Worth Your Tears (A Pendragon Institute One-Shot)

The dark-haired man who stepped into the Trustees' dining room at the Chicago Art Institute had never been there before. Oh, he had visited museums along the American eastern seaboard-the Boston Museum of Fine Arts, the Metropolitan Museum in New York, the Philadelphia Museum-but he had never been to the American Midwest. His own dealings with fine-art institutions had been in the UK, for the most part, and with the Chester Beatty Library collection in Dublin, and the Louvre in Paris. His work at an excavation in Crete, a year earlier, had led to a visit to a private collector and art dealer in the US. This gentleman, ensconced in a vast and handsome house in the Near North Side of Chicago, filled with antiquities from the four corners of the globe, had procured an invitation for him to attend an exhibition opening at the Art Institute. He had arrived late, after strolling through Millenium Park and examining the great, curved silver-colored sphere, known locally as "The Bean" (although its real name was "Cloud Gate"), that had become one of the area's best-known, large-scale, free-standing sculptures.

The exhibition was of Romanesque and early Gothic art from France and England (although many of the pieces had been loaned from American museums), and the opening reception was well attended, making it easy for the visitor to blend in with the crowd. As he glanced about the room, his eye was caught by a cluster of young women, who were practically mobbing the youngest male in a group of museum directors, to the left of the drinks table. The object of their attentions turned, and was immediately recognizable: Arthur Pendragon, the London-born Assistant Director of the Pendragon Institute for Medieval and Renaissance Art in New York City. There was no mistaking him; his photograph had been in the newspapers and various magazines often enough, and lady journalists tended to gush over his blond hair, his broad-shouldered and athletic physique, handsome features and blue eyes. Well, well, where there was smoke there was usually fire, and the visitor cast his eyes about the room, in search of anybody who might have accompanied Uther Pendragon's son and heir to this festive event.

Dr. Morgana LeFay, the sultry, glamorous, much-photographed senior curator of the Pendragon Institute, as well as the Assistant Director's stepsister, did not seem to be in attendance, and it appeared as if the young Pendragon was there on his own. Nobody else from his predominantly British staff was anywhere to be seen. The visitor gave a well-concealed sigh of relief and wandered in the direction of the buffet, an elegant spread involving very small portions of everything: shrimp, rolled cold-cuts, baby vegetables, breads and cheeses of various sorts, cut up fruit, and pastries. As he helped himself to strawberries, he overheard a chorus of high-pitched giggles emanating from the besotted females surrounding Arthur Pendragon, and rolled his eyes involuntarily. As he did so, he caught sight of another bystander, a young man, dark-haired and slim, who was eyeing the spectacle with a similar wry amusement. Their glances met, and they both smiled.

"Ah! Conservator Emrys!" said one of the Chicago curators from several feet away, and the visitor snapped his head round to respond. Before he could speak, however, he noticed that the lad with whom he had exchanged looks had also turned in the curator's direction, lips parted as though to reply.

"Yes?" both he and the young man said in unison, and the Chicago curator gawped at them. Then a large man of military bearing—the visitor recognized a diplomat from Eastern Europe—took the Chicago curator by the elbow and drew him into conversation, leaving himself and the dark-haired youth (well, he wasn't really a youth, but he certainly looked like one) staring at each other with perplexity and the dawning of comprehension.

The conservator facing him was slender to the point of thinness, long-legged and blue-eyed, with a narrow, piquant face, and a set of cheekbones and full lips that would have done any fashion model proud. He was clad in a well-tailored suit of subdued grey, but his tie was faintly askew, and his short, spiky hair wouldn't have looked out of place in a university hang-out. He was also wearing what looked like a wedding ring on his left hand.

The visitor took one hesitant step forward and cleared his throat, because he could see that there was no escape, now.

"Merlin," he said, and his voice sounded hoarse and strained in his own ears. The gods only knew what it sounded like to this young man.

The young man paused for a moment, and then held out his hand.

"Hullo Father," he said quietly, almost inaudibly, and then smiled. It was a cautious smile, but devoid of anger or hostility or blame, and the visitor knew, even before either said another word, that the pale, slim young conservator standing before him had inherited the kindness, the non-judgmental nature, of his mother. Her gentleness, her strength.

