, and with it a bruised Gawain and a pair of amused adults, although they do their best to hide it.

"You know, I remember a time when life wasn't interrupted at intervals by the most ridiculous situations ever." Merlin glances up from where he's dabbing antiseptic onto a nasty cut on Gawain's cheek and smiles at Arthur. "It's all your fault, you know."

"Oh, of course."

"Ow, Merlin, that hurt," complains Gawain. Merlin refocuses and concentrates on not dabbing too hard. "And it's not his fault, Dad. I was the one fighting."

"I know, which is the problem." Arthur hides his smile and glares at Gawain, who looks chagrined and stares at his feet as Merlin moves on to the broken skin on his knuckles. Merlin looks up through his eyelashes, aiming for reproachful but landing nearer to coy, and it takes Arthur's breath away for a moment.
"What does the letter say?"

Arthur blinks and rereads it as Merlin carefully bandages Gawain's hand. "That he and...another boy were caught fighting at lunchtime, and refused to tell the Headmistress why they were doing so when she called them to her office."

"Who was the other boy?" Gawain and Arthur share a glance that immediately makes Merlin suspicious.

"Who?"

"Merlin-"

"It was Mordred," interrupts Gawain, shooting a defiant look at his father. "He said some stuff about you that was horrible and obviously false, so I hit him."

"Gawain, you can't do that every time someone makes a joke about me being a manny. We've talked about this." The nickname for a male nanny had made Gawain laugh, at first, until Arthur had gently told him it was generally used as a derogative. Merlin isn't sure why Arthur had done that, but it had made Gawain fiercely defensive and gave Merlin a warm feeling for days afterwards.

They really have. Back during Gawain's first term, his affection for Merlin had developed a defensive streak that manifested after he endured one too many taunts about being looked after by a manny. It's nothing unusual, at least not for Gawain; Arthur often worries about how defensive he gets when someone makes a disparaging comment about Arthur himself, either concerning his failed marriage or his reputation for being a ruthless businessman.

Merlin sighs, sounding resigned, and sends Gawain off with instructions to ask for some Calpol if his bruises hurt too much. Arthur watches him go, battling between pride that his son can hold his own against a boy a year older than he is and concern about the alarming number of fights he's been getting into.

"We've been called in to see the Headmistress," Arthur says quietly. "She'll be there with Mordred, so you don't have to come if you don't want to."

"Don't be an ass," replies Merlin fiercely, "of course I'll be there."

Arthur's pretty sure he's blushing with happiness, and takes himself away to his study before Merlin notices.

--—-

If the thought of seeing Nimueh had been bad, and it had been, then actually being in the same room as her is almost more than Merlin can stand. He keeps Arthur as a barrier between them as much as possible, which is practically from the moment they walk in to the moment they leave because Arthur clearly knows how much Merlin hates her.

"Arthur Pendragon, lovely to meet you" are her opening words, accompanied by a lush smile. She sends a poisonous look Merlin's way, and he's pathetically comforted when Arthur shifts subtly closer.

The meeting is pretty bizarre, because Mordred is as precocious as Gawain and just as certain that he was in the right. For his part, Gawain shows no embarrassment when he explains why he had thrown the first punch, and he obviously sees the faint twin smirks on the face of his opponent and his opponent's mother because he flushes with anger and raises his voice.

They leave with Gawain on a warning and Mordred in detention, Nimueh icy with anger.

Merlin takes Gawain to stand by the car, making him repeat fencing terms and dancing patterns until he's calmer and not showing the signs of Pendragon rage that Merlin can tell just as easily in him as he can in Arthur. Nimueh has caught Arthur's arm, drawing him away to speak to him with an intent expression.

Arthur listens for a minute or two before shaking her hand off and stalking away, face as pale as Gawain's had been. The two boys glare at each other with mutual hatred, which under other circumstances would make Merlin laugh, and then they're finally away from Nimueh du Lac.

Merlin waits until Gawain is ensconced in his room tackling homework to ask Arthur what she'd said to him.
"More stuff about you," he answers shortly, clattering pans in a way that will surely make Cook yell at him when she arrives later.

Merlin sighs. "If you want me to leave, I can-"

"No!" Arthur's right in front of him with a speed he should be used to by now, but he still gasps a little and rocks when Arthur's hands close over his arms. "She was lying, okay, and I know she was, and if you ever talk about leaving again I'll hit you."

"Because that's a surefire way to stop me quitting." Merlin tries for sarcasm and ends up with something veering towards breathless, because Arthur is right there and saying he never wants Merlin to leave, practically.

He pulls away with a smile and a mention of organising Gawain's things for the morning, leaving in a hurry.

--—-

Merlin isn't sure when he became 'Merlin, Arthur's better half' instead of 'Merlin, Gawain's nanny', but he apparently has because to date six people have referred to him as such. That two of them are Gwen and Morgana is to be expected; that Uther, on only the second occasion he's met Merlin, is another is not expected.

It's Gawain's sixth birthday party, and from where he is in the dining room Merlin can hear him shrieking as he plays some sort of party game with his friends. It's one of those days you get in films, with perfect skies and the sort of heat that you know is languid even through a camera lens, oozing in through the french doors that lead out onto the patio from every room on the south side of the house.

Merlin has begged off participating in any more games for a while; he's got a nasty bruise on his hip from where Galahad had been a little too enthusiastic in his turn at the piñata. Clearing away the remains of the birthday lunch and replacing it with dessert is a much safer option, at least until Arthur wanders in.

Arthur's bright at the worst of times, but in the liquid sun he seems golden, Merlin's insistence that he set aside all work for the weekend making him look loose and relaxed. He's even bowled in an impromptu and entirely made-up game of cricket, and staged a mock duel with Lance to the delight of Gawain and his friends.

Merlin stares at him, Arthur catches his eye and oh, this is it, this is everything.

This is how it should be, the two of them in this house, taking care of Gawain and each other, balancing each others characters out.

Like two sides of a coin, thinks Merlin, and he grins suddenly. The voice belongs to the founder of the Albion Agency, a crusty old dragon who spends most of his time rambling on about destinies and Fate when he isn't finding people jobs.

Arthur grins back, warm and open and sidesteps a group of screaming children to join Merlin by the table.
"Having fun?"

"Oh yes. I live for cooking seemingly endless bags of chicken nuggets and making tray after tray of muffins for a load of kids who won't notice if they're burnt or not in their rush to get back out to the bouncy castle some idiot of a parent thought it'd be a good idea to get." He's trying to be normal, to joke and tease and stop Arthur from seeing how hopelessly in love Merlin is with him, because right now he can't seem to hide it away.

He sees it the moment Arthur gets it, a widening of blue, blue eyes that's followed by an incredulous smile that Merlin almost can't bring himself to understand.

Then Arthur's kissing him, mouth flavoured with cool strawberries; he's stolen some of the children's ice-cream, lips slightly sticky against Merlin's and tasting sugary sweet as their tongues slide together.

Merlin loops his arms behind Arthur's head and grins into the kiss, which makes it more of a nuzzle than a proper kiss, but coherent thought is fading into the background of murmured conversation between adults and the low but persistent sound of a game of tag being played out somewhere in the parkland.

"We've got twenty-five bedrooms, why are you kissing in the middle of the dining room?"

Arthur barely pulls away long enough to answer a weary but happy-sounding Gawain, appearing from a field (judging by the grass stains on his jeans) to interrupt what is possibly the best moment of Merlin's life - and Gwen will never hear him admit that because she will tell Morgana and they will mock him for eternity.
"Better get used to it, kid."

Merlin lifts his burning face from Arthur's neck to see Gawain's grinning face. "Can you fire him now Dad? Please?" Arthur chuckles, the vibrations against his chest making Merlin mostly forget to be suddenly worried.

"Merlin," says Arthur softly, leaning in to press kisses along his jawline, "you're fired."

"Yes!" shouts Gawain in the middle of Merlin's slight heart-attack and major confusion. He yells for one of his friends, a boy Merlin remembers asking Gawain earlier who he is. Gawain, unusually, had refrained from answering. Now he says, very loudly and with an unmistakable note of pride, "Perceval, meet Merlin. My dad's boyfriend."

"Oh," says Merlin faintly. Arthur looks at him with a mix of amusement and affection- no, love, and it's another one they share. Merlin just hadn't realised what it meant.

"Idiot."

"Prat."

There's only one way to end an argument like that, and it involved pretty much everyone, Gawain included, yelling at them to get a room.

They comply.

Well, there are twenty-five to choose from.

Risky Business, part 6/6

Sat, 06 Sep 2008 03:04:35 GMT

Part V

Patrick wakes up to unfamiliar sheets, sunlight streaming over his face and a warm weight across his hips. It's disconcerting and he's trying to work it all out in his still sleep addled mind, when the weight wriggles and he feel hot, minty breath gust across his face. "If you're going to tell me to wake up for work, fucking forget it."

Pete laughs, and Patrick feels the pillow dip on either side of his head as Pete braces himself and leans down. "No, I'm going to tell you to wake up so I can fuck you." Patrick cracks one eye open, which results in a close-up of Pete's grinning face and far too many teeth.

"That, I can cope with." Pete fakes outrage even as Patrick untangles one hand from the covers and uses it to pull him down for a shallow kiss. Pete makes a little noise when Patrick pulls back, an almost whimper that makes Patrick smile. He licks his lips, tasting the residual flavor of Pete's toothpaste, and thinks of his own breath. "Can I go brush my teeth?"

Pete nods and swoops down for a last brush of lips, then rolls away to let Patrick up. He does the required root through Pete's cupboards, even if it is a bit perfunctory- he has other things planned for his time- and brushes his teeth, sparing a brief thought for all those other, platonic times he'd done this before crashing on Pete's couch after a long day and longer evening.

When he's finished and leaves the bathroom, it's to the sight of Pete lying sideways on his bed with his feet hanging off the end, flat on his stomach and phone pressed to one ear. Patrick leans against the door frame and enjoys the sight; Pete's sweatpants, already hanging low through age and a broken tie, have slipped even lower, giving Patrick a good view of the swell of his ass, slight but most definitely there, and as he watches the muscles in Pete's back slide under his golden skin when he adjusts the phone.

Patrick is very grateful that Pete works out.

"Well, then move the appointment - no, not to later today, tomorrow...yeah, I know they'll whine, but tell them it's my fault...who? Oh, okay. Yeah, don't—okay, that's good. Thanks, Ryan." Pete ends the call, drops the phone onto the floor and flips over onto his back, giving Patrick an even nicer view. Lean and muscular, with the sharp ridges of his hipbones exposed, Pete's tattoos stand out starkly in the bright sunlight. He looks practically edible, a fact he's definitely aware of as he catches sight of Patrick and stretches.

Patrick pushes off from the doorframe and crawls back onto the bed, placing a knee either side of Pete's legs and resting on his thighs. "You look-"

"Gorgeous? Hot? Fuckable?"

"I was going to say like a poser, but yeah, those'll do." Patrick leans down for a swift but dirty kiss before sitting back and tilting his head at Pete, who looks up at him with a heated smile, hands firmly at Patrick's waist. "So, you mentioned getting fucked..." Pete's smile widens, before he does—something that results in Patrick flat on his back, head half on and half off a pillow with Pete once more across his hips.

Sneaky but effective. Patrick approves, apart from the bit where he's the one now on his back.

"I did, but I like this view better." Pete's smirk is just begging to be wiped off (so what if Patrick listens to the subtext more than the actual words?), so when Pete makes 'lift up' motions with one hand while tugging at the hem his shirt with the other, Patrick sees an opportunity to...redress the balance, if you will. He leans up and lets Pete slip his t-shirt off, firmly stamping down on the urge to cover himself with his arms and trying to look as wanton as possible.

For a guy who covers up as much as possible and wears hats every moment he possibly can, Patrick is a little unsure of how successful he's going to be. When he sees Pete's eyes glaze over slightly at the sight if his bare torso, though, he can't help arching slightly and letting his eyes drift half shut. Through his eyelashes Patrick watches Pete drink in his pale skin, skimming his fingers over every inch before ending to flick his tongue over a soft pink nipple.

Patrick can't help his sudden intake of breath, nor the way his body jerks as Pete goes at his task in earnest, using his tongue and fingers on Patrick's nipples until they are stiff and tight, so sensitive that all he has to do is exhale over them for Patrick to twitch. Pete moves down Patrick's chest, tasting every bit he can and touching the soft skin like he's addicted.

He waits until Pete is engrossed in tracing his collarbones with his tongue, then reaches for his wrists and twists, pinning Pete down with his body and his wrists to the bed. Pete groans as Patrick moves his hips and their cocks rub together, the slight friction feeling so good. "I think this is better," Patrick says, punctuating each word with a roll of his hips and nip at Pete's neck.

"God, oh-okay, yeah, this is-shit!" Pete's hips lift a good few inches off the bed as Patrick gets the sweatpants down and his hand around Pete's dick in a hot, tight grip. He slides his tongue over Pete's collar of thorns, finally getting to know it the way he's wanted to after so many weeks of glimpses through the zip of a hoodie and tantalizing hints over the top of a t-shirt, and then slides down Pete's body.

He marks his progress with a trail of bites, just hard enough to make Pete hiss and arch, soothing each one with a wet kiss before moving on. By the time Patrick actually gets far enough down the bed and closes his mouth over the head of Pete's dick, Pete's already shaking with the effort of staying still and muttering what sounds like a garbled version of Patrick's name.

"Please, Patrick, just- fuck, that¸ ohgod." Patrick tries to go slowly, to repay Pete for the fucking amazing blowjob he'd given back in the studio, but the heavy feel of Pete's cock on his tongue, the tangy and slightly bitter taste of Pete in his throat and Pete's hands in his hair make him think fuck this and just go for it. He angles an arm across Pete's hips as he slides his mouth as far down as he can, and uses his other to circle what won't fit in his mouth

By the time he's got Pete swearing and pulling at his hair in an attempt to get him to pull off, Patrick is so close to coming it takes all of his control to stop himself humping the mattress. "Shit, please, Patrick, I'm gonna-fuck." Patrick pulls off enough so that he can look up at Pete, and very deliberately moans. It hasn't taken long to work out how much Pete likes that particular trick, and as Patrick swallows, Pete going boneless underneath him, he vaguely wonders if he can get Pete hard simply by humming now.

That definitely warrants experimentation.

Patrick makes his way back up until he's level with Pete again, pausing to trace the tattoo Pete had tenderly referred to as the 'bartskull' with his tongue. He breathes "Fucking gorgeous" into Pete's neck, and hides a smile as Pete stutters out "Told you that already." Pete's hands grip his shoulders tightly and pull him close until they're pressed together from mouth to ankles, Pete's tongue slipping hot and dirty into Patrick's mouth to taste himself there, moans muffled as they kiss.

Pete pulls back barely far enough to choke out "Fucking fuck me, Trick," lips marking the words onto Patrick's flushed neck and making him grin with happiness.

"You sure?"

Pete glares, and bites at the tender skin where Patrick's neck meets his shoulder, sucking a mark that won't go down for days. "For fuck's sake, yes." Patrick slides a hand under Pete's calf and bends it upwards, moving his hand in and pressing a fingertip against the tight ring of muscle. Pete gasps, moving his legs wider as he stretches and fumbles in one of the drawers by his bed, pulling out a bottle of lube and a condom.

He presses them into Patrick's hands, barely stopping his eyes rolling back in his head a few moments later as Patrick presses a slick finger full into him. Patrick loses all sense of time as he adds another, stretching Pete slowly and methodically, watching every shudder and listening for every moan, eliciting more by scissoring his fingers and twisting them.

He presses a third finger in, watching Pete's face for any sign of pain, but reassured when Pete swears and fists his hands even tighter in the sheets, hips moving restlessly as he tries to fuck himself further onto Patrick's fingers. "Oh, god, 'm ready, so ready, now, please." Patrick carefully slides his fingers out as Pete fumbles with the little foil packet, almost dropping it in his haste.

Patrick grabs Pete's hands once he's rolled the condom on, pinning them above his head with one hand with a smirk as he lines himself up with the other, echoing Pete's groan when he pushes in. It's hot, tight, and fucking perfect, as Patrick gets enough of his mind together to thrust and they easily slip into the right rhythm. Pete's already hard again, between them hips jerking up as he asks wordlessly for something more, anything, his mouth too busy against Patrick's to form the demand.

The sunlight warms Patrick's back as he rocks into Pete, releasing his hands after a while and shivering when Pete immediately grips his hips so tightly he knows there will be bruises later. He gets one hand underneath Pete's leg and pulls until he gets the idea and locks it around Patrick's waist, then slides the other around Pete's dick, jerking him off in short, rough strokes that match his thrusts.

It could be five minutes since they started, it could be fifteen, but Patrick couldn't give a fuck as Pete's litany of Patrickpatrick fuckpatrick descends into gibberish, an untranslatable mess of syllables that resolves itself into "FUCK!" as Patrick twists his hips and hits Pete's prostate, making him arch and curse solidly as he holds the same angle for the next slide into Pete, and the next.

Pete comes, hot and messy over his stomach and Patrick's, choppy bangs sweaty over his face and eyes intent on Patrick as he curves a hand along his jaw and whispers "c'mon, Trick, now, please, want to feel it." Patrick loses the rhythm, thrusts becoming shallow and uncontrolled as his stomach clenches and he comes hard, toes curling and Pete biting at his bottom lip.

It's several minutes before either of them can move, gasping in air and Pete stroking any bit of skin he can reach. He whines when Patrick pulls out, legs twitching in discomfort at feeling so empty. He sits up with a—manly, of course- giggle when Patrick ties the condom off and looks uncomfortable, distracting him with a kiss as he throws it towards the bin and hopes it makes it. "You are so gross." Okay, maybe not distracted then.

Pete flops back onto the pillows, stretching aching muscles and yanking Patrick down next to him. "You knew that already."

"Yeah, guess I did." Patrick curls up next to Pete, shifting so he can get the covers over them both. Pete looks well-fucked and content as he shifts closer, tucking the sheets around Patrick's shoulders and then his own in what is probably meant to be a gentlemanly gesture but only succeeds in half suffocating Patrick. He extricates himself, and they're both almost asleep again when he has a thought.

"Ryan's going to be insufferable when we go in later."

"Not going in later," comes the reply, Pete's eyes appearing over his portion of the covers, "but you're right. I'll give him a raise, or extra time off for the honeymoon, or something."

"We're not?" Patrick feels sleep creeping up on him, eyes fluttering shut as he sinks down into the pillow, the weight of Pete's hand where it rests on his hip comforting and so right he wonders how he's slept without it there.

"N-o," a huge yawn breaking the word into two, "come on, dude, you think I'm letting you leave without us doing it more than once?"

"There is that." Patrick's nine-tenths asleep when Pete speaks again, voice very small and muffled.

"Not just on the bed either."

----
Their conversation with Ryan the next morning goes something like this. They walk in, Ryan looks up, and proceeds to go into overdrive. Pete's word, not Patrick's. He actually finds it kind of cute, for the most part. Until Ryan gets past the comments about "Fucking finally. I mean, could you have drawn it out any longer? Not that it wasn't entertaining, in an oblivious sort of way, but still."

It's when he starts going on about "Couples seating! Oh god, we have to have you with our friends Tyson and Nick, you'd get on great with them. And maybe...oooh, how about Jon and Tom? That'd make a table, so-"

"Hell no." Patrick stifles a laugh. "I am not sitting by those two, Ryan, I don't care if it's your wedding."

Ryan looks alarmed. Well, slightly alarmed. Facial expressions are still not really his forte. "Pete, relax. It was just a joke." Patrick glares at Pete, who holds his hands up in mock surrender.

"I don't fucking care. They got my Patrick first, and they're not getting him again now that I have!"

"Pete, that's...disturbing, if a little hot. I'm not a possession." Patrick smiles as he says it, though, unable to help it due to the warm feeling in his chest at Pete's words. "Ryan, seat us where you want. Jon and Tom don't do foursomes, and I'm monogamous now, so you," he pokes Pete's chest. "can relax."

Ryan's gaze flicks between them. "Did you guys already have the big 'talk' about being exclusive, and whatever?"

Pete bounces on his toes, beaming. "Yes. We've had every talk; whether we're dating, how serious this is, do we want kids, everything."

Patrick and Ryan roll their eyes in unison, laughing at Pete's pout. Ryan sighs, looking a little misty-eyed. "You're lucky. It took me and Spencer a month to have that talk." Considering it took you years to get together, I'd say that was about right. And," Patrick elbows Pete in his ribs, "we haven't had 'every talk'. Things said while half asleep do not count as life-choices." Pete pouts—still not successfully.

"Hey, they totally count."

"Pete, you said you want to start a clothing line. With Ryan as your muse." Pete starts sniggering. It's true, after all, although he'd been influenced by Patrick asking where the hell Pete'd got some of the ugly shirts that Patrick had found while exploring Pete's closet.

"Pete, shut up, or I'll tell Maja why you couldn't make that meeting with her yesterday." Patrick laughs, but quickly claps a hand over his mouth at Pete's glare.

"Um, Ryan, please don't. I like my boyfriend with all appendages intact, thank you."

With that, the conversation veers into what exactly Pete had canceled yesterday, and has to catch up on. Ryan watches the new couple wander off to get started on their various jobs, sharing a kiss that leaves him longing for his fiancé before separating; Pete to his office and Patrick to a studio. Ryan sits, lost in thought, for a good while, thinking about his friends, their history and their future. He wonders what is going through their mind as they settle down to work, and as the phone rings resigned himself to never knowing.

It's not actually all that difficult to work out. Pete's thoughts pretty much begin and end with Patrick, memories of the day before; how Patrick's skin felt, the cool shower tiles under his knees when he'd blown Patrick with water running over them both, the hard surface of the kitchen table under his hands and against his chest as Patrick had bent him over it. He stares at the pile of paperwork sitting in front of him and wonders if Patrick could be persuaded to try that last thought again using his desk.

Patrick's thoughts are generally the same, although with more music and from the opposite point of view. He's just as distracted, though, and just as desperate to see Pete as soon as he can escape from the studio.

Life settles down at Decaydance studios, to a level that's considered normal by all who work or record there. Well, it wouldn't be the same without Ryan's sarcasm and flowery metaphors livening up the front entrance.

Or Pete and Patrick's frequent arguments that invariably end with them vanishing into Pete's office for at least half an hour, and emerging looking tousled and no longer fighting.

Or Frankie turning up to a recording session with paint smudges on her clothes from Gerard's latest project, wreathed in smiles and more than willing to wax lyrical about what, exactly, Gerard had done to her in bed the night before. Or that morning.

Or Gabe, who still seems to constantly be hanging around, even though he's got nothing more to record for another six months or so, but insists he has to come by because Patrick is pining away without him. It takes walking in on Patrick pressed against a wall with his legs around Pete's waist to get him to drop that idea.

Well, until he gets over what he terms the 'trauma' by making sure he and Bill get caught by Patrick, that is.

Or, or, or. Life at Decaydance is interesting and varied- something Patrick is often heard to say about life with Pete, especially after he moves in.

But that's another story.

Risky Business, part 5/6

Sat, 06 Sep 2008 02:23:52 GMT

Part IV

Pete slams into the studio he's sure Patrick is meant to be working in, only to get an eyeful of Frankie Iero using her slightly rough voice to gasp out Gerard's name, not sing. "Shit, sorry, sorry!" he turns to go, then stops. "Hey, do you guys know where Patrick is?"

