《pavement》vernon

9、第 9 章 It’s

　　It’s only after handing in his application (and reassuring an astonished Gaius that yes, he really did do that already) that Merlin ends up buying a book on how to land a job. Part of his reason for buying it might be to avoid gathering material for an upcoming presentation with Morgana; he’s always hated having to get up in front of an audience and manage to come across as knowledgeable and self-assured.

　　Unfortunately, the section on job interviews sounds like a lecturer they all had in his first year; it goes on about eye contact and body language, and Merlin considers writing Arthur an e-mail to point out that applying for a job really kind of sucks.

　　He doesn’t, of course. Instead, he chucks the book into a corner of his living room before he goes to collect his laptop, determined to find some information on the synthesis of peptides. It’s always better to come prepared to meetings with Morgana, and he has an entire day left.

　　--

　　The door opens before Arthur gets a chance to turn the music off. As there are precisely two people in the building who would dare enter without knocking, and as Uther is in the States, Arthur isn't particularly worried. In fact, he doesn't even bother looking up from the second half of the survey results that came in over the course of the day.

　　“A fine evening to you, Morgana.”

　　“Is that the Killers?” Morgana asks, pausing in the act of closing the door.

　　“Radio,” Arthur says. He covertly reaches for the remote control and switches the stereo off, thick silence descending upon the room. Beyond the door, there is no sign of life. Given that the office is bound to be near-empty at this hour, Arthur doesn't expect any.

　　“Radio.” Morgana's voice is disbelieving. She sinks onto his sofa, drapes her legs over one armrest and inclines her head, fixing Arthur with a disconcerting stare. “Radio,” she repeats.

　　As it's really no use to even try for concentrated work when Morgana is in a mood like that, Arthur places the printouts on his desk, arranges his pen beside them and leans back in his chair. “What brings you here?”

　　Morgana gets back to her feet, walking over to the window to observe the city which stretches out below. It's a great view, Arthur has to admit, especially when night turns it into a sea of pulsating, multi-coloured lights that seems to go on forever. She leans her forehead against the window, breath steaming up the glass. “Merlin told me I might want to check on you.”

　　“Merlin?” The knot of twisted anxiety in his chest takes Arthur by surprise.

　　“What are you doing, Arthur?” Morgana turns around, leaving behind a stain on the glass that the cleaning people will have erased by Monday. Her eyes are serious.

　　“Wrapping up something for Father,” Arthur replies evenly.

　　“That’s not what I meant, and you know it.”

　　Arthur does. However, there are two options for what she could be talking about, and neither one is in any way appealing. Feigning ignorance never worked with Morgana, though. “Elaborate, please.”

　　“It’s a Friday night.” She leans back against the windowpane, arms loosely by her side. “It’s a Friday night, after eight, and you’re still here working your arse off even though you hate it.”

　　Morgana hardly ever curses these days, so it leaves Arthur speechless for a moment. “Who says I hate it?”

　　She gives him an impatient look. “Oh, please.”

　　Movement though the half-open door catches Arthur’s attention. Upon closer inspection, it’s only the blinking light of Sophia’s printer; she must have forgotten to turn it off before she left for the weekend a couple of hours ago.

　　“Arthur.” Morgana exhales audibly, drawing closer. She puts her hands flat on his desk, gazing down at him, and like this, she’s strangely ethereal, appearing wise beyond her age. The light of Arthur’s desk lamp reflects on her face. “You can’t—”

　　“Drop it.”

　　“You are making yourself unhappy.”

　　“I said: Drop. It.”

　　They’re staring at each other for motionless seconds, the darkness of a deserted office stretching around them. Morgana is first to back down; she sighs and lowers her head. Arthur finds that his breathing comes easier.

　　“What is it you’re doing for Uther that’s so urgent, anyway?” she asks.