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For the past two years, Balinor Emrys had been hearing things about his son, the boy he had never met, had never tried to meet. Even in the small town where he had been living, helping to excavate and preserve the remains of a Neolithic settlement at the base of the mountains in northern Italy, information had come via visiting archaeologists from London. So he knew about the junior conservator at the Pendragon Institute, in America, who was said to be so remarkably, "magically" gifted, in spite of his youth. He had heard about his education at Cambridge and the Courtauld Institute, about the superb work he had done on the Pendragon Institute's medieval manuscripts, and that, although his area of expertise was works on paper, he was qualified to conserve and treat three-dimensional objects as well. Most recently, he had heard that the young man had entered into a civil union with the Assistant Director of the Institute, and that the two were living together in Arthur Pendragon's Manhattan flat.

He supposed that at some point he could have found press photographs of Merlin on the internet. Somehow, however, he had avoided doing just that.

A shame, really, Bal Emrys had thought to himself, for the boy to waste himself on the likes of a Pendragon. Not that he had anything, personally, against young Arthur, but his one encounter with Uther Pendragon (that ice-cold tyrant of a museum bureaucrat), many years ago, had left a bad taste in his mouth. Of course now, seeing Pendragon Junior in the flesh made him understand why somebody would be tempted to take up with him. He could only hope that the Pendragon Institute's Assistant Director amounted to more than just good looks, was more than a well-built Goldilocks in an expensive suit.

As far as looks went…Bal scrutinized the conservator standing in front of him, who was scrutinizing him right back. He didn't see that the lad had inherited much of his appearance, save for his coloring; Merlin had a slighter build, and he certainly had not got his straight, slender nose and that lush mouth from his father. (Bal absently put a hand to his own eagle-beak of a nose and very nearly smiled at the comparison.) But he didn't really resemble his mother, Hunith, either. Well, he was an attractive youngster, oddly appealing, with his disarming smile and lanky, angular frame…although the gods only knew how he had come by those ears…

He was startled out of his reverie by Merlin's voice; the boy had spoken to him.

"What? Uh…" he said, hoping that his staring hadn't been too obvious.

"Are you in the States for long?"

"Uh," said Bal Emrys again, realizing that his voice was gruff and he must look a fool, glowering so intently at this polite young man. "No. For three days."

"Oh," Merlin replied, a little hesitantly. "That's all, then?"

"I'm afraid that's the case." The older Emrys cleared his throat. "It's back to New York for you, I suppose?"

"I think so. Arthur has to get back for meetings." The young conservator was obviously surprised that his interlocutor knew anything about him, about where he was living. He shifted his stance, looking first at the floor, and then at his father's face. "Arthur Pendragon…you know. From the—"

"Yes, I know who he is," Bal Emrys said, a little more harshly than he had intended. "Well, s—Merlin. It's a good job you've got, then. I'm glad."

"Thanks," his son murmured in a subdued voice. "Would you like to meet him…meet Arthur?"

"That's not necessary," said Bal, still harshly. "I've met his father. Are you coming to the study session here, tomorrow, with the other conservators and curators?"

Merlin simply nodded his head; his eyes were fixed on the other man with a mixture of curiosity and a kind of wariness. When he finally spoke, he said only, "Arthur's not like that, you know. Not like his father. But yeah, I'll be at the study session. And you?"

"I'll be there," Bal replied, less tersely. "It'll be interesting to see all of those silly Powerpoint presentations. Not giving one of those, are you?" He gave an ironic smile when Merlin shook his head, and then glanced across the room to where the Assistant Director of the Pendragon Institute was gamely attempting to extricate himself from the group of female admirers.

"Your, er, boss will be looking for you," he murmured, turning his eyes towards the exit. "I'll see you tomorrow, I expect. At the study session."

"Oh," said Merlin quietly. "Look, I know now isn't the time to talk about this, but Gaius—you remember him?—said he thought you've refused to work for any museum, that you've been involved in an excavation somewhere in the Italian Alps."

"Gaius," the other said slowly, after a pause, as though dredging up something from a memory of long ago. "Good man."