"No- god- clue, sorry." Huh, thinks Pete as he moves down the corridors checking rooms, even during sex Gerard is polite. Then the surreal moment passes on and the righteous anger come flooding back as he swings open the door to studio Four and his eyes find Patrick, headphones on, fingers flying over the keys of his laptop as he works, and totally ignoring Pete.

Well, not so much any of that after Pete pulls the 'phones off with one sharp tug, glaring at Patrick as he spins round, startled. Pete has to take a steadying breath, making Patrick a little wary of the state of mind he must be in to need to do that.

"Pete? What the hell, I'm working." Pete takes a few angry steps, ending up directly in front of Patrick's chair. His voice shakes, his sudden desire to shout barely suppressed.

"Ryan told me what happened last night." It's his attitude, so overbearing, that makes Patrick want to wind him up even more.

"Last night....we went to a club, had a few drinks; nothing special." Unconsciously he spins his chair a little from side to side, but keeps his eyes fixed on Pete's face.

"Fuck, Patrick, you know what I'm talking about!"

"You mean a specific event?" Patrick knows from past experience that Pete's expression and loosely clenching fists mean they're heading for an all-out screaming match, but for some reason, he just can't give a fuck. "There was that thing with the beer bottle, I guess. Or the Butcher and that broken chair, maybe. Either of them?"

Between them, they only really remember three things about the next five minutes. One, Pete gives in and shouts that he knows about the three-way make-out. Two, Patrick somehow manages to keep his voice ridiculously even as he replies; saying things like Pete's in no position to tell him what he can and can't do outside of work. Three, Patrick keeps spinning gently around in the stupid chair, full circles that mean Pete gets a pang in his chest every time he's presented with the back of it.

Patrick can see something snap inside Pete when he says, very calmly, "I don't see why you're making a big deal out of it. It was just a kiss." He expects to be punched, or fired, not for his chair to be grabbed and spun roughly around so that he's facing Pete and motionless. The sudden jarring movement makes him flail and grasp on to the armrests, which gives Pete time to step in closer than Patrick really feels like letting him.

He leans down, lips just brushing Patrick's ear as he speaks. "It fucking matters to me, asshole." Patrick has the irrelevant and intrusive thought that Ryan was, annoyingly, right, and then realizes that Pete is about to lean out and probably leave. He twists a hand in Pete's shirt almost viscously, keeping him close.

He growls out, "You don't get to cut and run from this, Pete," and then kisses him. It's not a soft, sweet first kiss, not even remotely. It's rough, messy and wet, with too much anger still coursing through them to be anything more than an admittance of what's been between them for so many months.

Patrick can feel Pete resisting, his body staying a few crucial inches away from Patrick's own even as his mouth opens hungrily, biting just the right side of too hard for the atmosphere at Patrick's bottom lip. He uses his other hand to anchor Pete in place, curling his fingers around the back of his neck and through the short hair there.

Patrick can guess at what's going through Pete's head that's making him hold back, a litany of bestfriendemployeebestfriendemployee that Pete has to decide to listen to or ignore on his own. Patrick slides his tongue along Pete's lips, slipping it between them to Pete's muffled gasp.

The taste of Pete's mouth is something Patrick had never thought he'd get to know, coffee-bitter and hot, tongue soft against Patrick's own as they endeavor to learn each other with a single minded intensity that leaves Patrick breathless much sooner than he expected. That, and the way Pete suddenly melts against him, is more than enough to have him hard against his jeans, arching up as Pete tries to get a knee each side of his thighs on the stupid chair.

It spins slightly, throwing Pete off-balance so he ends up mostly in Patrick's lap. He pulls back and grins at the producer, eyes gleaming in the dim light. "Fucking hell, Patrick, I do not want to know where you learned to kiss like that."

Patrick smiles darkly, making Pete shiver. "Then you really won't wanna know where I learned this," and just like that he gets Pete's pants open, fingers deft on the button and zipper even though Pete is angled away from him. His hand works under the waistband and down, his chuckle at Pete's lack of underwear melding with Pete's moan as Patrick's hand curls tight around his dick.

The angle is a little awkward, so Pete shifts so that his back is pressed flush against Patrick's chest, their body temperatures rising until Pete can feel the sweat on his neck and down his back, his shirt getting damp as he presses back and gasps. Patrick twists his hand on the upstroke, keeping a fast and ruthless rhythm that makes Pete's blood thrum as he gets closer and closer, fingers scrabbling at Patrick's thighs in vain for something to clutch.

Pete raises a hand to his mouth and presses his lips tightly around a knuckle to stop the embarrassing sounds he can feel in his throat from being pulled out of him, but he can't prevent a strangled whimper from escaping. Patrick nips at his earlobe, teeth oh-so teasing on the sensitive flesh. His breath is chill on Pete's sweat-slick skin, yet another sensation he can barely process amongst the others. "Wan-wanna fuck you in th'studio, so you can make all the noises you want."

Well, isn't that just a nice image? Pete's brain thinks so, providing him in the many ways that it could happen. Will be happening. He owns the place, damnit, and what's the point of that if he can't let Patrick fuck him on his hands and knees, legs apart and arms shaking from the effort of holding himself up, or maybe Pete against the wall of one of the isolation booths, legs tight around Patrick's waist and arms around his neck, yes.

He cries out brokenly and comes hard when Patrick makes his grip even tighter, his other hand so fucking hot against Pete's lowest tattoo as he digs his neat nails into the dark lines of ink. Pete has the fleeting thought that there will be marks there, marks made by Patrick, and he's gone. He can't get enough of his mind to fit together to say anything for a good two minutes, which makes Patrick snigger.

"If I'd known having an orgasm would make you shut up, I would've done that ages ago."

Pete shudders at the feel of Patrick's breath against his slick neck, pulling Patrick's hand out of his pants and raising it to his mouth, he lets his lips play over Patrick's fingers as he speaks, knowing his smile at Patrick's own shiver is more than obvious. "Sure about that?"

He feels Patrick choke back words when he sucks a pale finger into his mouth, closing his eyes at the mix of flavors, himself and Patrick. Pete works his way down each knuckle, savoring the taste in his mouth, loving the feel of Patrick's thighs trembling ever so slightly underneath him. He licks his lips when finished, before biting gently at the ball of Patrick's hand.

The gasp he makes is music to Pete's ears, even as Patrick untangles his hand from Pete's and places it firmly on his leg. "I'd've done that weeks ago, just so I didn't have to listen to you make fun of Ziggy Stardust."

Pete gets his body to cooperate enough for him to half turn around, still grinning as he catches Patrick's mouth in another kiss. It's as deep as before, just as intense, but this time because of lust and not anger. Patrick's hands dig into Pete's hips, mirroring the hard press of his mouth. Pete nips at Patrick's lip before leaning back, letting himself drink in the sight beneath him for a moment. Patrick is flushed, mouth stained red and spit-shiny, his hair a tangle of gold-tinted red strands that Pete longs to run his fingers through, but, first things first.

"You're a bitch, and I'm going to blow you now." He slides off Patrick's lap as he says it, fingers already working at Patrick's jeans. He means to go slowly, make Patrick wait so he can savor every tiny moment, but his control is shattered to hell as soon as he manages to free Patrick's cock, thick and slick with pre-come already.

He wants nothing more to slide his mouth as far down as he can, and then further, to use his tongue and fingers so Patrick will make more of the gorgeous moans and gasps Pete is rapidly becoming addicted to. He wants to hollow his cheeks to suck and fucking drag the sounds out of Patrick, the small noises he tries to bottle up but escape anyway as he gets too wrapped up in sensations to care.

So he does. And then some.

It's still too soon for him to get hard again by the time Patrick is twisting his fingers though Pete's hair and choking out "Pete, I'm gonna, Pete," but fuck he wishes it wasn't. He tightens his grip around the base of Patrick's dick, curls his tongue wickedly around the head, and then lets his eyes flutter shut in pleasure as Patrick lets out a rough approximation of Pete's name and comes over his tongue.

Pete feels Patrick shudder again as he laps up what he didn't catch with his mouth, quick little flicks with the tip of his tongue that make him wonder what Patrick would think if he did the same thing a couple of inches lower. He leans up further, presses a soft kiss to the soft skin visible where Patrick's shirt had risen up, and licks Patrick's palm when he curves it along his jaw.

"Hey." Quiet, languid and so beautiful that Pete wants to hear it every day until he dies. Patrick sounds exactly what he is, post-coital. But, ever a realist, his next words scatter Pete's rapidly forming hopes of a round two. "We need to get cleaned up, I've gotta be in studio One with Gym Class in ten minutes."

Pete drapes himself over Patrick's lap again, shaking his head pathetically and looking down at him through messy bangs. "Nuh-uh." He presses closer and licks Patrick's cheek, smiling at his noise of disgust and protest.

"Yes, Pete." His breath is hot against Pete's ear, words a seductive promise. "But invite me over for music, contracts and take-out and you might get something extra." Oh, fuck, Pete is never going to think of their inside joke for late night 'work' sessions in the same way again, not a chance. His eyes are dark, pupils wide as he rests his hands on Patrick's shoulders and bestows one last, lingering kiss before standing and refastening his pants.

Patrick does his own up, smiling as Pete's gaze follows his every movement, then stands as well. Pete reaches out and catches his elbow, eyes intent on Patrick's as he lets his hand slip down to circle his wrist and pull him closer. Pete's fingers trace patterns as intricate as lace over Patrick's face, the pale skin darkening with a rosy flush as he learns every curve and shadow of skin and bone. His fingers dip to brush along the clean line of Patrick's jaw, feathering over his neck and down to trace the shapes of his collarbones underneath worn cotton.

"You're so beautiful, Trick." Pete words hang between them, hushed in the dim room, and Patrick ducks his head. "No, don't. You are." Pete's fingers move down, tilt his chin up so he can see Patrick's eyes again. They sparkle at him even as Patrick sounds hesitant, his seductive tone banished, much to Pete's disappointment.

"Can we, y'know, talk, later?"

"Yeah. I mean, you might not get anything coherent out of me, but sure. We can talk." Pete closes the gap between them and lets his body language belie his flippant words.

As they share a final, mind-numbing kiss and separate to make as good an attempt at working as they possibly can, given the circumstances, Patrick wonders momentarily if they're always going to have to fight to make their relationship get better.

It's a worrying thought, but what is even more worrying to Patrick is Travis's apparent lack of regard for the no smoking signs - smoking of any form, no matter his protests - and the flood of Pete-thoughts in his head that are going to be very distracting indeed.

——

If Patrick or Pete had entertained thoughts of being able to leave early and "talk" (Enough with the air quotes, Ryan, there will be “talking“ at some point!), it quickly becomes clear that just because most of the Decaydance employees are off nursing hangovers and staying away from loud noises, that doesn't mean that the studios are going to be any be slower.

As soon as they're settled down to their appointed jobs - Patrick to saving Travis from getting kicked out by an irate janitor who'd found him smoking up in one of the storage closets, and Pete to trying to persuade Ashlee that more plastic surgery was a no-no; people wanted to see her actual face, not the one Daddy had paid for - other stuff happens.

Patrick's barely gotten Travis back into the right room, joint-free and mostly sober, when Gabe flings the door open, strikes a dramatic pose and pronounces his undying love for Bill. Patrick lifts an eyebrow, decides he's had his share of shocks for the day and says calmly, "Congratulations. Travis, what's this bit here meant to say?"

Gabe looks scandalized. "Patrick, dude! That's it?! 'Congratulations'?" He presses a hand to his heart and the other to his brow, affecting a wounded tone. "Alas, I am hurt to the very core by your callousness."

Patrick stifles a laugh. "Really."

"The core, Patrick, the core."

"Right. Look, I'm in the middle of something, can you stick a band-aid on it until I have time to heal the wound I've caused by not giving your slutty love my full attention?"

"Patrick! This is serious!" Gabe grabs Patrick's arm and drags him out into the corridor, ignoring his protests and Travis's half-hearted pleas for Gabe to leave their producer where he is. Patrick revises his assessment of the rapper as 'mostly sober' to 'mostly high'. He must've been in the storage closet longer than the janitor had thought.

Gabe looks at him, and something in his posture, or maybe the set of his jaw, makes Patrick stop and revise his opinion of the singer's announcement as well. "Bill? Seriously?"

"Yeah. I know he's not exactly what my mother has in mind when she talks about me getting married, but I don't care."

"Were you drunk?"

"No. And damn, he still looked good." Patrick holds out for a beat, then can't help himself and starts laughing. "Stop screwing with your own lyrics, for god's sake."

Once they've stopped laughing, Patrick gets the full story, and decides that maybe, just maybe, Gabe and Bill were seriously together. "But, I thought he and Travis—well, I got the impression that...Y'know."

Gabe shrugs. "Yeah, well. Turns out Travis? Is fun, but he kinda likes girls more. Vicky T, to be specific."

"Travis and Vicky T?" Patrick's tone couldn't have been more disbelieving if he'd tried. "That's just...that's just wrong." Gabe grins at him.

"I know, right? I've already called first to say I-told-you-so when she breaks him."

Weird conversation aside, Patrick does actually get back into the studio, finding it a little easier to concentrate now that his memory loop about Pete grinding into his lap and gasping has been interrupted.

Pete also has a weird conversation, although it is most definitely bad-weird and not good-weird like Gabe and Patrick's. He sends Ashlee off with instructions to see a stylist, if she's that set on having a brand new look for her new single, and then nearly chokes on the last of his coffee when Mikeyway walks into his office.

"Mikey? What're you doing here? I thought your flight left at nine?" A quick glance at the clock on his desk - that is absolutely not an excuse to look away from the skinny guy leaning against his doorframe - assures Pete that it's just past twelve. Mikey smiles. It's a smile Pete knows well, but wishes he doesn't. That smile hurts.

"It did, but I wanted to talk to you and there wasn't time yesterday." He comes further into the room and folds himself into a chair opposite Pete's desk, crossing one lanky leg over the other in a way Pete can remember from nights on their couch, and he looks down at the papers underneath his hands quickly.

"You did? About what?" Pete gathers up the papers, flicks through and orders them, trying to ignore Mikey's considering gaze as he stands and replaces them in a filing cabinet. Pete almost jumps when Mikey's quiet voice breaks the silence, barely louder than the rustling of contracts.

"About us, and," Pete turns, surprised. There isn't an 'us', not for years, "about maybe us getting back together."

"What the fucking fuck, Mikey." The vehemence in his own voice takes Pete by surprise, for a second, before he remembers how things had ended. The interminable fights, the way they had taken turns to storm out of their little apartment, and most of all the cruel words, barbed and pointed to hit the most vulnerable spots and stay there. "Seriously, what the fuck?"

Mikey looks just the same as when he'd walked in, face calm and smooth. Not that that's anything to go by; blank is his default expression, pretty much. "We were good, Pete. It's a cliché, but we were good together, and I guess I forgot that."

"You forgot that while we were still fucking together, Mikey, that's why we fucking BROKE UP!" Pete can't help the slight scream that colors the last two words, his teenage years in hardcore bands useful for extra expression in his words, if nothing else. Mikey looks ruffled, just a little, and Pete finds it intensely satisfying. Even after three years he can get to Mikey.

"I know, and I'm sorry, I really am. I wasn't mature enough back then, Pete, I couldn't deal with you."

"You make me sound like a pet or something." It comes out sour, more so than he intended, and Mikey blinks. He definitely looks ruffled now.

"Look, I just think that what we had is something we should try and get back, yeah? It was special, and-"

"So special that you decided you couldn't be with someone who had the maturity levels of a six-year-old, the dress sense of a four year-old and who 'couldn't write anything worth reading'?" That last had hurt Pete more than he'd ever cared to admit, even to himself. At the time, the words he scribbled into his journal and made the mistake of showing Mikey had been the only thing standing between him and another parking lot with a bottle of pills. "I think, Mikey, that you should find yourself another flight and get the hell out of LA."

"But-"

"Mikey." Pete makes his voices as cold as he can, "I've moved on, okay, and it's taken me fucking long enough, but I have. I don't think about you any more. Not here, not at home, not in bed. If I do, it's as Gerard's brother, because that's easier. I'm not a fucked-up kid anymore, I'm not waiting around for some guy to come along and make me feel good" I've already found him, sing his thoughts gleefully, "and I'm not interested in getting back with you, not now and not ever. Clear enough?"

It's surprising, really, how fast Mikey can move and still keep his dignity. Pete wants to say something else, some parting shot to dent said dignity visibly, instead of letting his ex-boyfriend walk out of his life looking calm and serene, all hurts hidden, but his thoughts are stalled somewhere around the realization that he really isn't that person anymore.

It's a fucking good feeling that comes with that thought.

Luckily, he's got a pretty little ball of snark manning the front desk. "Pete, wait a second. Patrick says he thinks he can get rid of Travis and the rest in ten minutes, so he's ready to go when you are. And he says what do you want for dinner, Chinese, Thai, or him?" Ohh, it's beautifully timed. Mikey, turning for one last attempt, hears Ryan's words and his eyes flick to Pete's face at exactly the right moment. Pete can't stop the way his face lights up at the mention of Patrick's name, nor the way he half turns towards the studio doors.

Mikey leaves, dignity sufficiently damaged, and Pete has the fleeting thought that he might have Gerard yelling at him for turning his baby brother down before Ryan coughs politely. "Can I say something?" Pete hums an affirmative, eyes fixed on Mikey as he drives his rental out of the parking lot as fast as he can.

"I really don't like him."

Pete tears his eyes away from Mikey's rapidly diminishing tailgate and steps around Ryan's desk, catching the slim receptionist by the shoulders and presses a sloppy kiss right on his lips. "You, you amazing person, are allowed to dislike who you fucking want. Thank you."

"Ugh, Pete, please. I don't want to have to wash my mouth out before I kiss Spencer." Ryan's words are offset by the smile creeping in at the corner of his mouth, and by the not-entirely unhappy squeak he makes when Pete wraps him in a hug.

"Seriously, you are an awesome person. Did Patrick actually give you that message?"

"Yes, of course. Well, except the bit about dinner. That was more implied than explicitly said, but I thought Mikey might appreciate it."

"Who gives a fuck about Mikey, I appreciated it. Put me down for something expensive on your wedding gift list, alright?"

"What makes you think we haven't already?"

"True. Well, then, I promise I won't complain when the invitation comes through, 'kay?" Ryan laughs, waving Pete off with a hand encased in an embroidered, fingerless glove. Pete's almost at the door to his office before something occurs to him. "Oh, Ryan? Lipgloss?"

"Fuck off, it tastes nice. For me and for Spencer."

Pete wonders how adventurous Patrick is.

——
Getting back to Pete's early isn't the hard bit, in the end. Travis and the rest of Gym Class Heroes are more than happy to cut their session short; none of them are in the right frame of mind, so Patrick left the studio feeling very little guilt for not pushing them the way he normally would've. He shuts everything down, lets a tech know he's done and then makes his way out front.

"Patrick, hey. Are you leaving now?" Ryan looks worried, twisting his hands together in a way that's sure too wreck the smooth lines of his gloves if he isn't careful. Patrick feels it's his duty as a good friend to point this out.

"Um, Ryan, your gloves are-"

Ryan's eyes shoot to his fingers, hastily untangling them and placing his hands carefully on the counter above his desk. "Oh, right. Thanks. Listen, about Pete. Something just happened."

"Oh? What kind of somethi- have you been meddling, Ryan, because-" Ryan doesn't tell Patrick so much as blurt it out, worry marring his pixie-like features.

"Mikey came here, and told Pete he wanted them to get back together." Patrick is stunned. Of all the days for him to pick, Mikey had certainly chosen the worst one possible. Patrick takes a deep breath, willing his racing thoughts to slow down and give him a moment to get things sorted.

"What did Pete yell at Mikey?"

"That he never wanted so see him again, let alone get back together, duh." Ryan waves a dismissive hand, before taking a closer look at Patrick. "Oh my god, you thought that Pete might actually want to- dude, if the fact that Pete's been crazy about you since the day you met wasn't enough, I'd've thought that what Gerard told you would've made it pretty fucking clear that they're over. Like, dead, cremated and scattered to the winds over."

That was...comforting, actually. "Okay, I'm not even going to- I'm just gonna go to Pete's. I mean, should I still...?"

Ryan gives him a pitying look. "If you don't, I'll make Gabe my best man instead, and do you really want my wedding to become some sort of celebration of the cobra, Patrick, do you want that?" Patrick can't help laughing at Ryan's seriousness, and at the thought of Gabe giving the Best Man's speech, hands twisting into a fanged cobra.

"It doesn't bear thinking about, Ryan. Of course I'd never let that happen. So, Pete's. I'll see you tomorrow."

"'kay. Oh, hey, Spencer says thank you for a great party." Ryan smiles innocently when Patrick shoots him a suspicious look over his shoulder, but his desire to get to Pete's and find out what's going on overrides any interest in finding out exactly what the glint in Ryan's eyes had meant when he said that.

Part VI

Risky Business, part 4/6

Sat, 06 Sep 2008 02:18:39 GMT

Part III

It's over this more civilized coffee that Patrick broaches a subject he's been itching to ask about for hours.

"Can I ask you something about your brother?" Gerard lifts an eyebrow and hums an affirmative, breathing in the fragrant smell of the real coffee Pete stocks. "Did he and Pete have a...thing, once?"

Gerard chokes on the mouthful of coffee he'd just taken. He splutters for a minute or two, before getting himself under control. "Mikey and Pete? Why are you asking?"

Patrick shrugs, trying to look casual. "Pete said he's coming to L.A. for Ryan's bachelor party, and I just wanted to know the score so I don't make an idiot out of myself by saying the wrong thing when he gets here, that's all." Gerard looks at him with narrowed eyes, making Patrick feel like he's being weighed up.

"Yeah, they had a thing. It lasted for nearly two years, almost...must be at least five years ago, 'cause I was still in the basement."

"Was it serious?"

Gerard laces his fingers around his mug, contemplating the dark liquid. "For Pete, very much so. I've known him for a long time, before he even thought of this place." He waves the mug in the vague direction of the walls and sighs. "Pete falls in like very easily; it's part of his nature, and with very little prompting he can fall in lust as well."

"What about love?"

Gerard gives him a crooked smile. "Ah. Now, that doesn't happen as often, but when it does he falls hard, fast and doesn't want to let go. But Mikey? I don't want to speak badly of my brother, but he's not like that. He thinks about things; takes the route least likely to hurt him."

"He broke up with Pete?"

"Yeah. It'd take someone special to be able to keep Pete Wentz if he falls in love with them, and not get burned themselves. Mikey didn't think he could be that person."

Patrick absorbs this, thinking deeply and not noticing Gerard's considering look. The artist nods, makes a small joke and then moves the conversation away from Pete and Mikey. For this, Patrick is grateful, although he wonders if Gerard picked anything up in his questioning that might give him a clue as to Patrick's real reason behind asking.

It takes Gerard five studio sessions to get all the sketches he claims he needs to make a kick-ass album cover and assorted posters, and by this time the Prom Queens are no more. Instead, after a fight which left them all a little bruised and battered but finally on the same page, the girls decided on a name change.

Patrick has to admit, Pencey Prep sounds a lot better than Prom Queens.

It's a busy week, what with Pete flying around the studios whining about having to change the band's name on all their paperwork, Patrick finally managing to get them to record and promptly being buried under two dozen demos, all of which he thinks might be good enough for the album with some polish, and Ryan taking every opportunity to steal him away and talk 'wedding stuff' with him.

Oh, and then there's the morning Frankie storms out of the studio to the live room where Gerard is attempting to dictate where she should stand through the intercom, and kisses him hard.