　　“How would I know?” Arthur pushes the printouts off to one side, no desire to even look at them. “I only collect the answers to the questions he asks. I have no idea what he wants with them.”

　　Morgana’s mouth tightens. “You know he’s proud of you, don’t you?”

　　“You’re delusional.” Arthur snorts, but it comes out a little flat.

　　“No. Actually, you are.” A faint smile steals its way across Morgana’s face. She straightens, dusting off her dress even though it sits immaculately on her figure. “Come on. Leave it till Monday and have a drink with me.”

　　“Trying to get me drunk?” Arthur raises a brow, and while Morgana’s laugh is hushed, it’s not fake.

　　“Who said I’ll be the one paying?” She offers him a hand to pull him up, and after a second’s hesitation, Arthur accepts. A drink sounds good right now, and really, there’s no reason why he can’t take care of the results tomorrow morning.

　　“Where are we going?”

　　“I don’t know yet.” She links their arms together, shoulders overlapping, and if she weren’t wearing high heels, Arthur would be offended at them being nearly equal in height. “I don’t know the area around Canary Wharf too well. Let’s just walk until we find something that looks nice.”

　　“Fine.” Arthur leans away to grab his jacket off the back of his chair, flicking his desk lamp off in the process. It plunges the room into darkness, the light from Sophia’s office a bright slice on the carpet.

　　“You want to leave the CD here?” The teasing note in Morgana’s voice is impossible to miss.

　　“Radio,” Arthur corrects, dead-pan.

　　“Of course.” Morgana laughs softly, no trace of reproach, and while Arthur doesn’t know what happened between it’s complicated and now, he’s not about to complain. He locks the office door behind him, sparing a brief thought for the confidential documents he theoretically should have stored away in a locked drawer as an additional safety measure, but…

　　Really, he just can’t be bothered.

　　--

　　Arthur isn’t decided on what wakes him first: his headache, or the insistent vibration of his Blackberry. Since the result is the same – he finds his body awkwardly folded into itself on Morgana’s couch – it doesn’t make much of a difference.

　　Suppressing a groan, he gets up and shuffles into the kitchen, clad in yesterday’s boxers and t-shirt. His pullover and jeans are slung over the rocking chair Morgana insists on keeping around, despite it being too weak to bear the weight of anyone not quite as slight as she is. Arthur has watched more than one of her guest subtly change to a safer seat after hearing the chair’s ominous creaking.

　　Thinking about the creaking – thinking about any kind of noise, really – makes Arthur’s head spin.

　　He grips the handle of the fridge until the kitchen rights itself again. After pouring himself a glass of orange juice, he goes to retrieve his Blackberry from the pocket of his jeans. One day, he might actually start treating the stupid thing with a certain amount of care, but today is not that day.

　　The phone notifies him of three missed calls from Uther, along with a voicemail message. Arthur’s head is pounding, and for several seconds, he is mostly almost nearly leaning towards dealing with his father at a later point during the day. His sense of duty wins out. It always does.

　　“Arthur, good morning.” The connection was good when Uther left his message, no howling wind in the background. “I know it’s early in London right now, but since you’re an early riser—” An early riser? Well. Arthur supposes it’s a conclusion Uther has drawn from Arthur showing up fairly early at the office in the mornings. “—I thought you’d already be awake. Anyway, I need the second part of those results as soon as possible, and I’d also appreciate it if you could clean them up before sending them.”

　　Next time Arthur is torn between duty and selfishness, he’ll go with the latter.

　　--

　　After a weekend spent in a blessedly empty office to catch up with all the work he doesn’t get done when there’s a constant streams of employees asking for guidance, it’s the thought of a gleaming kitchen and a stylishly bare living room that has Arthur ending up at Camelot instead of at his house – that, and the washed and ironed designer shirt on the passenger seat of his car.

　　Myror waves him inside without batting a lash, his calm façade ever unchanging. Heat and a dull throbbing rhythm welcome Arthur on the stairs.