"Yes," Merlin said, his tone of voice suddenly a little cooler. "He is. He's been a good friend to…to my mother, and me." He then went silent, having judiciously refrained from uttering what had been on the tip of his tongue: "I hoped you'd be like him."

"I never was able to thank you," he said instead, his voice still cool. "For this."

He reached under his shirt collar and pulled out a thin gold chain, from which a small, golden object was suspended.

Bal Emrys' eyes went to the gold dragon, and then to his son's face.

"Yes," he said, his own voice low. "I thought it might bring you better luck than I could possibly do."

"Why?" The coolness had left Merlin's voice, and he sounded, suddenly, like a lost child.

"Because…ah, what's the use of wondering, now? I was no fit father for a family, never wanting to stay in one place for long, always eyeing the distant horizon rather than the hearth." He met his son's dark blue gaze and then looked down. "And your mother, she deserved better."

"Then you'll never go back?"

Bal Emrys shrugged and his sober gaze met his son's. "Why make things worse, boy? If I went back now, your mother…" He hesitated for a moment, before ploughing on. "She wouldn't recognize me."

Merlin was silent for a moment, and Bal was relieved that he had neither argued nor attempted to change his father's mind. Then the young man simply essayed a polite smile, and murmured quietly, "I suppose you're tired from your journey…?"

Bal shrugged elaborately, his eyes turning to watch Arthur Pendragon as he disengaged himself from the group surrounding him and stared across the floor in their direction. "I am that. And I need to sort out my notes for tomorrow. Well, Merlin, I'll…see you at the study session. I'm off; my hotel's not far."

Merlin hesitated, and then put out his hand.

"May I…tell my mother I've met you?"

"I leave that decision to you," Bal Emrys said gruffly. "God, I'm exhausted. Time differences affect me now, when I travel. It's age, I suppose. I'm for bed. Good night, son."

"Sleep well, Father."

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Arthur set his wine glass down on one of the white-swaddled buffet tables (why did gala openings always use white tablecloths; they only made the wine spills and food stains more obvious) and turned in search of Merlin. He was beginning to feel the effects of yesterday's flight from New York, and wanted to return to his hotel room to sleep. (Or, to sleep after some other, more interesting, activity.) He spotted his youngest conservator halfway across the room, face to face with a bearded man with shaggy dark hair. They had been conversing, but as Arthur headed in their direction, the older fellow stepped away and then headed out of the Trustees' dining room, so quickly that Arthur wondered whether the man was trying to avoid him.

"Merlin."

Merlin turned and his Assistant Director saw that he had gone as white as a ghost, and his pillowy lips were pressed tightly together. But it was the expression in his eyes that alarmed Arthur; it was almost vacant, like the stare of a blind person, or...a person in shock.

"Merlin, are you alright?"

His partner gave a little start, as if he had just come awake, and looked back at him, wide-eyed. Arthur's senses tingled; even with that drawn, strained look, Merlin was beautiful, with a kind of odd, pared-down, otherworldly beauty that defied definition. And it wreaked havoc with Arthur's libido at the most inconvenient times. Like in the middle of museum exhibition openings, when the last thing Arthur needed was a visible tumescence in his trousers.

"What?" murmured the subject of Arthur's musings, in a far-away, distracted voice.

"Merlin," said Arthur with exasperation. "It can't be jet lag; there's only an hour time difference. Granted, air travel can be a bit tiring. Shall we go back to the hotel? I could use just a little, um, rest, and I'm starving. They never serve enough food at these museum openings."

He waved the meager tea sandwich he had plucked from the tray of a passing waiter.

"Yeah," said Merlin uncertainly. His eyes still looked somewhat unfocused, but color was coming back into his thin cheeks. "Okay. Right. The hotel. Hadn't you better finish that sandwich, first?"

"What sandwich?" snapped Arthur, just a bit irritably. He flung the sorry concoction of bread and unidentifiable cheese over his shoulder in the direction of the buffet table, where it landed in the punch bowl. "Come on."