"If you wanna tell me what to do, come into the fucking room and do it. Or take me back to your place." Gerard flails, staring at Frankie as she stands in front of him, hands planted firmly on her hips. Patrick rolls his eyes, checks that he's stopped the recorder and gives both of them a gentle shove.

"Get out of here, go on. We'll pick this up again tomorrow; you've got more important things to do."
Frankie's smile is pure mischief. "Yeah, like me. Come on, idiot." She drags an unresisting Gerard out of the room, leaving Patrick with the other girls looking amused and bemused respectively. He waves them out of the live room, shutting off the lights as they join him in the mixing room.

"We're done for the night, I think. I doubt those two'll resurface until tomorrow."

Alyssa snorts in derision. "Next week's more likely; she's been going on about him for ages." The other three nod their agreement, the smiles of relief on their faces making Patrick think she's done more than 'go on'.

Frankie can be very...graphic, when telling stories.

Patrick ushers them out of the door, turns to shut it and promptly gets jumped on. "Fuck fuck OW!" The person clinging to his back laughs in his ear then slips down, spins Patrick around by his shoulders and kisses him smack on the lips.

Somewhere between trying to stay upright and registering some guy's tongue in his mouth, Patrick realizes two things. One, the guy tastes familiar and two; he can just see Jon Walker shuffling his way towards Patrick and his attacker, one hand raised in a lazy wave.

Patrick waves back over Tom's shoulder. Suddenly things make sense. He should have guessed, really; this is practically Tom's standard way of greeting an old friend, especially one like Patrick. Jon finally reaches them, soft brown eyes lit up with amusement at Tom's over enthusiastic hello.

"Tom, hey, let the guy breathe. We came to help Spence celebrate getting married, not to comfort him at the funeral of a friend." He fists a hand in Tom's shirt and pulls, making the slightly taller guy break away from Patrick. He leans in and plants one last wet kiss on Patrick's cheek, then stands back and beams at him.

Patrick eyes him warily. Tom has the habit of attacking you again once you're off guard, and, past experience or not, Patrick is still vulnerable. "Hey, guys. Not to sound rude, but you're two days early." Jon grins, wide and sunny.

"You couldn't be rude to us, 'Trick, never."

Tom bounces on his toes, energy radiating from his body. "We wanted to surprise you, so we got an earlier flight down."

"How did you even get in here? Ryan's not supposed to let people in without a permit, friends or not."

Jon shrugs, looking laid back and unconcerned. Patrick envies him the ability to be unfazed pretty much constantly, sometimes. "There wasn't anyone at the reception desk, but we met this guy-"

"Fucking tall guy-"

"Yeah, who let us in after we told him we were here for Spencer's bachelor party."

"Tall and looks like a girl, or tall and sounds Latino-ish?"

Tom thought for a moment. "Second."

"That would've been Gabe." Jon raises his eyebrows a fraction.

"Gabe as in ‘asshole Gabe who you loathe and detest‘?"

Patrick sighs dramatically. "Well, yes, but I don't hate him now. It's a long story, and you should see Ryan first." He leads them back to the reception, where a slightly put-out Ryan tells them off for not waiting for him to come back to the desk, and then hugs them both tightly.

"You shouldn't tell the children off and then be nice to them in the same breath, Ryan," remarks Patrick dryly, "it sends the wrong message." He's being mercilessly tickled while Tom tries to steal his hat when Pete walks in, head bent over his sidekick and not paying attention.

It's pretty obvious when he does notice what's going on, though. He looks up from the tiny screen as Tom whoops in victory, Patrick's baseball cap clutched firmly in one hand. For a moment Pete's face flickers between confused, hurt and then angry, before he controls himself and smiles wide at the two visitors.

Pete hides what he's feeling quickly, too quickly for the distracted Patrick to see, but not for Ryan. He sees, and in that instant he understands things so much more clearly. He stands by quietly as Pete walks over, Patrick laughing his way through the introductions, and makes some swift plans in his head. It looks like his and Spencer's parties will be much more interesting than they'd originally thought.

——

Patrick knows Ryan and Spencer are up to something; he can tell. They stand slightly aside from everyone else as what seems like the entire staff of Decaydance, and then some, collects in the building's foyer, whispering together and making small, aborted movements he feels sure are meant to end with waves at himself, and at least Tom as well.

He puts it out of his head though. Whatever Ryan and Spencer are conspiring about is their business, not his. Well, for the moment at least. Ryan's penchant of doing some 'light' meddling may make him think otherwise soon, but for now Patrick focuses on ignoring Pete's just-barely false smile in his direction as they split into two groups, each dragging one half of the soon-to-be newlyweds out to waiting cars.

Two hours later and things are going if not well, then at least how they usually do when you get Spencer, Jon, Patrick and Tom in the same room. The rest of the party, various Decaydance employees and friends from Spencer's job as a clothing buyer for some expensive store Patrick always forgets the name of, listen in awe as Tom regales them with anecdotes and stories of Spencer's wild youth.

It wasn't actually that wild, but Tom's had a fair bit to drink by this time so he exaggerates without guilt. Patrick, not really a drinker, sits back and watches the hilarity begin as another of the party, a tech called Sisky, calls out for a round of truth or dare. No one expects Patrick to play; he prefers to watch games like this, and ever since an incident which left none of the Decaydance employees in any doubt as to how bad his temper really was, they tend to crack a joke and then leave him to observe.

Thing is, Spencer has a mission. After weeks of simply hearing about the 'spark' between Patrick and Pete, as Ryan had so girlishly termed it, he'd been curious to see if it was actually there, or if it was just Ryan being romantic. What Spencer had seen before they'd separated into groups was more than enough to convince him to follow Ryan's plan for the evening, so he feels no compunctions about setting Patrick up.

Well, Ryan had threatened no sex until marriage if he didn't help. Spencer had carefully weighed up his options. No sex for five months, or a possibly very angry Patrick?

Considering he only sees Patrick occasionally and he lives with Ryan, it isn't that hard a decision.

This is why he dragged Jon and Tom aside while the rest of his friends were occupied with watching the Butcher try to perform some feat of balance involving two chairs and a glass to explain what he - and Ryan - wanted them to do. They agreed so fast Spencer was a little surprised they didn't put it into action right there and then, but still. They'd agreed, that was the main thing.

So half an hour later, after numerous other dares, Spencer leans forward, slightly flushed from his mandatory glass or three of champagne- Pete, or rather the label, was paying, so he'd seen no reason not to have that at least - and fixes his gaze on Jon. "Jon Walker, truth or dare?"

Jon's picked truth almost every time, seemingly having no shame and leaving the dares to Tom. But now..."I think it's time for a dare." His mischievous smile holds an ulterior meaning for Spencer, and it's very nearly too much for him to look thoughtful and stick to Ryan's orders.

"Hmmm, you don't sound too enthusiastic."

Of all people, Spencer does not expect Patrick to speak just then. And never in a million years did he expect the producer to actually help them, even without knowing. "Maybe he and Tom can do a dare together, so he's got someone to hold his hand?"

Jon mock glares. "For that, give us something Patrick-related, Spencer."

"Seconded! You shouldn't be allowed to sit out a game of truth or dare at a man's bachelor party." Tom's grinning bright and wide, and to anyone not in on the game, he just looks like he's had a bit to drink. Spencer has a sudden flush of inane happiness that he's marrying a man so devilishly talented at plotting. Or meddling; whatever you call it, it's still fun.

He pretends to think. "Okay, well...how about...oh, I know." Patrick shoots him a worried look. "You two" he beckons to Jon and Tom, "have to see how far you can get with our dear Patrick without getting punched, OR without him dying of embarrassment."

It's worth setting the dare just to see their faces, even though they already knew what the dare was. Twin smiles (that make even the slightly evil-on-the-inside Spencer feel like a rabbit in the headlights) spread across their faces as they stand up, and as they negotiate their way through the haphazard mess of chairs to where Patrick is sitting ensconced in a booth, Spencer has the momentary wish that Ryan could be here to see this.

He's pretty sure the club where they'd booked a private suite has never had a show quite like the one he's witnessing now. Jon and Tom work like a professional tag-team, sliding into the booth until they're settled comfortably each side of a wary-looking Patrick. Jon leans in until they're almost-but-not-quite touching before dropping his head to mouth gently at Patrick's shoulder through his shirt, their audience collectively holding a metaphorical breath when Patrick doesn't immediately pull away.

Tom mirrors Jon, except he softly runs one hand underneath Patrick's jaw and tilts his head, letting his fingers continue their path to twist gently in soft strands of red-gold hair. Everyone, and Spencer realizes it really is everyone when he glances round, makes a variation on a gasp as Tom kisses Patrick, kisses him thoroughly as Jon's hand curls over his boyfriend's neck and nips lightly at Patrick's ear.

Spencer has to give himself a serious mental shake to make him remember Ryan's next instructions. He swiftly take a few shots of them with his camera and then dashes off a text to Ryan, before clearing his throat. "Guys?"

Tom pulls back and turns to look at Spencer, who takes a sharp breath at the sight of Patrick next to him. He knows, objectively, that Patrick is cute. He can appreciate the paleness of his skin, can understand the attraction someone not already in love with another might have for his changeable eyes and silky-looking hair, and Spencer can most certainly see why people might like his mouth. But until the moment he sees Patrick between Jon and Tom, completely at ease, he's never really seen those things properly.

Fuck, does he see it now.

Jon looks round as well, smirking a little when he catches sight of Spencer's expression. "I think Spencer's trying to tell us that we've done the dare."

They vacate their places on either side of a ruffled-looking Patrick and return to their original seats, looking very pleased with themselves. Spencer fears the worst, having heard all about Patrick's temper. He's ready for the anger, prepared to defend himself with words from Ryan, but what Patrick actually says is not what they had anticipated.

"God, I'd forgotten what that was like."

That little comment is going to make Ryan extremely happy, Spencer thinks vaguely, as Jon calls back something about their door always being open and Tom saying Patrick should visit more often. Beyond Patrick's shrugs and simple comment that they're 'old friends', none of them can get anything more out of him, Tom or Jon for the rest of the evening.

It's only the next morning that he elaborates to Ryan, both of them hangover-free, if a little lacking in sleep. The receptionist corners Patrick as soon as he walks through the doors, wasting little time in pleasantries and questions about how his fiancé's party went.

"So, I hear you got up to something...interesting with those two Chicago friends of yours last night." Patrick smiles at the memory, eyes focused at a point over Ryan's shoulder.

"Oh, yeah. Just, you know, Spencer dared them."

"And you didn't exactly say no, apparently." Patrick ducks his head, looking down. "What's going on, Patrick? All the time I've known you, you've never gone in for PDA's, and then you let two guys hit on you in a bar, in public?"

"Not just 'two guys', Ryan. Jon and Tom." Seeing Ryan's blank stare, he sighs. "Fine, okay. We've had threesomes in the past, okay?"

"Three- no way! You're kidding me?"

Patrick arches an eyebrow. "Could you sound any more gay right now?"

"I'm marrying a guy, how much more gay do you want me to be?" Ryan doesn't let up until Patrick tells him, seriously and with a remarkable lack of blushing, just how good 'friends' he and his fellow Chicagoans were. He finally lets Patrick go into the studios when the phone rings, forcing him to drop the topic and become a professional once more.

Patrick escapes with some relief, and tries to focus on the day ahead.

—-

Stepping into one of the studios and seeing Frankie against the wall with her legs around Gerard's waist should be a clue that his day isn't going to be as simple as he'd expected, but in between stammering an apology, snatching up his notes from a previous session and making a hasty retreat, this little lesson escapes Patrick. He shuts himself in one of the unoccupied rooms, tries to calm the blush on his cheeks and then gets on with fixing some stuff for Pencey Prep.

He might work less peacefully if he knew just what Ryan was planning, but ignorance can be bliss, especially when it comes to meddling friends currently overdosing on romance and wedding plans. The receptionist waits impatiently for Pete to arrive at the building, one eye on his computer screen as he deals with phone calls, and the other on the doors.

When Pete finally does arrive, clutching a large cup of steaming coffee, Ryan has what he wants to say exactly planned out. It involves dropping some subtle hints and letting Pete know what had gone on the night before, along with the off-hand showing of one of the pictures Spencer had sent him. That's pretty much it. It's not fancy, but with Pete's crush on Patrick the way it is, Ryan has the gleeful suspicion that it'll be more than successful.

Although, just because he's doing Pete a huge favor ('Shut up, Spence, it's totally a favor, they'd never get anywhere without us', 'Sure, Ryan, just don't blame me if you get fired'), that doesn't mean he can't mess with him just a little first. He greets Pete with a bright and cheery smile, making his voice a little louder than normal.

"Morning, Pete!"

"Fuck, Ryan, we aren't all as disgustingly happy as you are in the mornings."

Ryan smiles, not unkindly. "Maybe if certain people didn't insist on staying up so late then they wouldn't feel so bad in the mornings, huh?"

"Hey, it's not my fault that Mikeyway and Darren wanted to go on to that other club. And the thing with the jello afterwards was all their idea, I swear."

Ryan isn't going to ask. Really, he isn't. He made the mistake of asking Pete about something that sounded a little odd, and regretted it. He'll never look at a rabbit the same way again. "Uh huh."

"It was a fun night though, yeah? I mean, you had fun, right?"

"Yes, Pete, I did have fun. Even with all the" he gestures vaguely, "stuff, and that girl." Pete shudders. She'd been very persistent, even after being told that Pete was: a) mostly gay and b) not actually the one getting married. That Ryan was marrying a guy hadn't seemed to deter her either, once she did get the message.

It was a very big reminder of why he likes guys. Or, rather, what he likes their lack of.

"Let's never mention it again, okay. The way bachelor parties are supposed to be, forgotten." Pete takes a huge gulp of coffee, shivering as it flows down his throat and wakes him up a bit more. Ryan frowns.

"Black coffee, Pete? Seriously?" To Ryan, black coffee is positively barbaric. "I've told you about that before."

Pete attempts a leer, but half asleep as he is it comes out even more pathetic than usual. "Come be my assistant, then you can tell me off about my coffee, Ryan."

"Pete, no. And stop looking at me like that, it's making me want to quit." Pete's pout is slightly more successful, although that might have been because his lips are more suited to pouting than leering. "Fine. How was Spencer's party, by the way?"

Ryan tries to look casual as his mind giggles with mischief. "Oh, pretty much the same as mine. Drinking, stupid party games no one over the age of ten should play..." (Pete's face at being told there was no way in hell any of them would play Seven Minutes in Heaven would be a treasured memory of everyone for years to come.)"...karaoke, that kind of stuff. Although I think they did better in terms of make-outs."

Pete's eyes light up so fast Ryan nearly giggles out loud, not just mentally. Laughed, he means laughed. "There was making out? Who?"

"Jon, Tom," Pete stops his slight bounce. For some reason he's taken against the two Chicago natives. "and Patrick." Ryan winces. "Pete, you are lucky that I like you and you're my boss, because if I can't get the coffee you just spat at me off my vest I will be extremely mad. It took me ages to sew the roses on just right."

Pete doesn't seem to hear him. "Jon, Tom and Patrick? All three of them...together?"

"Yeah. Here, Spencer took pictures." Ryan, like Spencer, had looked at the admittedly shitty quality pictures on Spencer's cell and understood immediately why Tom and Jon had been more than happy to recreate past events, albeit to a much smaller scale. It just hadn't been that sort of club, sadly. As Ryan watches Pete stare at the image of a fucking wrecked Patrick, sitting between his two very self-satisfied friends with tousled hair and bruised lips, he wonders exactly what Pete is feeling.

Pete's whispered "Fuck, no way in hell," gives him some insight, as does the speed at which Pete moves towards the doors that lead to the studios. Ryan smiles serenely as he sits at his desk, tapping out a text to Spencer to let him know that all was going as planned.

That had been almost too easy, but still satisfying.

Part V

Risky Business, part 3/6

Sat, 06 Sep 2008 02:14:27 GMT

Part II

Patrick blocks out all thoughts of Pete and his turmoil over the 'issue' with music, spending as much time with Greta as she can spare. It's relaxing to only think about the music; Greta's as focused as he is, with no bickering or complaints about staying late in the rented studio to work.

Patrick gets back to L.A. content, well rested and confident that he's got his feelings under control. Hooking up with an old friend helps as well, leaving him well rested and well fucked. He and Bob have always been able to fall in and out of sleeping together with no awkwardness, something Patrick is very grateful for.

He's happy until he walks into the Decaydance building and three things happen at once. Ryan launches himself at Patrick, talking too fast for him to follow, Gabe yells at him from the top of the stairs, and Pete totally ignores him as he crosses the lobby.

By the time Patrick gets Ryan to unlock his arms from around his neck, Pete's vanished and Gabe is having an animated discussion with Ryland. Ryan first it is.

"Ryan. Ryan!" Ryan stops mid flail and waits, eyes wide. "Slow down, I can't understand you." Ryan takes a deep breath, then sticks his left hand right in front of Patrick's face.

"Spencer proposed. He fucking PROPOSED!" Ryan's practically dancing, and Patrick has to grab his hand to keep it steady in order to look at the slim ring without it being blurry. As far as Patrick's limited experience with engagement rings go, it's nice, a silver band with what look like roses engraved in a loop around it.

"Are those roses?"

Ryan stops bouncing and gives him one of his patented bitchfaces, a look Patrick knows he shares with his boyfriend- sorry, fiancé. "Yes Patrick, they are roses. And there'll be more at the wedding. We're thinking summer, so we can have the big ones and not the forced hothouse ones, what do you think?"

He babbles on, Patrick knowing he isn't there for conversation but as someone for Ryan to talk at. His thoughts wander to Pete, a little hurt at his obvious snub. What he's done to deserve being ignored, Patrick has no idea, but he has to abandon those thoughts when Ryan tugs sharply on his sleeve.

"You'll come to the engagement party, right? Pete said we could have it here, in the huge conference room upstairs."

Patrick smiles. "Do I have a choice?"

"Nope." Ryan is bursting with happiness, the patterns on his face tiny hearts falling like tears from both eyes.

"Of course I'll come, idiot. Just don't expect a good present, okay?" Ryan laughs, enveloping Patrick in a hug just as tight as his first.

"Oh, and there's something else I want to ask you." His face turns serious, making Patrick look at him in alarm as all of his energetic movements vanish. "Will you be my best man?"

It's at least a minute before Patrick can do anything but nod like an idiot, mouth hanging open slightly. When he does gather enough of his wits to speak, it's not much better. "You - what - huh? You're serious?" Ryan nods. "Of course I'll be your fucking best man, Ry!"

Ryan's face lights up again, his body relaxing. "God, thank you so much, I was worried you were going to say no for a minute there."

"Like I'd do that to you. I'm honored to be asked, thank you."

Ryan pulls him over to the front desk, settling into describing what the party will be like in a tone of voice Patrick can only describe as rapturous. It takes nothing less than Gabe Saporta to make him relinquish his captive (and mostly happy) audience after ten minutes, but even Ryan can't say no to Gabe when he's being charming.

That, and the sheer size of the guy is intimidating even to Ryan.

Gabe doesn't even wait to pull Patrick away from Ryan's desk before he burst out with, "We went fucking GOLD!" His voice makeseveryone in the building foyer turn and stare, as does the way he's pulling Patrick around in a bastardized version of a victory dance. By the time Patrick gets him to stop, he's out of breath and laughing his head off at how much like a little kid Gabe is acting.

"Gabe, okay, I get the idea, you're happy. Now let me go, please. I'm not built for dancing."

"Dude, I am way beyond happy. I'm fucking ecstatic, euphoric, overcome with joy, I'm-" Patrick escapes when Vicky turns up, Gabe releasing his hold to leap over to her and start his spiel again. Patrick watches them bounce for a minute, suddenly incredibly grateful that he'd stuck with them for the entire album. Then he makes his way through the doors and down the hall to Pete's office, curious to find out why he was ignored earlier. Pete's door is open, as always, and Patrick leans against the door as he waits for Pete to notice him. When he does, he doesn't exactly get the greeting he expects after nearly four months of friendship.

Pete stops pretending he's reading the gargantuan document on his desk long enough to spare Patrick an icy glance. "Hey. Prom Queens are waiting for you in studio three, if that's okay."

"Sure."

He spends the rest of the afternoon working with Prom Queens, a pop band who Patrick personally thinks will end up being better known for their stage costumes than their music, but nevertheless, he has to work with them. By the time he sends them home, he's just as frustrated as he ever was with Gabe, and it's giving him a headache. Pete shows up just as they leave, holding the door as four tired and irritable teenage girls push past him, swearing and muttering about the crazy producer he's stuck them with.

"Doesn't sound like they're happy with you, Patrick." His smile almost reaches his eyes.

"The feeling is very mutual. It's like being back in high school, a bunch of girls looking down their noses at me and insulting my hats." Pete's smile widens a fraction, looking more like his usual grin. "I guess they aren't that bad, when they try."

He plays Pete the rough recordings, and they slip into the easy conversation that's become normal for them. They're in the middle of listening to a drum line that Patrick thinks could be faster but can't convince the girls to try for the life of him, when Pete speaks.

"How's Bob?"

Patrick figures he's got two choices. Either he can freak out, get angry, demand why it's any of his business and how the hell he found out, or he can...not.

"He's fine. Still drumming, working as a sound tech occasionally." Pete nods, expression mostly hidden as he stares at the computer screen. "How'd you know about us?"

Us. Such a small word, but its effect on Pete is greater than Patrick could've expected. His shoulders tense up, fingers hitting the replay button a little too hard for Patrick's liking. "Ray Toro called me, said he'd met you in New York. Mentioned it in passing."

Ray Toro. If the time comes when Bob is off-limits for any more no-strings-attached fun, it'll be because of Ray Toro. Somehow, Patrick's not surprised Ray's the reason Pete knows about his thing with Bob.

"Is that why you're angry at me?"

Pete's feigned surprise is almost as good as it was in his office, but Patrick's closer now and he can see through it more easily. "I'm not angry with you."

He doesn't bother trying to not roll his eyes. "Riiight. That's why I got the cold shoulder earlier." Pete drums his fingers along the edge of his workstation, not looking at Patrick.

"I'm not angry, it's just-" He sighs, and Patrick can tell he's trying to come up with the right lie to make him drop the issue.

Sometimes it worries him just how much he knows about Pete now.

"I'm worried that you weren't as...professional as you should have been, that's all."

"Are you serious?!" Patrick hasn't used his bitchy tone with Pete for months; even though he knows Pete is lying through his teeth, he feels the idiot deserves it. "What makes you think that I'd let my personal life interfere with doing my job?!"

Pete hunches his shoulders, looking small and tired. "Nothing, nothing. I was just worried, that's all. I know you wouldn't do that. But Ray said you were with Bob a lot, so."

"You can be a real asshole sometimes, you know that?" That Pete would make up an excuse like that for being angry almost hurts more than it would if he really thinks that little of Patrick, so he feels justified in grabbing his jacket and heading for the exit. Pete stops him with one hand on his sleeve, looking lost with a dark hoodie and darker shadows under his eyes.

"'m sorry. I know you wouldn't do that."

Patrick sighs. "Good."

He sits back down, choosing to chastise Pete for not sleeping when he knows he should call his bluff.

——

It takes a month for Ryan and Spencer to get everything organized for their engagement party, and by the time there are waiters hauling trays of food up to the conference room, Patrick has pretty much forgotten about Pete's odd reaction when he got back from New York. He dodges a harried-looking guy carrying a crate of wine and waves at Ryan, deep in discussion with his fiancé.