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Once in the hotel restaurant, Arthur, who was ravenous, demolished a beefsteak and roasted potatoes, and put away a half-bottle of red wine from a local vineyard. He barely noticed Merlin's silence as he alternated mouthfuls of food with his own commentary on the exhibition, the latest news (gossip, really) from the international museum community, and complaints about everything from the meeting he was scheduled to attend the following day, with the Director of the Chicago Art Institute, to the absence of substantial edibles at museum receptions.

"Why is it that museums, ours included, don't know how to provide a decent meal for their exhibition openings and other gala events?"

"That's good, coming from somebody whose one culinary accomplishment is knowing how to switch on the microwave," Merlin answered, eyes fixed on the tabletop. "Museums, ours included, don't want to spend the money for a fancy buffet."

"I won't be able to go with you to the study session for curators and conservators tomorrow," his Assistant Director went on, between mouthfuls of rare beef. "I suppose you'll all be examining pieces from the exhibit?"

"I think so," Merlin replied, still not meeting his eyes. "Since the museum's closed to the public tomorrow. Or we may be in the auditorium; a few attendees have Powerpoint presentations to show."

"Speaking of presentations," murmured Arthur, grinning suddenly, "did you see our old friend from the Boston Museum, Nimueh, there tonight?"

Merlin's monosyllabic response sounded something like, "Eeep."

"Putting her assets on display, as usual," Arthur continued. "It's a bloody miracle she didn't have a wardrobe malfunction and spill them out altogether. Later on, I saw her in a dark hallway, lip-locked with a hapless young museum guard."

"Some people never change," his conservator murmured, and then snapped his jaw shut.

Arthur snorted. "God help the poor boy. No doubt she's now got him out of his uniform, and is well on her way to shagging him senseless. More or less what I intend on doing to you, later on. Although I don't want to render you altogether senseless…not quite."

Merlin tilted his head to one side, as though considering this statement, but said nothing. Arthur watched him, taking nothing for granted, because although Merlin was often sexually compliant, allowing Arthur to take the upper hand, there were times when he…wasn't, times when he actually took control and did as he pleased with Arthur's willing body. And despite the fact that Arthur, when it came to sex, had always liked to be the dominant partner, he rather enjoyed it when Merlin did this.

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Back in their hotel room—which was actually a suite—Merlin flung off his suit and vanished into the bathroom, where he showered rapidly, emerging in a pair of faded jeans and a tee shirt that had already seen better days five years ago, or so Arthur surmised.

"I trust you're not planning to wear something similar, tomorrow," Arthur said flatly, gesturing at the tee shirt, which might have been blue, originally, but was now an indeterminate dust color. "It isn't as though you can't afford something better…"

Merlin frowned a little. "I'll find something in the morning."

"Right, at the last minute, as usual," Arthur murmured with a wry smile. "I love watching you flail about frantically in the wardrobe, trying to find an article of clothing that isn't wrinkled or less than ten years old."

"I don't want to dress like you," Merlin replied with a touch of his usual rebellious insouciance. "There's only one prince at the Pendragon Institute. So there isn't any reason for me to kit myself out in Armani and gold cuff links."

"Fair enough." Arthur rolled his eyes.

"Or wear a tie every day."

"We would all keel over with shock if you did," Arthur retorted, unearthing his toothbrush and shaving kit from his luggage. "At the moment, there isn't any reason for you to be wearing clothes at all. I'll only be a few minutes…" he went on, gesturing with his toothbrush in the direction of the bathroom. "We might as well get into bed. You're looking a bit less peaked; are you okay?"

"I feel great, yeah," Merlin said vaguely, walking to the window and attempting to open it.

"That's good," said Arthur, gauging the generous width of the hotel bed with a keen eye. "You can be on top," he added, magnanimously, and saw the quirk of Merlin's lifted eyebrows as he pushed at the window latch with no success. It occurred to him that no matter how his young conservator had matured and gained in confidence and social poise since their first meeting, less than four years ago, he still possessed that coltish demeanor, strangely endearing awkwardness, and (in spite of everything) air of virginal innocence, that had fascinated Arthur from the beginning. Of course, the awkwardness vanished whenever Merlin set foot inside the conservation studio, where he was as meticulous and precise as a chemist, and the virginal looks were, um, deceiving, but—

"Ow!" said Merlin, who had pinched his thumb on the window latch.