"Hey, guys." They're in their element here; Ryan loves imagining an event, an atmosphere, and Spencer loves organizing, making it happen. It's no surprise when, three hours later, the party is a total success. Every detail fits together in a way that makes Patrick think of a well-crafted song, and Ryan blushes faintly when he tells his friend this.

"That's such a compliment from you, Patrick. I'm glad you approve." He smiles, eyes drifting to Spencer where he's talking to Brendon some distance away. Together, they keep the party going smoothly, talking to everyone and supervising as well. Patrick doesn't think they'll miss him as he slips out to hide in one of the studios; they've got enough to do without keeping tabs on everyone.

Large groups of people really aren't his thing; they make him feel self-conscious and awkward, so it's a relief when he gets the door shut and can take a few moments away from the noise to work on some chords for Prom Queens. He's so wrapped up that he doesn't notice Pete slipping into the small room for a full minute, and when he does, it's only because Pete speaks.

"It's kinda rude to leave a party early, you know."

"You know I don't like parties."

"True. I do know that." Something in Pete's tone makes Patrick straighten and turn, fingers pausing on the control panel. Pete's closer than he'd thought, but the dim light of the studio makes it difficult for Patrick to see his expression even so close.

The press of Pete's lips against his own is so unexpected it makes Patrick freeze. He can't summon enough coherent thought to make himself kiss back; instead he drops into a loop of oh my god, he's kissing me, what the hell do I do?

The most he can get his body to do is let him raise a hand to Pete's arm, but by the time he manages to do that small thing Pete's pulling back, eyes dark and mouth turned down a fraction at the corners. Patrick hates that look. He only sees it when something's gone wrong at work but Pete doesn't want to talk about it.

He hates it when he knows what Pete's reaction is going to be before it happens. It makes him feel like he owns a part of Pete he has no right to.

But that doesn't stop it from happening.

"So, what're you working on that couldn't wait until there isn't a party you're supposed to be at?" Pete's voice is nearly tremor free, almost the right amount of exasperation and amusement he always uses when catching Patrick working too late in a darkened studio.

"Pete-" Patrick bites off the rest of his question when he sees Pete's eyes. He realizes that if he pushes against the barriers Pete has just put up, he risks making their friendship come crashing down into an irreparable mess. So instead he turns back to the computer. "The stuff I recorded with Prom Queens earlier. It's not bad, compared to what they were like three weeks ago."

It costs him more then he wants to admit, but the badly hidden relief in Pete's voice when he asks about a particular set of notes makes Patrick suddenly and stupidly grateful he'd taken the hint.

They only stay for another five minutes; Patrick's mind isn't on the music any more, and Pete's trying too hard to act like nothing happened for it to be entirely comfortable in the small room. Back at the party, listening to the chatter of guests and loud music, Patrick wonders what impact Pete's actions are going to have on them.

——

When he tells Ryan two days later, his reaction is...dramatic. And to Patrick's mind, totally unnecessary.

"Ryan!" He hisses, "Keep your voice down." He tugs on Ryan's wrist, pulling him back down into the seat he'd sprung out of at Patrick's hushed revelation. Ryan stares at him with wide, wide eyes, mouth curling into a smile that makes Patrick as uneasy as hearing the words 'I have an idea' come out of Pete's mouth does.

"This is fabulous!" He's got a huge smile now, which is even more worrying because Ryan doesn't really do facial expressions unless he's feeling very emotional. "God, it's taken you long enough. So, how long did you kiss for? Is he good? Was there tongue?"

"Are you actually a teenage girl?" Ryan blinks at Patrick, a tiny frown appearing on his face. "Sorry. But I didn't finish telling you. Nothing happened."

"I thought you said he kissed you?"

Patrick rests his arms on his legs and stares at his feet, absently tapping a drum line on worn denim.

"He did."

"Then...what do you mean, 'nothing happened'?" Ryan sounds as confused as Patrick feels, and he searches for words to make things understandable to himself as much as to Ryan.

"He kissed me for a second when we were in one of the studios, after we escaped from your party for a few minutes. And I guess I wasn't expecting it, because I didn't do anything."

"You weren't expecting it?!" Ryan's voice is harsh and bordering on too loud for Patrick's peace of mind, even for the usually monotone receptionist. Patrick lifts his head in surprise, staring at Ryan.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

His friend leans back in his chair with a wordless exclamation, flinging his hands up in the air. "Patrick, for fuck's sake. Pete likes you." This Patrick gets - they are friends, he knows he understands that bit of the situation right. Ryan makes an exasperated noisewhen he nods, face clearly saying 'duh, I know that.' "Not like that. I mean he likes you."

But, no - oh. Well.

Fuck.

A few things make a little more sense right now. The alarmingly high amount of hugs. Pete's weird behavior right before he left to work with Greta. His attitude toward Patrick when he got back from New York, where he'd hooked up with someone.

Patrick hasn't had an 'I hate working at Decaydance' moment related to Pete since they became friends, but this is most definitely one. Ryan looks at him worriedly as he groans.

"Is this not a good thing?"

Patrick gives Ryan a Look. "No, this is not a good thing."

"Why the hell not? We- and by we I mean everyone who works here- have been waiting for this to happen ever since you two started the bitch war to end all bitch wars." Patrick can't help himself, truly.

"Including the ones you and Spencer have?"

"We're allowed to be bitches to each other, we're sleeping together. You and Pete weren't, at the time. But now you've kissed-"

"We haven't. Look, he kissed me. I froze, didn't have a fucking clue how to react, and then he pretended like it never happened."

"Like it never- seriously?"

Patrick nods tiredly. "He stepped back and asked me what I was working on instead of being at your party." He glances up at Ryan. "Sorry about that, by the way."

Ryan waves one long-fingered hand impatiently. "Forget it, I know you don't do parties. We were just happy you stayed for longer than half an hour."

"I'm the best man, I had to stay for at least two hours."

"Again, grateful, but we're moving away from the important issue here. What are you going to do about Pete?"

"What can I do? He acted like it never happened, Ryan. And I know him well enough to know he was serious about it. I've got no idea why he kissed me, or why he's determined to wipe it out completely, but I'm not gonna force him to talk when that'd probably do more harm than good."

"But there's got to be a reason he kissed you in the first place, right?"

"No, Ryan, he was just bored." Ryan gave him a withering look. "Of course there's a fucking reason, I just don't know what it is and Pete won't tell me!"

"Then-"

"Ryan, leave it. He's not serious about it, if he won't even mention it ten seconds after it happened." Patrick makes himself sound stern, hoping Ryan will realize just how much he wants this subject dropped. He's also hoping Ryan won't hear the thin thread of uncertainty in his voice.

Ryan isn't convinced, but after another round of hushed arguing, Patrick gets him to let it go.

He'd probably be less assured of this if he knew about the scheming Ryan and Spencer were doing after work, but you can't have everything.

As Patrick knows all too well.

For a day or so, he is preoccupied, producing on autopilot and trying to avoid Pete without actually avoiding him, too wrapped up in the feelings he'd tried to put out of his head in New York to do anything more than go through the motions. Then he gives himself a mental shake, a stern talking-to and decided that if Pete wants to forget about the sort-of kiss, then fine.

This plan, involving being exactly the same around Pete as he had been every day since their conversation on the parking lot wall, goes surprisingly smoothly. Patrick discovers that sitting on Pete's couch discussing the various failings of the Prom Queens is no more difficult after their kiss than it was before, although he has to admit he still gets far too flustered when they end up reverting to teenagers and wrestling over the remote.

It's a good plan, and it goes well. Patrick is suspicious of Ryan's continued silence on the matter, but when Pete stumbles into his small office early one Monday morning clutching a thick brown envelope, all thoughts beyond work fly from his head.

"Look." Pete shoves the envelope underneath Patrick's nose and waits impatiently while he opens it, sprawled in a chair opposite the producer. The contents are...interesting, to say the least.

"Gerard? Gerard Way? He's working with Prom Queens?"

Pete nods earnestly. "Yeah. And he wants to come here so he can listen to the girls perform and make sketches, or some shit like that. For their album cover, he says."

"Yes, Pete, I can read. How'd they get an artist like Gerard to work with them?"

"I think he knows their lead singer, whatshername, through his brother Mikey."

"Frankie." Patrick tilts his head questioningly at Pete, still bouncing. Then he gets it. "You mean he wants to sit in on recordings?"

"Yes! It's perfect. You can help him, um-" Pete leans over and snags the letter from inside the envelope out of Patrick's hand, perusing it for a moment, then; "oh, yeah, 'create a visual representation of the band's style'."

Patrick looks down at the papers he'd been left with, quick sketches of the band members Gerard had sent as examples of his work with them already. "How is making me play host to a reclusive, coffee-addicted artist perfect, exactly?"

"Because he's bringing Mikeyway with him." Patrick shakes his head, lost. "Oh, you probably haven't heard. I'm taking Ryan out for his bachelor party, and I invited Mikeyway. Ryan doesn't know him, but he said it's alright. He's an old...friend."

Patrick isn't sure if he was meant to catch the slight pause there, but he figures probably not. "What about Spencer?"

"Some old college friend of his is coming down from Chicago, Jon something."

"Jon Walker?"

Pete looks surprised. "You know him?"

"Sure. We were in the scene for a while until he left to go to college, in Vegas of all places, and I came down here for college. He's an old friend too." Patrick echoes Pete's words on purpose, just to see the effect they might have. It's underhanded and not very nice, but acting like nothing has happened goes against everything Patrick's wanted since that night on his couch.

Pete's eyes narrow very slightly, his mouth tightening just a fraction. If Patrick hadn't been looking for something, and so used to Pete, he wouldn't have seen anything.

"Really? Then you should go with them. You'd probably be more comfortable with people you know than with a stranger, anyway."

Tense words, and Patrick can tell they cost Pete a lot to say. Why he does, Patrick still has no clue. This game, Pete's game, is beyond his understanding. "Sure. When are they?"

"Dude, seriously, have you been hiding under a rock for the last month? How can you not know when the bachelor parties of the year are planned?" Pete purses his lips and pretends to be deep in thought, before letting a knowing smile creep onto his face. "Come to think of it, I haven't seen that much of you. Where've you been?"

Patrick gestures vaguely. "Oh, you know. Working on stuff, fixing songs, getting to know the new people you've brought in." Patrick's head is giving him a very strong deflect, deflect him now warning, and he takes heed. "Actually, about that. The new tech you hired-"

"Brent."

"Yeah, him. He's not going to last. He keeps turning up late, gets the set-up in the studios wrong. Small stuff like that, but it's building up."

Pete nods, rubbing the back of his neck and smiling wryly. "You're the third person to tell me that. He keeps trying to hit on Ryan, even after being told he's engaged. Guess I messed up there."

"You can't pick the right people all the time, Pete."

Pete shrugs. "Yeah, well. I'll talk to him, let him go as gently as I can. He's a good kid, but he's just not cut out for this place." It's such a normal scene for them that Patrick can, for a moment, forget his inner turmoil and simply enjoy Pete's wide, open smile. He has to force himself to let the moment pass; now is not the time.

"So when are the 'bachelor parties of the year', then?"

"Two weeks from Saturday. We're all meeting here at seven, and then going our separate ways. That cool with you?"

"Yeah, sure."

——

Gerard Way is perhaps the weirdest guy Patrick has ever been shut in a studio with, and that's including Gabe while high. He drinks more coffee than Patrick thinks any one human should be able to, and yet is still quiet and self-contained.

Until they start the session, that is. As soon as the girls set themselves up for a full recording session, he's animated and alert, fingers making patterns in the air next to Patrick as he chatters excitedly about their positions and the way he wants to draw them.

Patrick gets the girls ready to record, tells them to keep going until he stays stop, and then sits back to listen to Gerard.

"But, no, it's like, the shadows around Marta, they're so...alive, you know?" Patrick does not know, and he suspects Gerard knows this. He lets the artist carry on though, one ear on him and one on the noises the girls are making.

It doesn't sound like any of their songs, if he's honest.

At least two hours later, in the middle of a discussion about who is the best comic book hero, Spiderman or Wolverine (Superman is left out, Gerard claiming it's too easy to include him), Alyssa suddenly flings one of her drumsticks at Marta, almost making her drop her bass. Patrick and Gerard watch the ensuing argument with great interest; the girl's voices are muffled by the thick glass between the live room and the recording room, but the odd word - mainly an expletive - is still distinguishable.

Gerard bites thoughtfully at a fingernail and remarks "Shouldn't we, like, go in and stop them?"

Patrick spins his chair gently to a stop and leans up to see over the mixing board into the live room. "Nah. If Frankie starts throwing punches, then I'll step in." Gerard relaxes a little, but his eyes are still on the arguing bandmates.

"Have you seen her tattoos?" The question catches Patrick off-guard, and he looks at Gerard in blank surprise.

"The ones on her arms, sure. Why?" Gerard sits back, eyes wide and shining the way they were when he was talking about his art.

"She's getting another one, on her knuckles. It's going to say 'Halloween' in these big, black and orange gothic letters."

Patrick smiles. "Gee?"

Gerard hears the slight teasing note in his voice and flushes. "What?"

"You've got that look on your face, the one you had when you were describing your sculpture." What the sculpture is, exactly, Patrick still isn't sure even after listening to Gerard talk about it for ten minutes. But he recognizes the look alright.

"I...she's just...it's Frankie. She's amazing, talented, hot as hell, and she's got the most awesome tattoos."

"Do you always base your choice in women on her tattoos?"

"No, but with Frankie it's like they are her, part of who she is."

Gerard sighs, staring through the glass window at the still fighting girls. "Does she know?" Patrick asks gently, and Gerard tears his gaze away from the singer to give Patrick a pitiful look.

"Why the fuck would I tell her? Why would she-" he gestured to where a boisterous Frankie was yelling at her bass player, "-want to have anything to do with a reclusive, geeky artist who only moved out of his mother's basement two years ago?"

Patrick has a good reason why, he honestly does, but it's at that moment that he spots Frankie raise herself onto the balls of her feet, bouncing slightly and clenching her as-yet unadorned fists. "Shit, come on."

They get inside before Frankie can throw any punches, and before any can be sent her way, but it's obvious that they aren't going to get anything else done. Patrick sends them home early, leading Gerard towards the little staff kitchen instead.

"Coffee?" Patrick doesn't know why he even bothers asking. Gerard will always nod - except, as he cheerfully tells Patrick over a steaming mug - when he's drawing. The art stimulates him enough that he doesn't need any caffeine.

Part IV

Risky Business, part 2/6

Sat, 06 Sep 2008 01:35:19 GMT

Part I

Ryan is hovering by his desk, grabbing Patrick's arm as soon as he gets close enough and dragging him behind the counter. He blocks what Patrick considers his only escape route, arms folded and hips tilted, obviously waiting.

"What?"

"What do you mean, 'what'?" Ryan tilts his hips the other way and fixes Patrick with an even more intense look. "Are you fired? Where did Pete go? What were you talking about?"

"No I'm not fired, he's gone to put Bill with another producer, and we were talking about...stuff. Me. Him. Us, I guess." Ryan relaxes, sinking into his chair and leaving the exit clear. Patrick doesn't take it though, waiting for the comments he knows are coming.

"He actually listened to you about Bill?" Ryan raises an eyebrow at Patrick's nod. "Huh. So he might not be all that bad, really."

Pete picks that moment to reappear, his steps bouncy and energetic. "Who's not that bad really?"

Ryan doesn't even blink. "Brendon. Hyper or not, I think he might actually be human."

Patrick is starting to worry that he's inadvertently inhaled something that makes him want to see Pete smile all the time, but he firmly tells himself it's because he's never had that smile directed at him before.

"So, I transferred Bill. He's with Maja, so even if he does hit on her, it'll only be once."

"Maja? I just wanted him off my hands, not a eunuch."

Pete's laugh is loud and would probably be obnoxious from anyone else, but coming from Pete it's just him. "I like it better when your sarcasm is directed at other people and not me, I have to say." Ryan is silent, but it's a silence that speaks volumes. "So, coffee after work? I'll come find you."

"Sure. I'll be in studio two with Gabe, unless a miracle happens and we get finished."

"Okay then." It doesn't seem possible, but Patrick could swear Pete's smile gets bigger. Well, the amount of teeth on display goes up. "Ryan, any messages for me?"

Ryan sighs the sigh of someone with little patience left, and looks at Pete from underneath his thick fringe. "For the eleventh time, if there are any messages for you I pass them on to your own secretary straight away."

"But I like talking to you. Are you sure I can't convince you to be my secretary instead?" Patrick stifles a snigger at Pete's attempt at a leer. They both ignore him.

"I'm too high maintenance for you."

The phone rings, and Ryan neatly cuts off Pete's return comment by answering it. Pete flings his hands up in the air in an overly dramatic display of disappointment, smiles at Patrick and wanders off.

Ryan turns to glance at him, still talking to whoever it is on the phone, and gives him a significant look.

What the look is meant to signify, Patrick has no idea, and he doesn't dwell on it as he walks slowly back to the studios, determined to get Gabe to do some proper work for once, instead of simply acting up.

——

The shock of discovering he and Pete actually get along fades slightly as the afternoon wears on, to be replaced by a newfound...not respect, but at least understanding of Gabe. Pete's obviously had a word with him, as he'd promised, so when Patrick enters the control room he looks subdued and, unusually, nervous.

"Hey. I owe you an apology, according to Pete." His natural confidence makes him raise his chin as he says it, but that's the only outward sign that he's not entirely comfortable with the situation.

Patrick blinks. "Well, I wouldn't go that far. But a change of attitude would be nice, yeah." Gabe nods, slowly, and he waits for Patrick to get set up before asking what song he wants to work on, instead of leaping right in with demands.

What Patrick thought would be like any other session, fraught with frustration at Gabe's attitude and not being able to get the music right, turns out to be fairly enjoyable. Gabe, Patrick learns, is incredibly observant. The bandmates have different opinions about different songs and sections, and Gabe knows them all, even down to the exact notes.

They work for longer than they anticipated; Patrick determined to make the most out of this new side of Gabe before he reverts back to his old ways. He gets so caught up in trying to explain what's missing in one of the songs that he finds himself singing a counterpoint to Gabe's vocals, trying to make it clearer.

He does it out of frustration - he and Gabe don't have that instinctive partnership he's got with some of the other musicians he works with - and barely stops to catch his breath before launching into another attempt at explaining.

Gabe stops him with a flapping hand, leaning forward intently. "I didn't know you were a singer as well, dude. Is there anything musical you can't do?" Patrick looks at Gabe in confusion.

"I'm not a singer. I was just trying to get you to hear what's missing."

"Yeah. You." Gabe looks very pleased with himself, like that's the solution to all of the album's problems. "I want you to sing backing on some of the songs, the ones you keep telling me still sound incomplete."

"No, Gabe, I'm not a singer. Maybe you could ask-" Gabe shakes his head emphatically. "But-"

"I want you to sing it, Patrick. Every other thing you've done on our stuff has worked, and made it better. This'd be the finishing touch. Please." It's the last word that sways him, really. It's so out of character for Gabe that Patrick is momentarily taken aback, sudden surprise making him actually think about doing it instead of simply dismissing it again.

The smile on Gabe's face is huge and a little dorky when Patrick nods, so friendly that Patrick is even more convinced there's something in the air today that's making everyone switch personalities. First he and Pete manage a mostly civil conversation, and now he's been shut in a small studio control room with Gabe Saporta for more than four hours and doesn't want to kill him.

Their extended session lasts well into the evening, until Patrick steps out from the isolation booth to see Gabe dancing around the control room, looking more legs than ever. He stands in the doorway, out of reach of the flailing limbs, and watches with a smile on his face.

"What's with the...seizure? Or is it a war dance, I can't tell."

Gabe grins, a nice change from the arrogant comment Patrick would've got once. "We're done! That last bit was it, all the songs you were stressing about are done." He stops, eyebrows suddenly going up and eyes wide. "Do you know what that means?"

"We can go home?"

"No. Well, yeah, but more importantly, we're done."

"You've said that. I'm glad, now can I hear?"

Gabe flaps at him again. "Done with the album."

Patrick frowns at him, moving to check the computer connected to the mixing console. He flicks rapidly through the list of songs, skimming the notes he'd made and comparing them. Every notation has a mark next to it to tell him it's been done, as well as extra ones to show more alterations have been made.

Normally Gabe would be making scathing remarks about how obsessive he is with this stuff, but instead he stands quietly and lets Patrick check. He's visibly having to hold himself back from more wild leaping when Patrick straightens.

"Well, it looks like we've done everything. But-" he holds up a hand as Gabe draws breath, "I think we should listen to the whole thing, just to make sure."

Gabe deflates. His face twists into his regular sneer, and Patrick inwardly sighs. He knows what's coming. An angry comment, insults about everything from his height to his competence as a producer. It's what he's come to expect after so long working with the Cobra singer, and even after an afternoon of good behavior, it's not a surprise. Too good to be true, Patrick thinks wearily.

"You-" Gabe starts. Then stops. And takes a deep breath, hand coming up to cover his mouth. Then:

"Okay. Let's do that."

To say Patrick is shocked would be an understatement. Dumbfounded might be better, or stunned. This is not the Gabe he knows. "Did you have a personality transplant, or something? Because the Gabe I've been working with for months would be acting like a total asshole right now." Gabe shrugs. "No, seriously, what's up with you?"

The taller singer rubs the back of his neck, looking over Patrick's shoulder. "Pete...well, he had a word with me about my attitude." Patrick is disbelieving.

"What could he possibly have said that'd make you suddenly be nice to me?"

"Just some stuff. We're old friends, so." Patrick realizes Gabe really is uncomfortable with the conversation, and not just being an evasive asshole again, so he simply gives him a curious look before raising his hands to show he's dropping the issue. "Fine. In that case, shall we?"

One run-through becomes two as Gabe picks up a rough spot he's still not happy with, which turns into three, then four, and by the time there's nothing else they can do it's been two hours. Patrick's head is swimming with words and chords, and by the looks of things Gabe isn't much better off. He groans and holds his head in his hands, hoodie pulled low over his face.

"Ugh, I think I'll be hearing those fucking words in my sleep for the next three years." The vehemence in his voice is diminished slightly due to tiredness, but still strong. "Why, why did the rest of my band get to go home and I didn't?" Patrick tips his head back against the chair and stretches, wincing at the pull of cramped muscles.

"Because Pete was still being sadistic and hating me when he scheduled a 'one-on-one' session for us?" His mouth tastes dry and woolly, the result of singing in a too-warm studio when he hadn't been planning on it. Gabe laughs, Patrick noting with a touch of worry that his throat sounds a little rough as well.

"Pete doesn't hate you. He likes you, actually."

"Sure. Next you'll be telling me he's running for President."

"Can't. He's not old enough. But really, he doesn't hate you." Patrick tilts his head upright and stares at Gabe. He sounds serious, a rare occurrence even tonight.

"What?"

Gabe stretches too, long frame bending as he tries to work out kinks in his spine. "Pete. He likes you."

"You've said that, and I'm pretty sure the last two months or so prove you wrong."

"The last two months were because both of you were too fucking stubborn to apologize for that first meeting, and be friends. Which you are clearly meant to be."

Patrick looks at Gabe wearily. It's been a long night, and this really isn't helping. "First of all, that was Pete's fault, not mine. He interrupted a recording and then basically sent me away so he could talk to you guys without me. Which, by the way, isn't polite when I'm your producer." Gabe folds his arms, waiting for Patrick to finish. Patrick's really starting to want asshole Gabe back, not the one who actually listens. It's a little off-putting. "And secondly, we're not 'meant to be' friends. What the fuck?"

The singer raises one hand, curling long fingers into a fist. He flicks one up when he makes a point, starting with the index finger. "One. Pete has no concept of what actually goes on in a studio, okay? So he wouldn't know if we were recording or not. Two, he's not exactly the most observant of people, so if he didn't see you, it was a mistake and not deliberate. No, let me finish." Patrick subsides, his comment bitten back. "Three, you didn't have to be a bitch. And four, and this is the most important, he thinks you're the best thing to ever happen to this studio."

That's a bit much for Patrick to take in all at once. He settles for the least important, although most embarrassing. "I thought the best thing here was Ryan?"

Gabe rolls his eyes. "Yeah, like Ross has anything on you. Look, Pete gushes about you to any artist who's thinking of signing to Decaydance. And you tell him I told you that, I'm dead." Patrick scrubs a hand over his face, willing the words to make sense. But nothing's going in; it's too late to try and understand what Gabe's saying.

"It's late and I'm too tired to make any sense out of that, so can we drop it and go home?" Patrick laughs at Gabe's immediate and enthusiastic nod, and together they wander out of the building. As late as they are, past midnight by Patrick's general estimation, the late shift tech is still there, doing repairs in one of the other studios.

Patrick lets him know that they're done, and then follows Gabe's example of driving to a soft bed.

The relief of finally being done lets him fall into said bed with fewer worries than usual.

——

His phone buzzes at a time he doesn't want to see for the next two days, but he blearily manages to find and answer it. He's responsible like that.

"Morning! How'd it go yesterday?"

Patrick falls back into bed, cradling the phone between his ear and the pillow. "Why are you so disgustingly awake? And calling me?" Pete laughs, the almost-braying sound actually more obnoxious when heard down a phone line.

"Because I'm an insomniac, and I've had coffee. And I'm calling to see if you want coffee."

Realization hits Patrick, startling him slightly more awake. "Shit, coffee. I'm sorry, I totally forgot."

"It's cool. I looked in around six and saw you deep in conversation with Gabe, so I left quietly."

"I didn't know you could do that."

"What?"

"Something quiet."

"Fuck you; I can be very quiet when I want to be."

There's nothing malicious in the exchange, for once, and their early-ish conversation sets the tone for the friendship growing between them. During the next few weeks, in which two new bands sign to Pete's label, the only respite either of them get from the incredible amount of work is the coffee breaks they manage to catch as often as possible, at least to begin with.

As the bands settle down and start working as bands and not an assortment of people shut in a small room for the purpose of making music, things get easier to handle. Patrick doesn't have to spend as much time helping them make the right kind of noises, and Pete doesn't have to spend as much time calming them down when those noises come out utterly, utterly wrong.

Slowly, their coffee breaks get longer and longer, until it becomes an effort to drag themselves away from each other and go back to work. Their conversations cover an eclectic mix of topics; Patrick learning very quickly that Pete is just as likely to fling himself into a seat and start talking about politics as he is to start a lengthy discussion about British rock music.

Pete decides that Patrick is not allowed in the studio after seven at night, although Patrick thinks this has more to do with him almost breaking a gobo panel, when he kicked it in rage because a drummer just wouldn't accept that he was a beat too fast for the song, than it does with Pete's declaration that he wants to spend more time with his 'Pattycakes'.

Patrick almost breaks Pete instead of the panel when he uses that particular nickname.

The only, and he really tries to make himself believe this, the only reason Patrick lets Pete shut everything down and drag him out of the studio if it's after seven is because he suspects Ryan asked Pete to start doing it. His slim friend worries about his tendency to be a workaholic, and now he has the perfect accomplice to stop Patrick looping through the same notes over and over in frustration.

If part of him looks forward to seeing Pete every day; if he sometimes stays in the studio even though he has nothing to do, just so Pete will try to bodily drag him from the room; well. It's nothing serious, and Patrick tries not to dwell on what he's doing.

The fact that he knows Pete's coffee order after two weeks, his favorite Chinese, Thai and pizza orders after three and pretty much his basic life history after a month, that's nothing unusual either. Patrick can even justify it to Ryan, after the snippy receptionist raises a surprisingly unstressed eyebrow at Pete flying into the building one morning and flying out again after Patrick hands him a coffee cup without a word, throwing something unintelligible over his shoulder as he rushes out of the door.

Ryan stares after him. "Did you understand that?" Patrick doesn't bother looking up from his perusal of the studio booking sheet, laid out neatly on the front of Ryan's desk.

"Travis and the rest of Gym Class want him at an interview in..." he checks his watch, "ten minutes. He should just about make it, with his driving."

"So, let me get this straight. You've gone from loathing the guy with the burning heat of an exploding supernova to knowing his coffee order and being able to interpret Pete-Wentz-in-the-morning gibberish?"

"I wouldn't say I hated him that much, but yeah." Ryan's silence is more eloquent than any of his flowery metaphors, and not for the first time Patrick wonders how Spencer puts up with him. It's a little creepy. Although, they have been friends since they were, like, five, so Spencer's probably used to it. "Okay, okay, fine, we hated each other. But he's not that bad a guy, now he's not trying to be an asshole."

"He has to try?"

"Ha ha, funny." Patrick deadpans, and Ryan smiles, looking so much younger than twenty one.

"Seriously, he's not that bad."

Ryan rolls his eyes. "I get it, alright. But it's a little odd to see you going from hating him to knowing his coffee order, that's all I'm saying."

"We work together. I see him a lot around the studios, of course I'm gonna get to know him." Patrick really has to learn how to do the cynical eyebrow thing. "He's useless without coffee in the mornings; it's in my best interests to know his order so he can have coffee, wake up and thus not annoy the hell out of me when I'm still half asleep."

Ryan does not look convinced. "I'm not convinced."

"Well, that's your problem, not mine." Patrick takes a deep mental breath and tries to calm his racing heart down. Even in his head, Patrick doesn't want to admit Ryan has a slight point. Distraction, distraction always works. "Hey, I thought Cobra were done, like, months ago? Why are they down for a session?"

"Nice try at distracting me." Fuck, Ryan knows him too well. "But if you're this set on staying in denial, fine. That appointment for Cobra is to record a special version of a song, or something. Ask Gabe when you see him, I'm not too sure."

And so it goes. Coffee breaks turn into grabbing lunch together, which turn into takeout in Pete's office, rehashing the day's events, which leads to them taking the work back to one or the other's apartment and attempting to not get distracted by the TV, Pete's dog or Patrick's music collection.

By the time Cobra Starship's album is released, three months after it was finally finished to the satisfaction of the entire band, their friendship is the strongest Patrick's ever had. This fact hits him in the middle of his living room, of all places. It's quickly followed by a slightly more important, and slightly more problematic, realization.

They're sitting on the floor, Patrick leaning against the couch while Pete's opposite, cross-legged and bent over a pile of papers in his lap. His face, normally very expressive, is instead calm except for a tiny frown as he tries to organize the sheaf of contracts.

Patrick looks down at his own papers, rough music for a new artist, before Pete can catch him watching. Patrick wrestles with his suddenly conflicting feelings as he tries to make sense of the notes, but it's not working. I could actually fall for this guy runs through his head, and it worries him. He's smart, funny, a complete dork, and I want to make him smile as much as I can.

Another, less helpful voice chimes in. He's also my boss, and four months ago we were at each others' throats. Less helpful, but more logical than the one making him wonder what the hint of Pete's tattoos that show would taste like. Patrick wrenches himself away from his inner argument to realize that Pete's staring at him.

"Huh?"

"Did you hear any of that?"

Patrick flushes. "No?" Pete flings papers at him, trying to look disgusted, but fails miserably because he's laughing at the same time.

"I said, if you'd listened, that we should forget about this and do something else. Preferably something that won't put me to sleep." He flops backwards, dislodging the rest of the paperwork and heaving an exaggerated sigh that makes Patrick laugh.

The easy camaraderie between them makes it easy for him to kick at Pete's leg and tell him to get the fuck up and pick a movie while Patrick calls for takeout. That's nothing new; it happens every time they end up working late at one or the other's house, Pete's apparent reaction to actual hard work. He'd been offended when Patrick had jokingly called him on it, until Patrick pointed out that the rest of the day he basically smiled at people and made sure they were happy.

This is not something Pete has difficulty doing, really, and he had to concede the point.

What is new, however, is the little thrill that runs through him as Pete grabs his outstretched hand and pulls him upright. Patrick drops his hand as soon as Pete's on his feet, turning away to find the phone so he doesn't give in to the temptation of keeping his fingers curled around warm skin.

Apart from that minor revelation, the evening passes the same as usual. They get takeout, Pete falls asleep halfway through one of the artsy films Ryan keeps insisting Patrick watches, and Patrick absently cards his fingers through Pete's dark hair. Pete makes an unhappy little noise whenever he stops, something Patrick has never thought about too much before.

Now though, it's a bit distracting. And hot.

Patrick stamps down that thought as quickly as he can and shakes Pete awake. Now is not the time to test his control around Pete, not with the rawness of maybe-possibly-definitely having a thing for his boss and friend still so fresh.

Pete grumbles but leaves, wrapping Patrick in a huge hug he appreciates so much more now.

What the fuck Patrick's going to do, he has no idea, but he figures getting some sleep would be a good one.

----

Turns out he doesn't have to worry. The first thing that happens to him when he gets to the studios the next morning is Greta Salpeter. Greta, most people around Decaydance joke, is the female Patrick. Small, curvy and with a sweet smile, she's a musical genius as well. Patrick thinks she's fantastic, but has his doubts about their similarities. Greta, unlike him, loves the thrill of being onstage, so whereas he decided to go into producing and behind the scenes work, she's happiest sitting in front of thousands of fans playing the piano and singing.

And she's very good at it, to the point where she has no time to come into the studio and record some new material. Which is where Patrick comes in.

"New York. You want me to travel to New York so I can help her record without having to stop the tour." Patrick's tone more than conveys his disbelief, but Pete just smiles at him sunnily from where he's sitting in Patrick's chair.

"Yep. She asked for you, dude, and it's not like you're swamped right now." That, at least, is true. Most of the artists signed to Decaydance are off touring, leaving Patrick only the newest to work with. And those he starts off slowly, a session every two days or so, nothing the other producers can't take off his hands. Pete looks at him with his puppy eyes, and Patrick knows he's going to cave two seconds before he does.

"Fine, I'll go." He tries not to let his relief of getting some time away from Pete show, but as he gets ready to leave over the next few days, it's difficult to claim his excitement is only for Greta's new music. Pete starts acting a little weird, spending as much free time with Patrick as possible, well as being overly clingy, so by the time Patrick actually has to leave to catch his plane, he's at the end of his rope.

It's possible he gets a little snappy with Pete when he detains him yet again to ask a stupid question, and it's also possible Pete gives him a hurt look. Luckily, Ryan picks that moment to shove Patrick towards the doors and his waiting taxi, so he doesn't have time to realize that those were the first harsh words between he and Pete for months.

Part III

Risky Business, part 1/6

Sat, 06 Sep 2008 01:31:21 GMT

"S-C-N-D-L to the A, OUS, can't handle—"

"For the twentieth time, Gabe, wrong order!"

The tall singer yanks the clunky headphones off his head and glares through the glass window into the recording booth. They swing wildly from where they're plugged into the side of the isolation booth, mimicking the movement of the man in the control room as he none-too-gently drops his head to hit the mixing board.

He raises his head and touches the switch that'll enable to other man to hear him through layers of soundproofing and glass, choosing his words carefully. Gabe is tetchy at the best of times, volatile when things are going wrong- like now.

"How about we leave this for now and get the others here instead, finish up the bridge to 'Smile for the Paparazzi'?"

Gabe leans his long frame against the booths edge and waves a languid hand, obviously deciding anything was better than having to do the same line yet again. And probably mess up, yet again. "Sure, Patrick. Whatever."

Patrick Stump, full time producer, part-time musician and apparent nursemaid to singers with diva tendencies, sighs as he swings out of his chair and through the door to the corridor, inwardly wishing he didn't have to deal with people like Gabe Saporta on a daily basis.

But, sadly for him, Gabe and his band Cobra Starship are just one of many temperamental groups that Patrick has to deal with regularly, seeing as he has the great fortune to be Head Producer at Decaydance studios. He surveys the rest of the band through a glass panel in the door to the small waiting room, silently assessing them once more.

The lone girl, Vicky T, is a sultry brunette on the keytar, an instrument Patrick had thought hadn't survived the eighties before she'd shown up with it. She's comfortable and confident in the company of the other guys, and Patrick has enjoyed recording her sections. Nate is the most down-to-earth of them all, the one who tries to prevent fights before they can begin. Patrick's been grateful to him several times for calming the band down before a row can start.

Ryland and Alex, well. Patrick thinks of them as light relief from the toils of recording, mostly. Alex is quiet and content to simply play when he's told to, offering an opinion when asked. But if he and Ryland start plotting, that's the end of quiet. Patrick grins at the memories of some of Ryland's more outrageous tricks. Together they can wreak havoc, which is sometimes a nice diversion, but more often annoying.

Patrick can't bring himself to dislike them, though. They're all sweet and kind, most of the time. Like when they aren't playing stupid, off-the-wall pranks.

And even when they are, it's generally directed at either unsuspecting engineers or Gabe. It's been four months since they started recording their album, and so far there have been four fist fights, three screaming matches and forty-eight threats of disbanding. Gabe tends to dish the last out whenever he feels not enough attention is being paid to him, which accounts for the alarmingly high rate of threats.

Patrick keeps a tally; there's a pool among the technicians about whether they'll break up before the album's complete, with a lot of money in it. Patrick's seriously hoping they don't. If they can do it, it'll actually be a pretty good album.

He gathers his thoughts, and courage, and pushes the door open. "Guys? We were wondering if you could come back and finish the bridge on 'Smile', please?

Vicky laughs. "Gabe fucked up once too many times for his ego to handle, has he?" Patrick smiles with the others as they file out and head back to the studio, once again surprised by how much he can like the rest of them when they're led by Gabe. If only Vicky didn't wear such scarily high shoes, he'd be completely comfortable around them.

And if the only times he saw them didn't normally end in threats of various varieties, that is.

——

Two hours later, they've pretty much got it. Patrick listens to the new recording of the bridge and asks them to do the rest of it again, which leads to the inevitable arguments over chords and placements, through which all he can do is keep quiet and offer facts about the previous stuff on demand. They're just about to finish a perfect run-through, one Patrick feels will be good enough to synch with the vocals and other tracks, when a blur of colour and energy flies in and screws up the recording.

And Patrick's life for the next...well, leave that for now. The blur, whoever (whatever?) it is, cuts off the recording and presses the 'talk' button with a heavy-handedness that makes Patrick wince for the equipment, so lovingly tended by the techs, before slowing down long enough to acknowledge his presence.

"Oh, sorry. Hi. I—" Gabe picks that moment to come barreling through the door from the live room, followed at a slightly more sedate pace by his band. He covers the ground in what seems like a single stride and envelops the blur (now he's stopped moving Patrick can see it's a guy about his own height) in a hug, practically lifting him of the ground.

"Pete! Why are we being honored with your presence in this hellhole?"

Patrick's actually a little insulted at that. State-of-the-art equipment, his own (however much Patrick protests) producer and a newly fitted live room to record in. It's not like he's in one of the yet to be renovated rooms, so drafty Patrick thinks they should be used for wind tunnels instead of studios.

Then it clicks. Pete. The owner.

Suddenly he's glad the snarky comment on the tip of his tongue has stayed there. He swallows it as Pete turns to him once Gabe releases him from the octopus hold he's infamous for. Handsy, you see.

"Sorry again." He extends a hand, and says "Wentz, Pete Wentz," in the same tone as one would say 'Bond, James Bond', only it doesn't make Patrick swoon and fall at his feet, begging to be rescued from a nefarious villain. Or at least Gabe's atrocious spelling.

He instead shakes Pete's hand perfunctorily, returning his beaming smile with a cool expression. The grin dims slightly, and Pete hesitates. Patrick isn't sure whether he doesn't realize he interrupted a session, or whether he's just not used to people not smiling at him. Both, probably.

"Patrick Stump. Can I help you with something?" He knows, knows he sounds bitchy and it's probably a bad idea to use that tone with his boss, but Pete's made a bad impression and it'll take time for Patrick change his mind. If he ever does; seriously, Pete interrupted a recording. It's unlikely.

Pete's face is suddenly bright again, although it's a different sort of smile. It makes Patrick uneasy. "No, sorry. I'd like a word with the band, please."

It's clear from his tone that he means in private, and for a split second Patrick's hurt and offended. Then he realises this is his chance to escape from Gabe for a while at least, and nods brusquely.

"Let me know when you're done. I'd like to get at least one decent recording sometime this week." Pete's eyebrows raise at his sarcasm, and there's something akin to admiration in his eyes as Patrick exits.

——

Their first meeting can't be called good by anyone's standards, but there is still a slight chance that they can salvage a partially civil working relationship. Patrick's spent years trying to control his temper, so he's determined that his automatic reaction to Pete, that of simple anger, isn't going to prejudice him against his boss from the very start.

Pete manages to do that all by himself.

He wanders in during recording sessions, apparently unheeding of Patrick's glares. He makes Patrick sit in on long, pointless meetings about tour dates, interviews and merchandise, even though as a producer he isn't normally included in that part of the band's life. Doesn't want to be included.

He calls Patrick on his day off, gets him to come into the studio to work on a few songs with one of the other producers as a 'second opinion'. Patrick knows that the producer, the Butcher, is more than capable of splicing the right tracks together. It's how he got his nickname, after all.

And Patrick knows Pete is aware of this as well. He does it in retaliation for Patrick's sarcastic comments about his limited knowledge of the recording process. As Patrick listens to the same notes over and over again when he could be lazing around his apartment listening to Bowie or Prince, he comes close to regretting opening his mouth.

Still, it had been satisfying to point out Pete's very obvious error when he once attempted to tell Patrick what they were doing wrong.

The situation rapidly degenerates from there. By the end of two weeks, Patrick isn't sure whether he wants to kill Gabe or Pete more, both are so annoying. It's either kill them or leave the studio, and in his angriest moments he actually considers it.

Until Ryan talks him out if it, looking horrified. "Who would stop me dying of boredom, or save me from Brendon?" Well, it might be selfish, but it makes Patrick smile.

Ryan is the almost girlishly pretty 'receptionist' at Decaydance Studios, five-foot-something of ruffles, artfully messy hair and bitchiness. He draws intricate patterns on his face with eyeliner every morning, ranging from birds to suits of cards tumbling down to his neck in a long line of shimmer and talent.

For all his inherent sarcasm and tendency to rant about literature or slip into long, rambling metaphors, Ryan's amazing on the front desk. He can turn on the charm when he has to, smiling at the often slightly-odd people who come in asking for various artists or Pete himself, and his oddly monotone voice works in his favor.

No one can take offense at his tone if he's only got one.

Patrick met Ryan sometime during his second year working at the studios, and they'd bonded over music and a shared disbelief that Brendon could be that hyper without coffee. Brendon is Brendon Urie, one of the A&R guys. The way he tells it, he got hired because of his likable personality and charm. Most people privately think it's because he's got the energy to deal with the most demanding of artists and not get irritable or depressed.

When not working with the talent, though, he's actually not that bad. Still jumpy and grinning, but it's manageable. Patrick likes him, and Ryan tolerates him, which is as far as Brendon's probably ever going to get with him.

Patrick and Ryan tend to talk during lulls in the flow of traffic through the studios, snatching moments to gossip and whine about their jobs. Not that they mean it, but it's still good to vent. Somehow Ryan still manages to keep everything organized and running smoothly, and more than once Pete's stood looking longingly at the neat desk and talked of stealing Ryan to be his own personal assistant.

Ryan always replies he's too pretty for Pete, and besides, he has a boyfriend.

Patrick's not sure if it's creepy or just Pete that he winks and says he won't tell Spencer if Ryan doesn't, but he doesn't worry. Ryan can hold his own against Pete easily, hips tilted, a wit quick enough to match Pete's. It's fun to watch them snipe at each other, although lately even that's lost any pleasure for Patrick.

Ryan whips out his mirror as soon as the clock ticks over to his break, makeup bag ready to do any touch-ups. "So, what's the latest indignity?"

"Shutting me in a studio with that new blonde singer, Ashlee." Patrick swings his legs as he sits on Ryan's desk, looking morose and a little angry. "What's irritating is that she's not a bad singer, but she puts all these weird little noises at the ends of verses and stuff, like they'll make it better."

Ryan grimaces. "And Pete himself?"

"As obnoxious as ever. I wish-" Patrick is cut off by a shadow looming over the desk he and Ryan are at, making him turn to see who's blocking the light. And then promptly wishes he hadn't.

"Patrick! Oooh, are you free? You know I only like working with you." William Beckett, as tall as Patrick is short and with more attitude than a Victoria's Secret model—despite being male—puts a lascivious tone behind the words as he leans over to capture Patrick's hand, bringing it up to his lips in a show of mock chivalry.

Bill Beckett is one of two people Patrick hates working with the most, and not because he's talentless; far from it, in fact. Patrick can cope with people who have no talent, but people like Bill who have it but just use it as a pick-up line make him mad.

And he just knows Pete will pick up his dislike of Bill, with that weird people-sense he has that makes him so good at his job. Between Bill and the still acting up Gabe, Patrick thinks things look very bleak in the foreseeable future.

Ryan gives him a sympathetic look as he makes his way to the front of the receptionist's station, barely dodging Bill's grabby hands before leading him off to see Pete and sort out studio times.

——

Pete greets Bill like a long-lost...something, but Patrick really doesn't want to dwell on that. He slips out of Pete's bombsite of an office—no wonder he wants to steal Ryan, looking at that mess - and into one of the unoccupied studios. He's thankfully been spared Gabe et al. today, a photoshoot and interview taking up their time.

He's not hiding, exactly, more hoping to stay out of Pete's way. No such luck. Pete comes crashing into the room in pretty much the same manner as he had two weeks ago, and beams at Patrick. By now he can see the glint in Pete's eye that says this is just another round in the little battle that's raging between them.

"Ah, here you are. Patrick, I'd like you to produce for Bill, if that's okay?" Like he can say anything else, really. Patrick gets a certain satisfaction from depriving Pete of any kind of reaction beyond a distracted "Sure." as he keeps working on some harmonies.

He can feel Pete waiting for something else, for the snarky comments that have become the norm between them. Instead Patrick simply looks up at Bill and gestures to the chair next to him. As much as he knows he's going to dislike working with Bill, he's eager to see what exactly they'll be working on. "Oh, sorry. Was there something else?"

Pete's jaw tightens, his eyes narrowing. He flicks a look at Bill, folded gracefully into the chair and languidly trying to snatch Patrick's hat, and then leaves. The door bangs shut behind him and Patrick sighs.

At least Pete is easier to deal with than Bill.

——

The 'argumentative state' between them, as Ryan wearily terms it, becomes a fully fledged war once Patrick starts working with Bill. He hates it, hates how Bill acts towards him, making suggestive comments as he folds himself into the chair next to Patrick. He hates the way Bill twists his words and sings them to him, perfectly in tune with the music.

It just makes things with Pete worse. Pete either can't or won't see what Bill is like, laughing off the few sly comments Bill makes towards Patrick when Pete's within earshot. All that happens is Patrick gets angry at Bill, Pete fuels it by being the most irritating person Patrick knows, and when he tries to work off that frustration in the studio all Bill wants to do is mess around with harmonies.