He was still struggling to raise the window, and Arthur gently pushed him aside. He was humming cheerfully to himself as his strong, capable hands dealt with the recalcitrant latch, eyes bright. Merlin could tell that he was very much in the mood for…what he was always in the mood for, at this time of the evening, and he bit his lip. It wasn't that he didn't want Arthur, but, well, tonight…

The night before, when they first arrived at their Chicago hotel room, they had had a kind of silly and ridiculous wrestling match in bed. Arthur (naturally) had won, holding Merlin down and kissing him vigorously until they both were dizzy, before proceeding to other things. Tonight, though, Merlin doubted he could give Arthur's lovely physical attributes the attention they deserved.

"I, erm, have a headache." It sounded lame, even to him.

Arthur raised one eyebrow with disbelief. "Two minutes ago, you said you felt great."

"I…well, that is…"

Arthur studied him severely, both eyebrows making an attempt to imitate Gaius' most quizzical expression.

"You didn't have too much to drink, did you? Is that why you looked so green, back there at the museum?"

"No," replied Merlin vehemently. "Why do you always think I've had too much to drink? I didn't have anything to drink, apart from water. Anyway, I wasn't green. What d'you think I am, the Wicked Wizard of the West?"

"Something you ate, then? Shall I find you some antacid tablets?"

"Erm, I don't think so."

Arthur punched him lightly on the upper arm. "Well, get undressed and lie down then, idiot. If you're still feeling ill when I come to bed, I promise to be a gentleman and behave."

Merlin gave a snort of laughter in spite of himself, and Arthur essayed a grin as he passed him on his way to the shower. But when he emerged, fifteen minutes later, he found Merlin still standing, by the window, his face partly turned to the city lights set against the near-black night beyond. His hair blended into the velvety darkness of the sky, and faint light from the street lamps below outlined his fine, clear-cut profile with a starlike, silvery glow. Arthur wasn't much given to poetry in his daily life, but he didn't think he had ever seen Merlin look quite so…lyric in his strange, waiflike beauty.

"Who was it you were talking to at the opening?" Arthur asked, because he couldn't think of anything else to say that wouldn't sound completely unmanly. "Was that one of the Chicago crowd?"

Merlin was silent for a moment.

"I would have introduced you, if you'd been nearer," he said, finally. "As awkward as it was. I wasn't certain what to say to him."

"What?" said Arthur, frowning. "What do you mean? Who was he?"

His partner turned to face him, with a little crooked smile. "You can't guess?"

"For pity's sake, Merlin," Arthur muttered, because he was eager to get Merlin into the bed and either on top of him or beneath him. "I don't much care for guessing games. Was that another conservator, then?"

"Yes," said Merlin, beginning to fumble off his clothing. "You could say that." He paused, to pull his tee shirt over his head. "His name's Balinor Emrys."

It took a moment for the name to register in Arthur's brain, and by the time he realized of whom Merlin had been speaking, his conservator had stripped and was climbing into the bed, pulling the duvet up to his chin.

"Merlin…" Arthur began, and then realized that he had no idea of what to say. "Your father," he managed to get out, seconds later, and could hear the amazement in his own voice. "And you'd never seen him before."

"Yeah," said Merlin dully. "My long lost paterfamilias."

"Oh," said Arthur blankly, groping for the proper words of sympathy. "I'm sorry. Really. What a shock for you." During the months since their civil union, he had rarely given the half-Irish, half-Welsh, fully-absent archaeologist-conservator, Mr Emrys, much thought.

"It's okay," Merlin replied. "Really. I'm not upset or angry with him…except a little, on my mother's account."

"Would you have told me about him, if I hadn't asked," Arthur said suddenly, thrusting out his lower lip. He didn't mean to sound aggressive, or jealous, but Merlin's secretiveness—or at least, his habit of saying very little about himself—sometimes made Arthur feel like a child whose parents hide the Christmas presents in November and then refuse to give even a hint about what they might be.

"Dunno," said Merlin, into the pillow. "I hadn't really thought about it; it came as such a shock, I mean surprise."

"Will he be there, uh, tomorrow?"