If it wasn't for Ryan, Patrick thinks he'd probably have quit weeks ago. Ryan calms him down after a sniping match with Pete, after Bill's expressed no interest in perfecting a song, after Gabe has had a diva moment again, after, after, after.

By the time a month has passed, Patrick's near the breaking point. Cobra Starship as a band have agreed on pretty much everything for their album, but Gabe, as the 'lead singer' (Vicky's air quotes, not Patrick's), is still making a point of playing the diva. Patrick's spending as much time in the studio with him as he did when they first started recording, but it doesn't seem like anything's going to be worked out anytime soon.

Bill is moving quickly through the material he wants to record, when Patrick can actually get him in the booth to do his vocals. He's more interested in the other artists working around him, or as Ryan so delicately puts it, in 'being a slut'. Patrick, on a short fuse with Bill anyway, is incensed when he declares he wants to get a song finished as fast as possible, then wastes three days hooking up with the guy rapping in the next studio.

His temper, never very good at the best of times, gets one last boost when Pete turns up demanding to know why the song isn't done. Brendon will later talk of it in hushed tones, and Ryan, in a rare break from policy, will use the reception phone to call Spencer as soon as the action is over.

Patrick's just turning from asking Ryan how long ago Bill and Travis, the rapper, left the studios when he hears Pete behind him. Over the last few weeks he's developed a sort of Pete-sense, which is either really lucky or really worrying, depending on his mood.

"Hey, Patrick. Have you got Bill's songs done yet?"

Patrick grits his teeth at Pete's tone. He fucking knows they aren't done, he's just being irritating.

"No, not yet. Bill's-"

"No, not Bill. You. It's your responsibility to get this done. You're the producer, the one in charge-"

"If you can get Bill to turn up to sessions and stop acting like a slut, then we might get stuff done faster," Patrick's voice lifts to a yell, his anger spiking, "If not, then fuck off, stop bothering me as I try to make a singer out of one of your whores and leave me alone."

Oh. Shit. Pete's his boss, not a good thing to yell. Pete's jaw clenches, but he still manages to grind out: "If that's what you think, then maybe you should-"

Patrick blames it on Pete's supercilious tone; it's the one he uses when he knows he's going to win a round of their little...game, or whatever it is. His fist connects solidly with Pete's jaw, knuckles stinging in a very satisfying way. Patrick spins on his heel and storms out of the front doors before he can swing again, steps angry and harsh to his ears.

How long he sits on a wall overlooking the parking lot, Patrick doesn't know, but he eventually calms down. He writes music in his head, runs through four of the songs he's currently working on to clear his mind. And just when his breathing has slowed and his heart rate is back to normal, anger a dull itch behind his eyes, just then, Pete sits down next to him.

In his peripheral vision Patrick can see a large bruise blooming on Pete's jaw, but Pete doesn't look like he's about to fire him. He looks, oddly, embarrassed. Patrick waits, not trusting his voice.

Pete clears his throat, gingerly touching the patch of color Patrick's amazed he caused. He's not that good at throwing punches.

"So, I just got told off by a guy skinnier than I think I've ever been, and who I'm pretty sure is wearing a girl's top."

The image of Ryan telling Pete off is a very funny one, considering Pete has a few pounds on the receptionist, (mind you, that's probably true of everyone when compared to Ryan, except possibly Spencer), as well as being much more unpredictable. Patrick smiles before he can help himself, realizing too late that it might not be a good idea.

Pete's voice is flat when he next speaks. "Why didn't you tell me you don't like working with Bill?"

Patrick sighs and turns to face his boss. "Would you have listened to me, the way things are between us?" Pete looks down at his slowly swinging feet. "No. You would've paired us up anyway, out of spite."

"Probably. And I'm sorry for that." He sounds so sincere that Patrick knows the surprise is written all over his face. Pete smiles wryly. "Why are things so bad? Why can't we talk without it devolving into an argument?"

"I have no idea. But it's not exactly something I look forward to when I come in each morning." His tired and depressed tone matches his mood perfectly, and it makes Pete look at him in what seems to be horror.

"Oh, no no no. You're not leaving this place." He sounds so determined that Patrick laughs. Weakly, but it's definitely a laugh.

"What, are you going to lock me in one of the studios?" Patrick means it as a joke, trying to make an effort to have a conversation that's at least less bitchy than normal, if not totally civil. He's really been spending too much time with Ryan if he even calls it bitchy in his head.

So he's more than a little worried when Pete nods emphatically. "If I have to, sure. You're the best producer this studio has, Patrick. You can do more with one half-decent singer than anyone else I've seen, and some of the stuff you've come up with for Gabe's bunch is amazing." He pauses and must realise that what he said sounded a lot like gushing. "I mean, you're an asset."

Patrick's not good with getting praise, and especially not from someone he thought he wasn't on very good terms with - although now he's not so sure about that. "Uh, thanks, I guess."

Pete falls silent, and they sit looking out at the parking lot for a few minutes. Patrick's almost convinced himself to go back inside and try to carry on with some work, even though he's really not in the mood any more, when Pete speaks up.

"Why don't you like working with Bill?"

He sounds simply curious, nothing more, and Patrick finds himself wanting to tell him. He shrugs. "I don't like the way he treats recording." He leaves out the 'and me', thinking it too personal to tell Pete when they're only just managing to talk without sniping at each other. Pete hears it anyway.

"And the way he treats you?" He takes Patrick's silence as confirmation. "I know he's a bit...over the top, but that's just the way he is. Flamboyant."

"It's not that. I'm not good with attention in general - I like flying under the radar, doing my job right and enjoying the music. But Bill would rather hit on me and make lewd suggestions rather than making the most of the great talent he has, and it fucking annoys me."

Pete is very still beside him, and Patrick wonders if he's gone too far with this tentative civility. When he speaks, Pete sounds chastened and small. "I didn't realize. I've known him for years, since I was in bands myself, so I guess I'm just used to it." He laughs, sounding self-deprecating and hollow. "Plus I used to be just as much of a slut as he is, so I'm probably more tolerant."

Patrick smiles again, ducking his head down to hide it. "I see that smile, don't think you can fool me." He looks up to see Pete smiling as well, and just like that something shifts. The air clears between them, and Patrick can feel any lingering tension dissipate.

Pete must sense it too, because his smile widens until it makes crinkles appear by his eyes and shows an amazing amount of teeth. He scoots closer and knocks his shoulder against Patrick's, making him clutch at the wall.

"Tell you what. I'll switch Bill to a producer who he won't be tempted to hit on, and I'll have a word with Gabe about cutting down on the demands, okay?"

"That would be great, thanks." It feels like a huge weight has been lifted off Patrick's chest, and he smiles gratefully at Pete. He's a very easy person to smile at, Patrick is discovering.

"And, along with that, let me take you for coffee. To apologize, and clear the air some more." His smile is replaced by a hopeful expression, and Patrick finds himself nodding just so he can see it bloom again. "Fantastic! Okay, come on."

He hops off the wall, stretching a hand out to Patrick. He rolls his eyes when Patrick glares at him and slips down on his own, if with slightly less grace than Pete. They stroll in together, and when Pete moves purposely off to his office to reassign Bill, Patrick watches him go.

Part II

Epic fic post of doom, to warn you.

Sat, 06 Sep 2008 00:53:35 GMT

This has been known to me, and to all who I have flailed at and bored to tears, as Scandalous. You will see why.

Title: Risky Business
Author: Claire (ladyrogueevie )
Rating: NC-17
Summary: Recording studio AU. Pete owns Decaydance, Patrick is his Head Producer, and Gabe is a diva. Basically.
Pairings:…can’t you wait and see? Fine. Pete/Patrick, Ryan/Spencer, Jon/Tom and some other randomers that you’ll find out.
Disclaimer: Not mine, although I have been playing with them for over a year now. Surely that gives me some little right…no? Damn. All characters belong to themselves, blah blah, and seriously, go away if you googled yourself. Right now.
AN: Well. Wow. I can’t actually believe that I’m posting this. I got this idea in my school library back in January, listening to Guilty Pleasure (yeah, I know. wtf?), and it has somehow grown into a 26,054 words fic. It took me about two months to write it, finished it in March, and since then it’s been sitting on my hard drive. I dusted it off at the beginning of the summer holiday, and got it betaed. Giant thanks, kisses and cookies go to Sarah (camisadoempathy) and Meg (celes19 ) for doing such awesome jobs on the betaing. Also, kisses and love to Toby (hikarinotabi ), who’s had to put up with me talking about this not only when I was still writing it, but also flailing over it now I’ve dug it up again. Thanks for the title must go to another Sarah (licklicksalute1 ), who also read this and told me it was good, as well as listening to me flail. *sighs in relief*
AN2: My deepest apologies must go to Katy (therentmatrix</lj> ) . I’m sorry for just skipping out on you like this, but I figured things were busy enough from various messages that you wouldn’t miss one little fic. But still, I am sorry.

Part I
Part II
Part III
Part IV
Part V
Part VI

"No matter what you're writing or playing, you, the person, has to be in there." - Joan Armatrading.

A Kiss With a Fist is Better Than None (3/3)

Wed, 27 Aug 2008 23:27:16 GMT

Title: A Kiss With a Fist is Better Than None
Author:</a></a>ladyrogueevie
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Gerard/Mikey
Summary: While I’m alone and blue as can be/Dream a little dream of me. But what if the dream leads you to damnation? Is it worth it, all for a glimpse of the life you could've had?
Author's Note: This was meant to be a birthday fic for </a></a>hikarinotabi...except his birthday is in March, so I was incredibly lates. Luckily, he still liked it, and has given me permission to post it at various places. It's my first Waycest fic - first time writing these boys as more than secondary characters, actually, so I hope I did okay. Title borrowed from the song of the same name by Florence and The Machine.

--------------------------------

Gerard can’t see what Mikey’s doing, can only feel it, and that just makes it harder to breathe. One at a time, his shoes are slipped off with careful hands and set down out of the way, before Mikey tries to kill Gerard with sheer lust, sliding his hands all the way up one of Gerard’s legs until his fingertips curl over the top of Gerard's stocking. Inch by torturous inch, he pulls it down, the silky material barely registering even on Gerard’s sensitized skin as it bunches up around his ankle.

Then it’s gone, flung somewhere and swiftly followed by the other. Now, see, Gerard doesn’t believe in doing things by halves, which is why he makes freaking huge pieces of art, and also why he shaved his legs. Mikey’s fingers trace a latticework of fire up, pushing the dress’s skirt and petticoats so that they bunch up and give Gerard a range of vision which amounts to approximately five inches either side of him, if he doesn’t turn his head.

He’s not inclined to move at all, really.

The material is slightly itchy against his skin, but that pales in comparison with Mikey’s tongue and the dancing patterns it’s making on Gerard’s inner thighs, and really, something has to be pale because Gerard certainly isn’t anymore. A sheaf of papers goes flying off the table when Mikey bites down on soft skin, a strangled moan escaping from Gerard’s dry mouth. A gentle hand slipping under his ass and pressing up, makes Gerard lift his hips unthinkingly, Mikey’s fingers deft as they remove his underwear. The sudden shock, and bliss of friction from the petticoat on his cock, forces a real moan out of him.

“C’mon Gee, you can do better than that.”

“Mikey, fucking just- fucking hell!” Gerard can’t see anything lower than his waist due to his goddamn skirt, can’t see Mikey making a sudden change from nipping up Gerard’s thigh to sliding his mouth over Gerard, slick and hot. “Ohh, sweet Merlin on a pole.”

What would probably be a laugh escapes Mikey, but it gets caught in his throat and makes Gerard arch his back several inches off the table. Mikey pulls back, blowing cool breath over too-hot skin and making Gerard shiver before doing things with his tongue Gerard would fucking pay to see.

“Harry Potter quotes in the middle of a blowjob, Gerard?” Mikey’s words are thick and slow, and it doesn’t take much imagination on Gerard’s part to believe it’s the words that are slipping and gliding along his dick, instead of Mikey’s tongue. Which is good, because Gerard doesn’t have the brain power for clear visuals. Mikey drags out Gerard’s name, punctuating the hard ‘d’ with a bite where Gerard’s leg joins his hip.

“Fuck.”

After that it’s all a blur of more heat, Mikey’s mouth sliding back over him and sucking at a pace that is calculated to, and does, drive Gerard nearly crazy. He grips onto the table so tightly there’ll probably be dents when Mikey goes all the way down and stops, just fucking stops. He breathes deeply through his nose once, twice, before pulling back and practically pulling Gerard into the air with how hard he’s sucking.

Occasionally, Gerard wonders where Mikey learned to do this, but now is not one of those times. Right now Mikey is killing Gerard’s brain cells by the dozen- no, in swathes, making full use of the fact that Gerard can’t see him change what he’s doing with no warning. Gerard’s head hits the table with an audible thunk several times as Mikey uses what feels like, but can’t possibly be, every dirty trick he knows in about two minutes flat. (Mikey knows too much to fit it all into two minutes.)

Gerard does whimper when he feels Mikey suck one long finger into his mouth alongside Gerard’s dick, because the angle is all fucking wrong for what Gerard really, really wants Mikey to do to him. Then there’s a brief moment where all Mikey’s doing is swirling his tongue around the head of Gerard’s dick in almost lazy circles, which makes Gerard think of that time Mikey had a lollipop, which just makes him shudder even more and gasp.

If Gerard cranes his head, he can just see the curve of Mikey’s back, the tilt of his hips where he has one leg further back than the other to brace himself. Gerard can also see the flex of muscles under Mikey’s shirt, subtle but there, just as he feels a fingertip press against tight muscle and push. Too much, too many sensations, and Gerard chokes out “Mik-Mikey, fuck, please,” before his vision whites out and the only thing that registers is the pull of his dress over his chest, making breathing even more difficult.

Things filter in slowly; Mikey’s mouth still around him, swallowing and sucking Gerard gently through the aftershocks until Gerard makes a high noise in his throat, wanting it to stop but never end. Mikey’s fingers are there too, feather light brushes on Gerard’s balls and legs, only stopping when Gerard manages to stutter something which might be a protest. After those, the scratch of petticoats registers, and Gerard grimaces vaguely as Mikey pulls him up into a deep kiss.

Gerard loves this, the intimacy of it, and puts still-shaking hands on Mikey’s shoulders to pull him in even closer. He pulls back with a suppressed groan when his petticoats rub against his softening cock, nowhere near ready for more.

“Come on,” says Mikey against Gerard’s lips, “downstairs.”

Downstairs is good, thinks Gerard. Downstairs they have lube, and softer surfaces, and oh shit, stairs. He needs basic motor functions for those, and Mikey just blew them out of him.

Gerard wakes with a gasp, one hand already around his aching dick, and in that moment he doesn’t give a shit that it’s his fucking brother, he just doesn’t care. A tight grip and rough strokes get him off in a matter of minutes, Gerard pressing his face down into his pillow to muffle the “Mikey” he can’t keep in his throat, can’t stop himself from gasping it as he comes all over his fist.

Mikey waits until Gerard’s breathing evens out into a pattern ingrained in Mikey’s memory after so many years of sleeping in the same room together, and then he slips away, back into his own room. Gerard doesn’t stir, doesn’t notice the shifting shadows.

This, Mikey thinks, this could be very…interesting.

*****

Morning dawns, and with it the realization for Gerard that he has one sticky hand, uncomfortable pajama pants, and a guilty conscience. The former two are easily dealt with; one scalding hot shower and the laundry basket get rid of the evidence the he’d come as hard as he ever had in the rest of his life thinking about his little brother.

Leaning against the kitchen counter, Gerard finds that a guilty conscience might only be in his head, but it’s still fucking difficult to get rid of. He shuts his eyes and breathes in the scent of fresh coffee, inwardly freaking out while attempting to look normal on the outside. Normal for a pre-coffee Gerard, at least.

Then Mikey walks in, and inner!Gerard sinks down into a corner and hides his head with his hands. Ohh, he is so fucked, if the look on Mikey’s face is anything to go by. Gerard doesn’t need the slew of memories that arrive when he glances up and see that expression (Mikey catching him in various compromising situations, mostly), because it’s speaks for itself. Not smug exactly. It's more…knowing, like Mikey’s just found out Gerard’s deepest, darkest secret.

Oh, wait.

Mikey doesn’t do his usual beeline for the coffee, but instead moves until he’s right in front of Gerard. He's standing as close to him as- as dream!Mikey was to dream!Gerard, right at the beginning, in front of the easel...he’s screwed. Inner!Gerard tries to prompt Gerard to make a dash for the coffee, because Mikey’s distracted, but then subsides to his corner when he remembers that it’s Gerard that Mikey’s distracted by. Stupid reality, getting in the way.

“No coffee?” Gerard’s voice doesn’t falter, although it’s more to do with years of singing through anything, than to do with Gerard keeping it steady.

Mikey leans in, hands placed carefully, almost delicately, on the counter top outside of Gerard’s hips. Mikey starts to speak, but the words don’t make any sense to Gerard, although that could be because he’s running at less than full brain-power. Having the object of so many (albeit repressed) fantasies, standing mere inches away from you, tends to kill brain cells.

“The greatest trick the Devil has ever pulled was making us believe he doesn’t exist.” Mikey tilts his head, eyeing Gerard. “Are you listening, big brother?”

Gerard nods, because that’s the only reply to the question – to any question, probably – that he can formulate. Mikey smiles, and not in the sweet way he sometimes does. “Good. But, see, call his name loudly and long enough, and guess who comes knocking…at…your…door?”

Some of Gerard’s intelligence makes a sudden and miraculous resurrection, just in time to help him punctuate his mental oh fucking fuck, by squeezing his eyes shut. Then it dies again, leaving him on his own. Gerard thinks he should’ve kept going to Church, because only a good Catholic would know how to deal with the sheer amount of guilt resurging at Mikey’s implication.

He realizes he’s said some, or even all, of that out loud when Mikey mimics him, brittle laugh bracketing his words, "A ‘good Catholic’? That just makes it worse, Gee. A failed Catholic who wears a priest’s collar and fucks boys; who wants to fuck his little brother.”

Gerard presses himself back against the counter and tries to fight the wave of humiliation – as well as the images from his dream brought on by the hard edge against his back.

Mikey’s leaning in even further, mouth almost (pleaseohplease) touching Gerard’s ear. “I think it’s hot.”

Gerard blinks. That’s not what Mikey’s supposed to say. He’s supposed to be disgusted, supposed to—why is Gerard even thinking this reaction is a bad thing? Mikey slides himself forward somehow, until he’s got one leg between Gerard’s, and Gerard is sort of spread out between Mikey’s arms. It’s not entirely unpleasant (who is he kidding, it’s fucking perfect), but it also serves to remind Gerard why this is such a bad thing to want.

Mikey’s the same as he’s always been; long legs and sharp angles that fit against Gerard smoothly. They always have, even back when the only reason they’d have been this close was because of a nightmare. That stopped when Mikey got old enough to need to confront them on his own, and when Gerard began to confront nightmares of an altogether different kind.

Mikey presses his leg up, just a little, but enough to make Gerard feel it and force him swallow down a noise. If he doesn’t react, if this all stays (mostly) innocent, it can be chalked up to- to-; who is he kidding? Nothing could explain this, but what it actually is. This is Mikey being in control and laying bare all of Gerard’s wants, pinning him down and not letting him do his usual trick of repressing every little detail about Mikey that makes him hard.

Oh, like that. Sweet press of Mikey’s hand on his hip, and Gerard’s whole being sparks with please, yes, I want it, please. A tiny sliver of sound escapes his lips before he can stop himself. Gerard squeezes his eyes shut again, trying to make himself as small as possible, even though he’s splayed out before Mikey like he’s on display. His fingers tighten around hard wood until his knuckles crack, until his muscles ache with it, until all he can think is how good Mikey smells and how he’s almost too close but nowhere near close enough, until—

The sudden rush of air is all the warning Gerard has before Mikey slaps him.

Hard.

“Fuck!” Gerard’s eyes fly open, mouth dropping open a fraction because they don’t fight like that, not since they were kids. Not since the time Mikey broke his arm falling down their stairs, and Gerard realized how fragile Mikey was.

This Mikey isn’t fragile. This Mikey is glaring at him, hand still hovering in the air in front of Gerard’s face. As he stares, Mikey reaches to cup his cheek, soft as silk on skin smarting from a blow completely unexpected. “You weren’t paying attention, Gerard.”

His name, in that voice, is somehow different to the hundreds of other times it’s been said, shouted, screamed, whispered. It takes a moment for Gerard to get it, but Mikey sounds exactly like his dream self did. “Are you going to pay attention to me, Gee?”

I always do, Gerard wants to shout, that’s the problem. All that leaves his mouth is “Yes.” Too clear and steady, especially for the way he’s trembling, the way his hands are trying to shake. Mikey says something, but it’s lost over the rush in Gerard’s ears as he realizes Mikey’s leaning in to kiss him. It’s only with Mikey’s tongue tracing the inside of his mouth, hotter and slicker than anything Gerard has ever imagined, including his forays into the parallel world, that he realizes Mikey had said ‘good’.

Just that.

Gerard wonders, vaguely, what it means.

*****

What seems like an eternity later, he finds out. It means this, bliss, or as close to it as he’s gonna get without Mikey buried inside him. He almost cuts that thought off, but if he can’t think it now, when can he? If he can’t think about being fucked by his brother when he’s got Mikey’s cock in his mouth, then he’s repressed everything a bit too well. Gerard realizes he’s paused when Mikey’s fingers, threaded though his hair, tighten. It's incentive to carry on, to keep going.

“Come on, Gee,” Mikey’s voice rasps out of his chest as he presses his head down onto the pillow, hands clenching tight and keeping Gerard’s head bent close, stopping him from pulling off entirely. “You’re so fucking good at this, you- ohgod, you love it, don’t you.”

It’s not a question, and even if it was, Gerard couldn’t disagree. He can’t do anything else but suck, swallowing convulsively as Mikey’s hips jerk up, pushing himself further down Gerard’s throat.

He tries to concentrate on something else as he works Mikey with his tongue, half paying attention to the rough movements of Mikey’s hands as he’s kept right where Mikey wants him. Getting up to his room is blurred. It was a mess of hands, everywhere at once but nowhere for long enough, pressing him against a wall and pinning him there while Mikey took his breath, lips, and tongue, making short work of the self-control Gerard had built up over the long years watching. Always watching but never touching.

A firm hand on his chin, awkwardly bent but still commanding, forces Gerard to let Mikey’s cock slip out of his mouth, but he's still unable to resist pulling against Mikey’s hold on his hair to flick his tongue out. It's not enough time for him to do what he wants, to give as good of a blow job as he knows he’s capable of giving (or was once; he’s a little out of practice, admittedly). “Fucking like it, don’t you, being pushed around.” Mikey punctuates his words with a sharp jerk on Gerard’s hair, pulling a whine out if him.

Time blurs again, this time because of Mikey’s clever fingers stretching him, seeking out Gerard’s exact limits and then skirting them. He's flirting with the edge of what Gerard can handle before he either spins off the edge into white oblivion, or gives voice to the name still resolutely stuck in his throat. It’s somehow become a point of pride with Gerard – not that he has any, spread stomach down on his bed, pillow under his hips and Mikey’s fingers inside him, sending shocks up his spine with smooth movements – that he won’t say Mikey’s name.

Not until that last wall breaks. The last vestige of Gerard’s many nights ignoring the pull of Mikey’s arms as he played onstage, ignoring legs stretched onto speakers, and of sharing an ecstatic grin with the only other person who could possibly comprehend what doing what they do truly means to Gerard.

Rougher twists of Mikey’s fingers now, a bite at the base of Gerard’s neck making him gasp and shudder, Mikey whispering into his ear to 'be good, but not just yet'. It's like quicksilver as he adds a third finger and trails the tip of his tongue up Gerard’s spine as he clenches and moans. It’s not enough and too much, too much of Mikey too fast. Gerard was never meant to have this, never supposed to have Mikey’s burning light so close to him, inside of him.

Because only now, when he’s so close to breaking and saying it, does Mikey find that perfect spot as he nips the edges of Gerard’s ribs, moving across to suck kisses down his back. Sweat-slick and sensitive skin means Gerard can feel each and every mark when Mikey slides back and away, and that- “Ohhhhh, fuck.”

The first sound comes out as more of a rush of air and Gerard manages to get enough breath into his lungs for the second, but still it’s breathy. His voice is only strong on the final sound, catching in his throat as Mikey pushes in with a thrust Gerard can feel behind his fucking eyes, “ohgod please keep going, please.”

Mikey fucks him with solid thrusts, and the part of Gerard near-insensible with lust spins even closer to the edge, because Mikey doesn’t bother to ask if he can take being fucked this hard. He just grinds in, in with twists of his fucking hips, one hand bracing himself and the other bruise-tight on Gerard’s waist.

Gerard fists handfuls of the sheets, desperate to keep hold of something. The pillow under his hips is driving him insane, preventing him from getting any real friction and- holy fuck what is Mikey doing? His hands are suddenly on Gerard's arms instead of...well, elsewhere, slowing down until he’s merely shifting his hips restlessly. It leaves Gerard feeling impossibly full and stretched as Mikey slides his hands down to Gerard’s hands and –

Pulls.

Pulls until Gerard releases the sheets, and then has to turn his head sharply to one side to avoid getting a face full of material as he drops down from his elbows. Fuck, Mikey’s not- ohfuck. Gerard whimpers loudly, unable to stop it as Mikey pulls his arms back and down until he can feel his wrists pressed first together, then against the small of his back.

Gerard is pinned and helpless as Mikey slowly starts moving with solid, sure, back-of-the-throat thrusts.

Fuck, this shouldn’t be as hot as it is.

Again, Gerard’s spoken out loud.

“You think so, Gee?” Mikey’s voice is surprisingly strong for the fact that he's fucking Gerard through the mattress and into a boneless mess, but that could be because Gerard’s comparison to Mikey’s voice is his own, which gave up the ghost and fled quite a while ago. All Gerard needs is that voice, curling round his ear and sliding over his skin, to send him spiraling to the very edge, the precipice he can see looming over him.

Mikey’s hand gives him the last push, sly and sinuous as it slips between his body and the sheets, wrapping around his dick like air, albeit with an edge. The last thing Gerard remembers with even a hazy degree of clarity is feeling Mikey come too, hot and at last as he muffles his own cry by sucking hard at Gerard's neck. Gerard isn’t so careful.

“Mikey.”

The word is ripped from his throat. The humiliation and shame wiped away because this makes him feel fucking perfect.

*****

Sometime in the night, Gerard rolls over onto his back and squints up to see Mikey watching him. Not unusual, given the amount of bad dreams and broken nights they’ve had between them. What is unusual is the tight burn and ache in his ass and the feeling of utter lassitude in muscles he hasn’t used, or even thought about, for far too long.

“What?”

Mikey smiles, a white slash of color in the dark room. It smells of them, of what they’ve done. Gerard could stay here for days, and probably will. Even his inner self is happy and sated, crawling out of his corner to join Gerard as he licks his way into Mikey’s mouth with sloppy kisses, both of them too fucked-out to care about the overabundance of tongue. “You.”

A simple answer, but one that encompasses more than they can comfortably say yet. Mind blowing sex there might be, but it isn’t going to make everything magically arrange itself for them. Which, somehow, makes it easier for Mikey to slide down the bed – their bed, possibly – and lay his head on Gerard’s chest. It makes it easier for him to listen as Gerard threads his fingers through his hair, tacky with sweat, and murmurs something. Makes it easier to answer, a noncommittal sound in the darkness.

Gerard thinks, tilting his head to look down at Mikey, that he gets it now. Dream!Gerard might not have been very helpful, but his (probably unknowing) involvement in Gerard’s unplanned voyeuristic trips in the parallel world had helped. Mikey fucked me, he thinks, eyes seeing not the bland ceiling but the two of them, in sync with each other yet again.

Same almost-creepy closeness, just a different setting.

Hm. Maybe he should write that down…. Just before he slips off to sleep, Gerard wonders if he could find out how to pull other people into Dream!Gerard’s world. There are, after all, a few friends who could do with just the sort of push that seeing their parallel selves so happy would provide.

Mikey pokes him with one long finger, and Gerard grins. Who knew repression could be so rewarding?

...Previous

A Kiss With a Fist is Better Than None (2/3)

Wed, 27 Aug 2008 23:04:33 GMT

Title: A Kiss With a Fist is Better Than None
Author:</a></a>ladyrogueevie
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Gerard/Mikey
Summary: While I’m alone and blue as can be/Dream a little dream of me. But what if the dream leads you to damnation? Is it worth it, all for a glimpse of the life you could've had?
Author's Note: This was meant to be a birthday fic for </a></a>hikarinotabi...except his birthday is in March, so I was incredibly late. Luckily, he still liked it, and has given me permission to post it at various places. It's my first Waycest fic - first time writing these boys as more than secondary characters, actually, so I hope I did okay. Title borrowed from the song of the same name by Florence and The Machine.

--------------------------------

Sometimes, Gerard thinks, you really need an interesting ceiling. His own, plain white, is doing absolutely nothing to stop him replaying his latest slip into a parallel world, where apparently Mikey regularly drops to his knees in front of Gerard to- Gerard’s getting so good at cutting himself off before certain thoughts that he could be used as a pair of scissors. He’s hard, body practically tingling with lust caused by some freaky goings-on with the fabric of the universe.

One cool shower and a lot of self-scrutiny later, Gerard calls Ray and makes up some lame excuse to get him to come round. From the enthusiasm in Ray’s voice, Gerard suspects he just saved his bandmate from yet more ‘family time.’ They goof around for a while, talking in fits while playing games, threatening each other with their controllers when they lose. Comic books eventually appear, and Gerard manages to ease the conversation around to parallel worlds.

“Ever think you’ve seen a parallel world?” Okay, so less ‘ease’ and more ‘ask the blunt question’. It works though.

“…no.”

“Did you have to think about that?” Seriously, Gerard will take what he can get right now. Being the only person he knows who’s seen a parallel world (one where his little brother- shutupshutup) would be sad, if the most obvious conclusion.

“Well, not really.” Ray pulls at a curl of hair and shrugs. “I thought, once, that I’d dreamt I was watching one. But, yeah, it was probably just a dream.” He shrugs again, thumbing through an old copy of X-Men that Gerard had found. Then he looks up at Gerard, forehead furrowed in mild consternation. “Why, what’s going on?”

It’s easier than Gerard had imagined to tell him. “I’ve been having these dreams, really realistic dreams.” He hesitates, then adds, “they’ve got people I know in them, which is weird.”

“Maybe it’s your subconscious showing you stuff you’ve noticed about them anyway. Or it could be things you’ve done with them, just in new scenarios.” Gerard raises his eyebrows and Ray grins. “My aunts are into this dream stuff, so I pick bits up.”

“Unless Ryan and Spencer are making out every chance they get, or Patrick routinely ties Pete up, then I’d say no, this isn’t my subconscious showing me real life stuff.” And I’m pretty sure me and Mikey aren’t fucking in real life, but he can’t add that. Can only barely think it, really.

Ray looks thoughtful. “I dunno about the first one, but the second?” He grins, looking about thirteen. “There’s definitely something going on there. Do you think-” Gerard raises warning hands.

“Okay, okay, I didn’t wanna hear Pete and bed in the same sentence when he was…whatevering with Mikey” doesn’t say 'my brother', can’t say it, “and I still don’t wanna hear it now.” Ray’s still grinning as he shakes his head and lets it go, making a ‘come on, tell me more’ gesture with the hand not holding his comic. Gerard sighs and shrugs. “That’s kinda it. It’s like, I’m watching someone else’s life, except that person is just a different version of me. What’d your aunts say about that?”

“That there’s something you need to resolve in your own life, I guess.”

“And what do you say?” Gerard knows he can trust Ray to be honest with him, to say it outright if he thinks Gerard’s losing the plot. They all do that, couldn’t afford not to at one point, and just stuck with it. It’s only Mikey who ever evades and dodges, but Gerard figures Mikey’s allowed for all the times he’s done that himself, slid away from things best left unsaid, unthought, unfelt.

“I say…they’re your dreams, dude. I can’t tell what’s going on. But I’d agree with the aunts on this one, you should probably do some thinking.” Gerard doesn’t reply, and Ray doesn’t press. They fall into an easy silence, Ray working on some new music and Gerard just…putters around, really. He’s feeling edgy, like Ray’s opened a door in his head that should’ve stayed shut, locked, bolted and possibly even bricked over.

Sometime in the afternoon Ray looks at him, a sort of exasperated but understanding look, which makes Gerard apologize and sit down on his couch with a sketchbook. He feels like this is all he does at the moment – well, this and worry about the way he’s looking at Mikey again. And there’s the crucial word, again. Because, at least in the real world, looking at your brother and wondering what it would be like to kiss him, to have him pressed up against you isn’t exactly normal behavior.

Gerard hadn’t thought he was tired, but one moment he’s looking at a blank page and trying to think of something to draw that isn’t Mikey, and the next he’s staring at himself. Dream!Gerard, because who else can it possibly be ('another parallel me', Gerard thinks vaguely, but no, definitely the same guy), tilts his head and raises his eyebrows, looking exasperated.

“Look, either stick around to talk to me, or go away. I’m kinda busy right now.” And wow is it weird to hear himself talking, and to see himself gesticulating with a hopefully paint-free brush, looking remarkably like the professional artist Gerard never became. When he says nothing, just gapes and looks rather like a fish, Dream!Gerard’s expression softens. “Yeah, sorry. I guess you haven’t worked it all out yet. When you do, I’ll be here, okay?”

Gerard manages to choke out a '’kay' before he’s blinking up at a concerned Ray looming over him. He struggles to sit upright, more than a little dazed. “What happened?”

“You fell asleep, and I think you were dreaming. You started to, well, twitch.”

Gerard can’t help laughing. “As opposed to twitching when I’m awake?” Ray frowns. “Dude, I’m fine. Just a bad dream.”

Ray hesitates, then nods. Compared to some other times, Gerard twitching because of a dream is nothing major. He leaves soon after, called back to the family fold for more food and more quality time with various relatives. Gerard doesn’t know how Ray stands it; besides Mikey, Gerard is happy with the occasional contact and phone calls from most of his family.

But. ‘Besides Mikey’. Therein lies the problem. Now that Gerard’s alone, lying on his couch with just the muffled sounds of city life and the odd creak from his floorboards to keep him company, he can start to unpick the tangled web of thoughts and emotions caused by his forays into a parallel world. The nexus of this web is Mikey, without a doubt, but it’s getting to him that’s the problem. Standing between Gerard and the object of his…desires? No, not really. Lust? Possibly, but it’s far more complicated than that.

Love isn’t it either, not by a long shot. Things between him and Mikey have never been easily laid out and analyzed, not even when they were little. Well, maybe back then, but definitely not since Gerard was in his late teens and realized that most people didn’t really think about their little brothers the way he did. Not with that fierce possessiveness that got him into so many fights, until Mikey carefully told Gerard that he could handle it himself, thank you very much.

Lying on his back and staring at the clouds through the top panes of his window, Gerard remembers the first time Mikey had come home with a bloody nose, wrecked knuckles and a disturbingly hot grin on his face. While Gerard had played mother, gathering ice packs, warm water, and disinfectant, Mikey had recounted in graphic detail. It had all been told with an unusual excitement, down to the exact slurs that had been thrown and what injuries the other guy had limped home with. All the time he’d been talking a curl of something dark and angry had made itself known to Gerard, deep down inside of himself.

Gerard had made himself scarce as soon as he possibly could, claiming he had work to do, and anyway, wasn’t Mikey too old to be cosseted like this? He’d locked himself downstairs, in his newly converted basement, and there, surrounded by pots of paint and other haphazardly stacked art supplies, Gerard had followed that dark curl and come to the conclusion that he didn’t really want anyone else to touch Mikey. Ever.

To a seventeen-year-old art freak whose preferred interaction with violence came in the form of red paint and sketched vampires (apart from where Mikey was concerned, but that…yeah, anyway), this had come as a bit of a shock.

Seeing as he’s started down this path, Gerard can’t see any reason to stop. Actually, technically that’s not true. He can think of at least three reasons to stop right now, he just can’t bring himself to care. Gerard long ago gave up thinking anything to do with him and Mikey was totally normal, and really, isn’t this just one more notch on the proverbial bedpost? That turn of phrase, of course, leads Gerard on to thinking about beds, and Mikey, and-

“Fuck,” says Gerard succinctly.

“What?”

Gerard doesn’t shriek, exactly, but it’s a fine distinction between that and the noise he does make. “Holy shit, Mikey, what the fuck?!” Mikey’s response is to snicker and then sit on Gerard’s legs. Heavily.

“I’m staying here tonight.”

“Um. Okay?” Gerard’s not really sure why he’s agreeing, especially not when he can’t seem to stop his eyes being drawn to the quick flicks of Mikey’s fingers as he taps out a rhythm on his knee. “Hey, wait, where’ve you been staying anyway?”

“Around. Home, mostly, but I think I was at Frank’s one night.” Gerard lets his head fall back onto the cushion and rolls his eyes. Not that Mikey can see, but- “I know you’re rolling your eyes.” Mikey grins down at him, and oh god Gerard has to move now or he risks dragging Mikey down with a hand fisted in his shirt. In a move long perfected, he jerks his knees up and sends Mikey sliding off to crumple on the floor.

Standing, he stretches a hand down to help Mikey up, and gets dragged down onto the floor. “That was totally uncalled for,” says Gerard, voice muffled by the rug. Mikey laughs, and pats Gerard on the back. He means it to be conciliatory, or something like that, but Gerard can’t help tensing up because he can feel every one of Mikey’s fingers, hot pressure between his shoulder blades. It makes Gerard think of other places those fingers could be, fingers he knows as well as his own.

“Gee?” And of course Mikey can tell he’s gone tense, fuck. “Hey, what’s going on?”

When Gerard twists awkwardly he can’t quite meet Mikey’s eyes. Instead, Gerard knee-walks himself away from what is rapidly turning into an uncomfortable situation, pulling himself up via the end of the couch once he’s far enough away to make good his escape. And, see, this is where it’s so annoying that Mikey’s not only younger, but a lot more flexible than he is. Gerard’s barely gone two steps before he senses Mikey behind him, having gotten up from his cushion in quick and fluid movements that give Gerard no warning.

There’s a weird moment where they do the brother communication-thing that irritates the hell out of the others. Mikey’s slight frown deepens as Gerard’s shoulders get tenser, not looser, when Mikey touches his arm and Gerard waves a hand instead of saying something before he vanishes into his bedroom. Once inside Gerard bangs his head against the wall as quietly as he can, muttering curses until he absolutely has to take a breath.

Going to sleep might not be the best option, what with Gerard still feeling the outline of Mikey’s hand on his back, but Gerard’s preoccupied and doesn’t realize his mistake until he’s sinking into sleep. By then it’s too late, and so he – consciously or unconsciously, Gerard can never remember – gives in to it all.

As you might imagine, this affects certain things very vividly.

----------

One of the best things about working from home, Gerard thinks as he carefully adds another layer of mascara, is having the time to get to know your neighbors. This especially holds true in the case of Greta Saltpeter, housemother to a group of four guys who seem nice enough, but are all far too busy to stay and chat with Gerard most of the time.

Mikey thinks being ‘housemother’ involves lots of cameras and a website, and Pete’s inclined to agree. Then again, Pete’ll agree to anything if you bring sex into it. So long as Patrick’s not around, that is.

While Gerard has never quite worked up the courage to ask Greta if this is true, he has managed to ask her about makeup, specifically what would suit him best. How that works, he has no clue, but considering her response was to clap her hands in glee (yes, she’s that sort of person, you get used to it) and start talking about blush, Gerard feels confident that he didn’t freak her out.

To be honest, he was the one freaked out. Eyelash curlers look like instruments of torture, seriously.

“So worth it,” murmurs Gerard to himself, as he cinches the ties of his apron a little tighter. Another good thing about working from home is that Mikey doesn’t do it as much as Gerard does, which gives Gerard plenty of time to plan things like this. Standing in front of the full-length mirror in their bedroom – that still gives Gerard a little thrill, even now – he goes over his appearance one final time.

Hair carefully curled and styled, without causing any minor injuries for once. Below the soft waves of glossy black, a face looks back at Gerard that he thinks any model would be proud of. In terms of makeup application, at least; pale skin can be a bitch to match with eyeshadow and whatnot, but Gerard lets himself feel (justifiably) proud of the flawless skin and soft lips he’s created.

What beats even that, however, is his dress. It’d taken him forever, practically, to find it, but when he had the look on Mikey’s face had been worth the time. The 1950’s cut flatters and skims in all the right places, the white material still surprising Gerard in that it doesn’t give him a corpse’s pallor, but instead makes his skin look…creamy, kinda. He shrugs and twists his hips gently, enjoying the way the petticoat makes the skirt flare, and the rustle it makes.

Later on, standing by one of his easels in his equally 1950’s shoes, Gerard debates going all the way and being in the kitchen when Mikey gets back to complete the image of a ‘50’s pinup girl. Then he glances at the art table he uses for collages and stuff, and decides against it. Mikey’s rather fond of that table, and all this is, after all, for Mikey.

----------

Gerard mutters and twists in his sleep, body reacting to his dream even though he’s not aware of it. Mikey sliding the door open a fraction doesn’t register, and neither does Mikey calling his name softly when he fears his brother is having a nightmare. He’s about to call again, louder, when his own name being spoken in a tone of voice he never thought it would be, makes him stop and shrink back into the shadows.

Gerard doesn’t know it, but he’s managed to screw himself over, even while asleep.

----------

Gerard had planned to pose when Mikey finally gets back, but he’d gotten distracted in the middle of trying to decide between leaning on the table or draped over the couch by a particularly good idea for a new painting, and instead he’d started to sketch it out. As a result of this, by the time Mikey does get home and makes his way up to Gerard’s attic studio, Gerard ‘s engrossed in getting the shading right on the trunk of a tree, which by now takes up most of the A3 page on the easel.

Mikey stands for a moment, taking in Gerard’s figure, resplendent in the white-and-red polka-dot dress. He’s just content to look, drinking the entire outfit in, but the banister creaks when Mikey leans on it and Gerard spins round. The skirt flares out gently, settling back with a soft rustle. Gerard’s eyes are almost comically wide, the mascara lengthening the lashes that frame them into a border of intense black.

“H-hey,” he says, sounding uncertain. It's as if now that it comes down to it, Gerard’s not really sure he wants to be doing this, be dressed like this and seen. “I didn’t hear you.”

Mikey rolls his eyes, stepping closer. “I figured.” His boots make dull thuds at he moves, and Gerard finds himself unduly fascinated with them. They’re Mikey’s favorite boots; thick, heavy leather which reach to his knees and fasten with buckles along the side. “Gee?”

“Huh?”

“You’re staring at my boots.”

“No’m not.” Gerard flushes, cheeks stained redder than Greta had advised as he turns hastily back to his sketching. Behind him, he can feel Mikey sitting on the dilapidated couch, and Gerard relaxes fractionally. He tries to reason with himself, warring voices in his head saying, 'you’ve done this before, it’s nothing new. And at least this time you’re not out in public.' The other voice simply says, 'yeah, but Mikey never saw you before.'

Gerard sometimes hates having an overdeveloped imagination.

Two loud clunks mean Mikey’s taken his boots off, and Gerard relaxes a bit more. Those sounds usually mean Mikey’s going to take a nap, dropping off in the process of watching Gerard draw. Gerard tilts his head to gauge whether the old boot hanging from a delicate branch needs more shading or less, and is consequently totally unprepared for a trickle of hot breath on his neck. Mikey’s fingers follow its path, trailing up Gerard’s neck like he’s done a hundred times before.

“Gee?”

“Hnnn?” He means to say ‘what the hell are you doing’, but it comes out strangled and unintelligible.

“You’ve stopped breathing.” Mikey snickers quietly against Gerard’s skin as Gerard sucks in a shaky breath, reminding himself that this is just Mikey. They do this, and so much more, regularly. It stopped being even remotely shocking some years ago, so why is the simple press of Mikey’s fingers against Gerard’s neck setting his skin alight? “C’mon Gee, carry on. I like watching you draw.”

Fuck.

Gerard steps towards his easel again, heels clicking slightly on the floorboards, and raises his pencil. He knows exactly what he’s doing; the analytical, planning part of his brain tells him that each branch will have a random object on it, instead of an apple or other fruit. The rest of his brain, the part more immediately aware of his surroundings, tells Gerard that Mikey’s fingers are exerting a light pressure against his back as they undo the apron ties, and that this is going to make Gerard weak at the knees.

He promptly wants to cling to the easel for support, and barely resists. For one, it would probably smudge the carefully drawn overcast sky, and two, it would take him away from Mikey. Gerard takes another breath, a stronger one this time, and focuses on adding definition to the tongue of the boot. The soft slither of material-on-material as the apron is removed barely registers, and Gerard is quite proud of himself for regaining his concentration.

Mikey puts his hands at Gerard’s waist, their lower edges just resting on his hips as Mikey gently holds on, and he just…leans in. That’s all he does, lean in. Not even until he’s touching Gerard; there’s a few centimeters of space between them still, and it’s driving Gerard insane. “Focus, Gee,” Mikey whispers, delivering the words right into Gerard’s ear and making his toes curl underneath the jaunty bows on his shows. “Please?”

Gerard’s “oh, shit” is muttered under his breath as he takes a firmer hold on his pencil with suddenly sweaty fingers, abandoning the boot in favor of something less challenging. Something like a CD, maybe. Gerard starts drawing, slowly being drawn into it and becoming less and less aware of Mikey’s loose grip on his waist. Then it goes wrong, and Gerard steps forward to grab an eraser, but is stopped short as Mikey’s grip on his waist tightens abruptly.

“Keep going.”

“But-“

“Get it later.” Gerard cannot, not now and not ever, resist doing anything Mikey says in that particular voice. He developed it first to drag Gerard away from his art to eat dinner with the family, and then later on developed it even more to drag Gerard away from his art and into bed. The result is a low, even tone filled with a sort of richness- Gerard’s never been able to describe it. Really, it’s enough that Mikey uses it, and so Gerard lets the hand he had outstretched towards the eraser drop again.

He’s about to start drawing again when Mikey leans in and flicks his tongue over Gerard’s bare shoulder, making him start. One of Mikey’s hands leaves Gerard's waist to draw his soft curls back and to one side, baring Gerard’s pale neck to the cool air. Gerard shivers, first from the rush of air hitting skin, and then from feeling the tip of Mikey’s tongue tracing a wandering path from just under his ear to where his neck curves into his shoulder, Mikey pressing a soft kiss right at the joint before pressing himself right up against Gerard.