"He'll be at the study session. Whilst you're in the Director's Office, hobnobbing with your fellow museum bigwigs and rich prats. But it'll be alright."

Arthur stifled a retort because he realized that banter—their usual mode of communication—was not appropriate to the moment, and he wanted to seem understanding. It was when he got into his side of the bed and reached out to put a hand on Merlin's shoulder, as a comforting gesture, that he realized it was not alright, not at all. The hotel bedroom was warm, but even through the downy thickness of the duvet, he could feel Merlin trembling.

"Oh god, Merlin," Arthur said in a taut voice, and gathered his young companion into his arms, pulling him close, stroking his hair, holding him so tightly that they felt, almost, like one flesh. He pressed his lips to Merlin's brow and fluttering eyelids. "Merlin, Merlin. Are you…? Merlin, please. Say something, you idiot."

He could feel Merlin chuckle soundlessly at the familiar endearment.

"Mmmfun," Merlin said finally, muffled by Arthur's solid shoulder, and his body, thin, almost delicate-looking, but strong, relaxing against Arthur's muscular one.

"What did you say?" Arthur demanded, loosening his grip so that his companion could speak clearly.

"I said, I'm fine."

"How did you…how did you know it was him? What did he say to you?"

"He said nothing, at first." As often happened when he was in the grip of strong emotion, Merlin's speech reverted to the accent of his childhood. At public events, such as exhibition openings, he was quite capable of overriding it, so as to make himself more easily understood—especially by Americans—but at the moment, he sounded far less Oxbridge (or even Ealdor), and much more Armagh. "I don't think he would have identified himself, if one of the Chicago people hadn't spoken his name in my hearing."

"Really?" said Arthur, who had grown quite fond of Merlin's accent. "I can't believe it." He then watched with consternation as his companion took a deep breath and rolled onto his back, staring, expressionless, at the ceiling. Leaning over him, Arthur could see that his jaw was set and his cheeks were dry, but his eyes were brilliant with what Arthur suspected was the suppressed urge to weep.

"No man is worth your tears," he remembered saying jokingly to his young conservator, long before their civil union. And the only time he had ever seen Merlin shed tears had been when Hunith, his mother, presented him with the little gold dragon sent to her, years earlier, by her long-absent ex-husband—the dragon Merlin had worn on a chain round his neck ever since.

"I'd like to kill him," Arthur said flatly, making an effort to hide his anger. "Slowly."

"Why?" said Merlin, sounding faintly exasperated. "What good would that do? It's far too late to change anything, now."

"I just would," Arthur muttered, knowing, as he spoke, that he sounded childish. "How he could treat you with such little regard all these years, you and Hunith? What kind of man is he?"

"There's no point wondering about What If's," Merlin said, relaxing suddenly against Arthur's side. "There's no way of knowing why, or what it would have been like if he hadn't left. It's useless. Like wondering what happens after you die."

"For pity's sake, Merlin," Arthur snorted, rather alarmed by the dark turn their conversation was taking. "Don't even think about that. So morbid. Anyway," he added, in a calmer voice, "when it comes to that sort of thing, all I can say is I hope I go first."

There was a muted exclamation and a flurry of bedclothes. "Now who's being morbid, Pendragon?"

"Because if you were to, uh, go first, imagine how incredibly boring my life would become," his Assistant Director replied.

It was obvious that Arthur was attempting to inject a little humor into the situation.

"If you don't stop talking about it," Merlin said in a voice as threatening as he could manage, "you definitely will go first. Like, right now."

"I'll wait for you, you know," Arthur said conversationally. He was smiling, but Merlin could see that he was using a jaunty tone of voice to cover something else. "Wherever it is that we go. Either that, or I'll find some way to come back."

"Right," muttered Merlin, rolling his eyes. "This discussion is getting too weird, Mr Assistant Director."

Arthur rolled onto his back, tucking Merlin against his shoulder, his usual sleeping position. "Sorry. Just thinking aloud. Time to get some rest then; we've both got a busy day tomorrow." He hesitated before ploughing on. "Your…he didn't say anything about why he left, did he? Or do you think he isn't certain, himself?"

Merlin shrugged, turning slightly in Arthur's embrace. "I don't know. I think he just may be one of those people who can't be tied down. To anything."

"People used to, well, say that about me," Arthur protested, narrowing his eyes. "And look at me now. Shackled to one of my conservators."

He had hoped this would make his young conservator laugh, and was rewarded by a mild guffaw.

"Would you meet him if I asked you to? If…?" Merlin's eyes were beginning to lose that suspect glitter, but they met Arthur's with a certain intensity.

"Why not?" Arthur replied, smiling, after a moment of hesitation. "That'll make it easier, 'cause I can kill him afterward."

"Ha ha," said Merlin, yawning. "Like that will make everything better." He curled against Arthur's side, reached out sleepily, and switched off the bedside lamp, before draping an arm across Arthur's chest.

"Don't forget, Merlin," Arthur went on, still trying for humor. "I've been trained to kill since birth."

"Brilliant," muttered Merlin, dryly. "By Uth…by your dad, no doubt. What a pair of fathers we've got."

Arthur sighed and let his hand move down the silky-smooth length of Merlin's back, just to the dip of his waist. "That's the understatement of the year. Now you should sleep, idiot. You need your rest."

"Right," said Merlin, almost in a whisper, but the slender conservator's fingers that had been splayed against Arthur's broad chest slid down over the flat, muscled plane of his stomach, before curving lightly over his hip. "What was that you said earlier, about rendering me senseless?"

"Yes, well," Arthur replied hastily, surprised and pleased. "I thought you'd, uh, forgotten."

He turned onto his side, a little dissatisfied with the darkness of the room. He liked to be able to look at Merlin when they were in bed, not only because of his long-limbed ivory body, but because he loved the way the sharp angles of that boyish face seemed to soften when Arthur touched him, the ardor that came into those clear blue eyes.

Now, he could feel Merlin's little smile against his throat, so he crooked a forefinger beneath his conservator's chin, raised it, and fit his mouth carefully over that full lower lip. Merlin shivered and responded, his mouth softening as his legs opened enough to accommodate Arthur's hips between them. Arthur kissed along the line of his jaw, nipped lightly at his ear, and then bit—not too hard—at the side of his neck. He didn't want to leave marks, and Merlin had remonstrated with him often enough about the pointed sharpness of his eyeteeth.

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After the third Powerpoint presentation, the assembled scholars and specialists—curators, conservators, university professors—were more than happy to take a break for refreshments. Merlin, who had sat next to Bal Emrys for the duration of the talks, stretched his arms above his head and stifled a yawn. He knew he shouldn't feel so tired, but Arthur had done quite a job on him the night before.

Now he and Bal walked side by side to the nearby table set up with coffee urns, pitchers of milk, sugar, and plates of croissants and muffins. They exchanged pleasantries with several museum personnel—one of the Chicago conservators wanted Merlin's opinion on the best way to handle old insect damage and flaking pigments on a medieval French psalter—as they heaped their plates and secured two plastic mugs of coffee.

As they settled themselves into two of the chairs that had been provided for participants in the gathering, Merlin realized that Bal was studying him while trying not to let him see it. This didn't disturb him; he was accustomed to being looked at with curiosity by members of the international museum community. Even now, one or two visiting scholars he'd never met before were eyeing him in a slightly puzzled way. He was, after all, younger than the other specialists present, and he supposed he looked like a student with his plain white shirt and unbuttoned collar (he had refused to wear a tie), the horn-rimmed glasses he used for reading or study perched on the bridge of his nose. And he could tell, without looking into a mirror, that unruly spikes of his hair were sticking out in all directions.

However, more than one person had complimented him on his skill, after images of the fifteenth-century Book of Hours he had been conserving for the past two months were displayed in one of the Powerpoint lectures.

"You do good work, Merlin," Bal said in a low voice, as they sat sipping their scalding coffee. "I've no right to say this—no right to speak of what you do, after all these years—but you may actually have a better hand at this than I do. I'm prou…uh, impressed."

Merlin looked at him, unsmiling, but his voice was had lost the faint aloofness of the day before. "Thank you."

They sat in a vaguely embarrassed silence for a few moments, before Bal coughed and then looked round the room.

"Do you know many of the people here?"