Mikey’s hands drift up to grip at Gerard’s arms instead of his waist, pulling them back until Gerard can't move easily even if he wants to. His arms are pinioned behind him, and the pencil drops to the floor with a barely-heard clatter. “What d’you think, Gee, wanna carry on?” Gerard chokes on a breath as Mikey slides a hand down over smooth material until it stops, pressing against the layers of dress and petticoats until he’s putting pressure on a part of Gerard that is very susceptible to pressure right now.

“Oh fuck.” Gerard’s eyes flutter shut, an effect he’d appreciate a lot more if he were currently capable of it, Mikey knows. Gerard lets out a sliver of sound which may be an attempt at a whimper. “Mikey—please.”

“Please what, Gerard?” Oh god, it drives Gerard up the fucking wall to hear Mikey like this, cool and calm and so sure that Gerard’s going to do what he wants. Not that Mikey doesn’t always get Gerard hot and bothered, but this still does it the fastest out of all of Mikey’s many tricks.

Gerard swallows and tries not to arch against Mikey’s hand, still exerting just the right amount of maddeningly perfect but inadequate pressure. “S-something. Anything, please, Mikey.”

Mikey moves back with a swift step, leaving Gerard to open his eyes and blink, hazily trying to work out where Mikey is. Then he’s being turned around and pushed carefully backwards, Mikey so close but not close enough, the space making yet more of Gerard’s brain cells retire somewhere nice and sunny for the duration of Mikey’s fucking diabolical teasing. Gerard stumbles back in his heels, never more thankful he went to art school, and can’t help the tiny gasp when he feels the hard edge of the table hit his lower back.

Gerard’s hands release Mikey’s t-shirt, (when had they even grabbed handfuls, that’s what Gerard wants to know. It’s worrying when your body does things you don’t remember it doing.) and grip onto the table so tightly his knuckles go white. His actions are more to stop himself from yanking Mikey flush against him and ruining Mikey’s plans, than to stop himself from collapsing in a puddle of melted brain and mush. Gerard hoists himself up until he’s perched on the edge, because Mikey just keeps moving forward in increments.

Mikey’s grinning at him, one corner of his mouth tilted higher than the other in a way which makes Gerard want to lick it, and then Mikey, all over. He stares at Gerard for a moment, making him practically squirm as Mikey’s gaze rakes over everything; the stupid dress, the matching shoes, the hair, everything. Then Mikey places a firm hand on Gerard’s chest, right between the shockingly realistic inserts (he’d spent hours getting the ‘right size for his frame’, or whatever the store clerk was going on about) and pushes again.

Gerard goes down easily, and wow, he’s actually coherent enough to make jokes at his own expense. Mikey leans over and grins at him again, darting in to press a tinglingly brief kiss to Gerard’s lips before he ducks out of sight. The silence isn’t unusual; Mikey’s quiet anyway, and one of the things he loves doing the most is reducing Gerard to this kind of wordless want.

Until he wants to make Gerard moan, that is, or make other sex-related noises. Mikey likes doing that too.

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A Kiss With a Fist is Better Than None (1/3)

Wed, 27 Aug 2008 22:37:08 GMT

Title: A Kiss With a Fist is Better Than None
Author:ladyrogueevie
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Gerard/Mikey
Summary: While I’m alone and blue as can be/Dream a little dream of me. But what if the dream leads you to damnation? Is it worth it, all for a glimpse of the life you could've had?
Author's Note: This was meant to be a birthday fic for hikarinotabi...except his birthday is in March, so I was incredibly late. Luckily, he still liked it, and has given me permission to post it at various places. It's my first Waycest fic - first time writing these boys as more than secondary characters, actually, so I hope I did okay. Title borrowed from the song of the same name by Florence and The Machine.

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The gloss of suburbia can cover a multitude of sins, some of which are more worthy of the hellfire and damnation often preached than others. Looking at the set of large, well-kept, and pretty houses in this particular suburban road, you’d never be able to guess from their exteriors, at the characters of some of their inhabitants.

Take the house with trailing camellias and petunias in geometrically painted plant-pots, for example.

The artist responsible for said pots, Ryan, ran away from home when he was sixteen. After one altercation too many with his alcoholic father, he'd simply had enough. It had taken his best friend three years to find him, by which time Ryan had made a minor name for himself in the artistic world and was doing pretty well. The day Spencer had turned up and knocked on Ryan’s door is still remembered fondly by the other residents of this road, simply because Ryan showed more emotion in the instant he opened his door, than he had the entire eight months he’d lived there.

The sudden - and apparently unexpected, although not unwanted - kiss had been good to watch as well.

The unexpected also resides next door, in a house that appears as inconspicuous as the next - barring the fact that each window frame is painted a different color, that is. People look at Pete, small, dark-haired, and unable to keep quiet. He's a high powered businessman with three companies to his name, and everyone assumes he’s the one in charge. Compared to his husband, Patrick is generally quiet, wears hats constantly, and doesn’t like to draw undue attention to himself. Whereas Pete will given you his opinion on any topic without being asked, the only subject Patrick will open up on with no prompting is music. So, for all intents and purposes, Pete appears to be the one who has the most say in how things work between them. That would be what makes sense, right?

Well, yes, but it’s not completely true. Patrick, apparently, has a remarkable talent for knowing exactly how to keep Pete under control. Whether it’s by rope, handcuffs, or simply the right tone of voice, the effect is somewhat remarkable. The first time Gerard had witnessed the way Patrick’s low, velvety, and yet still throaty, voice made Pete stop chattering endlessly about some mishap at his bar, it had shocked him. And then…it hadn’t. There had to be something to keep Pete in check, so why not the five-foot-nothing gorgeous red-head who was sitting next to him?

Gerard won’t admit it, but he’s a little jealous of Pete. Just a little.

To an outside visitor, this quiet and well-kept road looks like the perfect example of how a suburban street should be. In this case, however, appearances are most definitely deceiving. While most of the inhabitants are generally your run-of-the-mill gay couples, each with their own little quirks and interesting histories, there’s always got to be that one house where something extra is going on. In this street, it’s the one with a different colored surround for each window, and a door with a stained glass vampire above it.

Gerard Way, the man responsible for the vampire, is an artist, and a very successful one at that. It was him who had helped Ryan get started when he first moved onto the street, albeit in the most subtle way possible. Advertisements and graphic novels don’t sound like a particularly interesting or lucrative means of employment, but they actually are; lucrative, that is. For more intellectual stimulation, Gerard paints true art. They're huge canvases, with broad sweeping splashes of color, which sell for thousands of dollars to businessmen who have no idea that they’ve bought Gerard’s personal representation of a zombie crying.

So far, so normal, right? Well, yeah, mostly. He’s a little odd, but that’s nothing unusual in this particular street. His younger brother Mikey’s the same, although in a much more subdued fashion. Skinny and quiet, it takes much longer for him to get to know new residents than it does Gerard. That fact is a bit surprising when you discover that Gerard spends most of his time when he's not at work in an attic, thinking up new ways to depict blood, gore, and sometimes actual people. Meanwhile, Mikey goes out to loud and wild clubs dancing until 4AM. Two mostly ordinary brothers, then, living quietly together in their huge house left to them by an elderly relative some years back. With one exception, they’re just like every other couple on their street. That one exception, however, is quite notable.

None of the other couples are related to each other in the slightest, and certainly aren’t full brothers—

Gerard jerks upright, staring blearily around and trying to work out exactly where he is. It’s disorientating and majorly disturbing, considering he hasn’t had a moment like this since he stopped drinking. He slowly gets his bearings, relaxing when he realizes he’s in the new recording studio. Then he remembers the dream, the disturbingly vivid dream that had featured far too many of his friends in it for comfort.

And, yeah, since when did he start dreaming about Pete, or Patrick, or Pete’s pet band- sorry, the Panic boys?

Helpfully, Ray wanders back in before Gerard can get too freaked out, muttering about a chord progression being too slow and searching for his pencil. Gerard hands him one from the pack he’d brought along to draw with when boredom set in, and sits back to vaguely listen. Of course as soon as Gerard lets his mind wander, the very last part of his dream comes floating back, and whoa. That’s…no, that’s definitely not something Gerard wants to think about.

“Dude, you okay?” Gerard blinks at Ray, who’s looking at him worriedly, music lying carelessly on his lap.

“Huh?”

“You just squeaked.”

Gerard flushes. “No I didn’t.”

Ray grins and shakes his head in amusement, before picking up his pencil again and letting it go. Gerard watches him work for a moment and then decides he needs some fresh air, or the closest he ever gets with his smoking habit. It’s times like this that Gee really needs Frank around, just so he can bitch and whine about being jumped on, all the while not really minding and using it as a distraction from his inner thoughts.

Standing outside, slowly puffing on a cigarette, Gerard wishes they were still using their old recording studio. He’d liked this new one earlier this morning, but after his unplanned nap and subsequent dream, the quiet and leafy street he’s now looking out on is far too close to that dreamworld. Although, now that he thinks about it, – the basic details, not the other stuff – it was all much more vivid than his usual dreams.

Gerard tends to dream in vague, half-formed scenes, populated by a multitude of characters that he doesn’t really remember when he wakes up. Sometimes they return when he’s drawing, interspersed amongst his friends or random objects. This dream though, was so real that he can remember every little thing about it, right down to the specific patterns on ‘Ryan’s’ flowerpots. If he really concentrates, Gerard can even catch an echo of Patrick's velvety voice, which to be fair isn’t that difficult since he's heard it before.

When Ray sticks his head out of the door and beckons for him to go try some vocals over the new and improved chords, Gerard crushes his cigarette down to the filter and agrees without hesitation. Usually he dislikes doing this, wanting to get down to the real singing, but now it’s as good a distraction as any other from the very end of his dream.

-----------

When it comes to painting, Gerard tends to just give himself over to it, which is different than when he’s working on ads and graphic novels. With those, he’s firmly rooted in the real world, constantly finding things around him to inspire him for the next scene or the right kind of animated character. Proper art, though, is significantly distanced from that. It has to be. There’s no other way he can do it. Right now, he’s working on a piece for a gallery in New York, one of several artists asked to produce something based on their personal reaction to 9/11.

Considering Gerard saw it all from the New Jersey ferry, he didn’t have to think that hard about his reaction.

At the moment his huge canvas looks very bare, which is how it’s going to stay for a while. Until he hits on exactly the right way to present the image in his head, Gerard is sticking with his latest graphic novel and letting the painting work itself out in the back of his mind. Curled up on the old and battered couch in his studio, it looks more like he’s being lazy than exercising his ‘artistic side’, which is probably true.

He’s just finishing off a doodle of a killer toaster when: “Gerard? Hey, Gee, where- oh, hey, you could’ve answered.”

Sometimes Gerard wishes that Mikey were as reserved with him as he is with almost everyone else on their street – Pete being the notable and confusing exception, – especially when his toaster ends up with a tail as his pencil skids across his page. “Sorry. I was working.”

“Yeah, right.” Mikey’s expressions, minimalist though they are, get his feelings across very well, thank you. Right now he’s looking faintly scornful and amused, which is annoying. Gerard does actually work when he says he’s going to work, mostly. “Where’s your red eyeliner?”

“Um…bathroom, I think?”

“Which means it’s probably in the fridge. Thanks.” Mikey sighs, watching Gerard add ears and whiskers to his killer toaster-cat-thing. His silence finally makes Gerard look up, eyebrows raised questioningly. Mikey steps around and drops onto the couch next to where Gerard’s got his legs tucked underneath him, twisting so he’s leaning on the backrest with one arm to look at Mikey full on.

“What’s up?” Mikey shrugs, so Gerard pokes him with his pencil. Hard. “Come on, Mikes. What is it?”

There’s a pause as Mikey rubs his arm and glares, not very effectively. “I’ve been asked to play bass. In a band,” he adds, as if that’s not obvious.

“And…this is a problem?”

“No, not really. I’m just—I’m not very good, y’know?” Gerard reaches over and curves his hand over the back of Mikey’s neck, thumb stroking just underneath his ear.

“I sucked at art when I first started. It’s just practice.” Mikey leans back into Gerard’s touch, nodding slightly. Outgoing and mildly wild he may be when at clubs and the like, but when it comes to more personal stuff, Mikey gets wrapped up in his head much like Gerard. He smiles suddenly, his funny little smile, and pushes himself off the couch.

“If you say so. I’m gonna head over to Frank’s then, see what sort of thing he needs.” He’s at the top of the stairs leading down from the light and airy attic-slash-studio when he stops, still smiling. “Hey, Gee?”

“Hmm?”

“You still suck at art.” Gerard looks up in outrage, laughing in spite of himself and then throwing his pencil at Mikey’s grinning face. It misses, badly, and Mikey rolls his eyes at his brother’s poor aim before blowing him a kiss and clattering downstairs in his boots.

This time, Gerard knows exactly where he is when he wakes up. He’s at home, the new home he bought back in New Jersey when even he realized it’d be pathetic for him to stay with his parents while visiting. It also gave him room to spread out whatever projects he was working on, and space to leave them spread out when they went off on tour. Right now, though, he didn’t really want to see any art.

He groaned and sat up, swinging his legs over the side of the bed and letting his head hang. When the stretch in his shoulder muscles hit pain instead of pull, Gerard gave up trying to calm down and instead, wandered down to his kitchen. Passing the room Mikey had claimed for his own pretty much as soon as Gerard had bought the place, didn’t really help with the whole ‘repress repress repress now’ mantra currently bouncing around in Gerard’s head.

Waiting for coffee to brew, not really caring that any sane man wouldn’t make coffee at 4AM and expect to go back to sleep afterward, Gerard let his head drop onto the kitchen table with a thunk. It jerked up almost immediately when he closed his eyes and saw Mikey blowing him a kiss, looking exactly like he had for the last three years or so. Angles and planes and legs and Jesus fuck, Gerard should not even be thinking about the dream, let alone the real Mikey.

Ah. ‘Real’. There’s a safer topic; one he can bury any thoughts of his brother with. Even at 4AM, even before coffee, even with worrying thoughts about- he stops short of his next thought. Even with both of those things, Gerard can still think of at least four comics where parallel worlds can be crossed into during dreams. Clutching a mug of scalding coffee and listing each and every issue to keep himself focused, Gerard settles down to read.

Several hours later, surrounded by a multitude of comic books that have done nothing to give him any clues as to whether he’s watching a parallel universe, or really and truly just dreaming, Gerard wakes up to Mikey nudging him with the tip of one shoe. And, see, here’s where mental disconnects are useful, instead of embarrassing. Or paralysis inducing, but that’s later. “The fuck, Mikey, go away.”

Predictably, he doesn’t.

“We’ve only been back a week, Gee, and you’re already staying up all night drinking coffee and reading comics. Maybe you should’ve gone to stay with Mom. At least that way you’d be eating properly.”

“Fuck off, I wasn’t up all night.” Only since 4AM, but Mikey doesn’t need to know that. He sits down opposite Gerard, mimicking his position, on the floor with his back against the couch and long legs stretched out in front of him. He carefully moves the comics out of the way first, of course, roughly stacking them and beginning to flick through them. “…did you bring food?”

Mikey tosses a bakery bag over, which Gerard catches, or rather fumbles gracelessly from the air into his lap, whichever. While he’s munching happily on a bagel, Mikey finishes looking at his pile of assorted comics. “Why are you reading stuff about parallel worlds?”

Gerard looks up from where he’s very carefully not getting crumbs on his own comic, and stares. It figures that his dream would come rushing back now, when Mikey’s looking at him. It couldn’t have been earlier, when Mikey grinned while he teased, or when he said Gee but wasn’t looking. No, it had to be right now, when he’s all loose and relaxed because it's just the two of them like so many times before (brothersbrothersbrothers). Gerard looks at Mikey’s half smile, which has just a touch of indulgence to it, and feels the barest twinge of something he hasn’t wanted for years.

He shrugs, even tries to make it casual and not as awkward and fucked-up as he feels. “I- had a weird dream, that’s all.”

Mikey nods and starts reading, leaving Gerard to wonder, even through his memory-fueled panic, when exactly it was that that became an excuse for acting like he still lives in his parent’s basement. Then he realizes it’s Mikey, and that ‘weird dreams’ were always a good excuse.

By the time Gerard manages to wrench his mind away from where it’s happily replaying his dream, Mikey’s gone through his stack of comics and is trying to make Gerard lose all self-control by fucking crawling over to steal more. It’s not even as if he’s doing anything, really; Gerard’s seen Mikey when he’s flirting, or seducing, and this isn’t it. This is just Mikey, sprawling next to Gerard in that weird, spider-ish way he has when it’s just them.

*****

This time, Gerard can tell that something’s not right straight away. Before he’d been convinced he was dreaming, but once his slightly twisted brain had come up with the random – and oh-so-very Way-brother – idea of a parallel world, it’d stuck fast. Now, as he watches, Gerard can’t understand why he didn’t see it before. Of course, it’s probably because the people here are the people he knows, albeit slightly different, and he’d imagined this was just his subconscious messing with him.

But walking through his bedroom door and into the airy attic of his dreams, kinda shot that idea to pieces pretty spectacularly.

Watching himself paint solidifies the crazy idea that he’s slipping into another world every time he dreams, because it’s him. He’s never seen himself paint, obviously, but he knows that he’s watching himself. And yes, it does cross his mind that it’s wrong that this is what convinces him and not the whole door-into-another-universe thing, but he doesn’t really care. Stranger things have happened. Okay, maybe not, but some things have come close. Gerard must make a noise, because the guy he mentally dubs dream!Gerard suddenly tenses, and Gerard knows that response as well.

It’s the exact same reaction he gets himself when some little real-life noise interrupts him while he’s working. The subtle change in posture is so obvious, Gerard wonders how he ever got away with acting just like this whenever Mikey wandered down to the basement. He stumbles back before dream!Gerard can turn around, knocking his shoulder against the doorframe in his haste. Standing on the other side of the threshold, the other room vanishes between one blink and another.

Gerard steps cautiously into his now normal bedroom, grateful Mikey had made his excuses an hour ago and left to do whatever it is he does in Jersey while Gerard freaks the fuck out. No sign of anyone else, nor of the gorgeous studio – he was in another universe, not blind, and you’d have to be blind not to appreciate that attic. With a sigh, and against the tiny little part of him called his better judgment, Gerard falls onto his bed and promptly falls headlong into sleep, dreams, and another round of let’s-lust-after-our-brother.

Without trying, Mikey manages to ruin two paintings and a sculpture in one morning. Admittedly, the first painting wasn’t ruined in itself, but Mikey had severely set back its production by washing the plate on which Gerard had mixed the perfect shade of green. His defense is that Gerard shouldn’t have been using kitchenware to mix paints on in the first place, so he should’ve seen the possibility that Mikey would see a plate and not think anything other than ‘dirty, put it in the dishwasher.’

The second painting, the first of a series of trial runs for a much larger commissioned portrait, ends up having the morning newspaper stuck to it when Mikey doesn’t notice it’s still wet. Again, he points out that the table in Gerard’s studio is not where he usually looks for wet paintings, although this time he does apologize and tries to help Gerard unstick the finance pages. They fail, and Gerard glares at Mikey until he makes a hasty exit.

Contrary to what some of their neighbors think, Mikey does actually work. It’s a pretty obscure job, something to do with computers that Gerard’s never asked to be explained to him because he knows he won’t really understand it. Suffice to say, Mikey works from home a lot, which gives him a good excuse to avoid Gerard until he’s calmed down over the paintings. That’s unusual, for them; they tend to spend as much time as possible together. Mikey’s clumsiness, that’s not so unusual.

When he’s finished his latest project and emailed his boss with some new improvements for a software system, Mikey wanders up to Gerard’s attic, bare feet making no noise on the worn floorboards. Gerard’s staring grimly at a lump of clay, partially molded into the shape of what looks like a monkey. Mikey smiles as he pads over to stand just behind his brother, watching Gerard smooth a particular patch of clay with careful fingers for a moment, before sliding his arms around Gerard’s waist and resting his chin on Gerard’s shoulder.

Gerard tenses, hands stilling. “What, Mikey?”

“Wanted to see what you’re doing,” he says, turning his head slightly to brush his nose across Gerard’s neck. Gerard doesn’t relax.

“So you can wreck it, like you did the others?”

“Hey, come on. First time was an accident, and you can remix the paint. Second time I apologized.” Mikey presses closer, putting himself right against Gerard’s back and kissing him softly underneath his ear. “It’s not like I meant to do it.”

“Not really the point, Mikey.” Gerard’s shoulders lose some of their tightness as Mikey kisses him again, a line of soft brushes from his lips down to the collar of Gerard’s paint-spattered shirt. He slides his hands back so they rest over Gerard’s hips and then steps back, gently turning Gerard around so he can kiss him properly. After a bare moment of resistance, Gerard slowly kisses him back, almost like he doesn’t want to but can’t quite help himself.

This, Mikey can deal with. A Gerard more interested in his work than in making out cannot be swayed. However, a Gerard who is simply reluctant can, with a bit of effort, be convinced to do anything. After all, it was Mikey’s persistence and his stubborn refusal to let Gerard keep denying that maybe they should be more than just brothers that got them into this position in the first place.

Speaking of positions, Gerard has obviously decided that he’s done working for the time being, hands firm on Mikey’s hips as he stumbles backwards – right into the table. The wet-sounding thud of the clay sculpture hitting the floor makes them both stop, Gerard’s fingers frozen at the hem of Mikey’s t-shirt and Mikey’s lips on Gerard’s temple. Then Mikey breaks into giggles, hiding his face against Gerard’s neck and leaning against him.

“Fuck!” Gerard half-turns, which is about as much as he can do while supporting most of Mikey’s weight. “Oh, come on.”

The sculpture is wrecked, now a mostly-shapeless blob with only the odd carefully crafted line still showing it was once, almost a monkey. Mikey’s giggles slowly subside as Gerard glares at his work, and then he transfers his glare to Mikey. He opens his mouth to yell, probably, but Mikey puts his hand over it.

“No yelling, Gee.” When Gerard’s glare intensifies, Mikey tries a different tactic. He lets his grin slide into something darker, giving Gerard a warning look as he moves his hand to cup a pale cheek. Mikey rubs his thumb softly across Gerard’s lower lip, eyes following the rush of returning color as he notes the way Gerard’s gone utterly still.

This is more like it, this slipping from brotherly camaraderie and the usual muddle of living together, into something more charged and tense. Out of the two of them, Mikey’s the best at this particular type of slipping. Whereas Gerard is straightforward, direct about what he wants, Mikey’s the opposite. He’ll use every dirty trick he’s learnt over the years to get to Gerard, to build up the tension and need until Gerard’s either begging or unable to even do that.

Gerard knows how much Mikey plays him, and sometimes he’ll fight it, make things more…interesting. Right now though, trapped between a suspiciously solid table and his brother’s lean body, he’s not exactly complaining. The thigh insinuated between his own helps with this, as do Mikey’s hands, one on his neck and the other against the front of his jeans. “Is this you making it up to me?”

Well, he’s not going to fight it physically. Verbally, though, Mikey likes that even better sometimes. All Gerard’s words get now, is a curve of lips and a burning look as Mikey presses the heel of his hand just-so. Gerard barely manages to suppress the automatic jerk of his hips, trying to work up enough moisture in his mouth to say something else. Mikey beats him to it.

“This is me…distracting you.” Then he’s sliding down, down, until it’s all Gerard can do to keep himself upright with Mikey on his knees and that mischievous look on his face. Nimble fingers work at his button and zipper, eyes so intent that Gerard groans, voice low in his throat as-

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