"There's Nimueh, from the Boston Museum, over there," replied Merlin, a little self-consciously. She's rather a…you might want to keep your distance. And there's one of the conservators from the Santa Barbara Museum of Art. I met him a few years ago, when we lent them a sculpture. There's a curator from the Getty, and somebody—I've forgotten his name—from the Yale University Art Gallery. Erm, look, you don't have to if you don't want to, but I'd like to introduce you to Arthur; he's…he's meeting me outside when all of this is over."

The gaze Bal Emrys turned on him was difficult to read. "I met Uther around the time your Arthur was born. A most unpleasant encounter, I must say. But if, as you tell me, Arthur's not like his father…"

"He isn't. Really." His son's voice was emphatic, almost defiant, and a little strained; his blue eyes stared into Bal's with an impressive directness, and Bal felt a twinge of mingled guilt and fatherly pride.

"Well, then, I suppose I can hardly refuse."

Bal clearly did not look delighted by the prospect of being introduced to his son's partner, but Merlin smiled widely, and for the first time the older Emrys noticed a just a flicker of physical resemblance to his son's kind and sweet-natured mother.

"Oh, Mr Emrys!" It was the Chicago conservator, bearing down on Merlin, photographs of the French psalter in hand. "I've got the photos. You can see, here, and just here…sorry, didn't mean to interrupt."

She turned her head, acknowledging Bal's presence, and then something seemed to register in her brain.

"Oh," said the Chicago conservator in a bright, chirpy voice. "Why, you two have the same name! Are you related?"

The men exchanged glances. "Yes," said Merlin calmly. "We are. Now, what were you telling me about insect damage to your twelfth-century psalter?"

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

By the time the meetings and presentations were over, and goodbyes were said, it was just past four, and Merlin, glancing at his watch with a touch of anxiety, led a stone-faced Bal through the museum corridors in the direction of the main entrance. He wanted to avoid the professional socializing that inevitably followed any conference or academic symposium, and could sense that his father was even more eager to do the same.

Outside, in the brisk Chicago wind, Arthur was pacing the pavement with a grim expression on his face. When he spotted his conservator, followed by the dark-haired, bearded man of the day before, the look in his eyes became even more grim, but he stepped forward courteously and allowed Merlin to make introductions.

"Mr Pendragon," said Bal Emrys, extending a reluctant hand.

"Mr Emrys," replied Arthur stiffly, taking it with equal reluctance.

This simple gesture seemed to make Merlin happy; he sighed, and both men watched as his shoulders—indeed, his entire body—visibly relaxed. The expression on Bal Emrys' face gave nothing away, and he surveyed Arthur's golden good looks with a lifted eyebrow that could have indicated anything from approval to distrust.

"A pleasure," Arthur murmured, although he sounded anything but pleased. "Shall we get out of this wind, do you think? There's a café down the street…"

Bal nodded, and they headed in the direction of the café as the wind buffeted them mercilessly. Arthur realized, to his somber amusement, that he and Bal were doing their best not to look in each other's direction, whereas Merlin loped cheerfully between them like a greyhound after a good, long run.

Once seated in a smallish but unexpectedly charming space, furnished with small round tables and white-painted chairs, the scent of fresh-brewed coffee swirling blessedly about them, Arthur ordered coffee and sandwiches as they eyed one another carefully. Finding a subject they could discuss without any awkwardness proved…awkward, and for the first quarter of an hour it was only the oddly contented expression on his conservator's face that kept Arthur from writing off the entire meeting as a disaster.

"Perhaps you're acquainted with the Great Dr—that is, John Draca, our Treasurer and Legal Counsel," Arthur said, trying to find a topic of conversation that would not, necessarily, give rise to anger on anybody's part. "He's got several archaeologists and art specialists as clients."

"I do know him, yes," Bal mumbled into his coffee mug. "We worked together on a project, years ago. I was always sorry that he had to deal with—" and then he stopped, gritting his teeth in consternation, and turned a little red. Arthur also reddened, and stared at the table top, whilst Merlin frowned at them both.

"It's good to know," Bal finally went on, successfully skirting his near-mention of Uther, "that Merlin has a good position at the Pendragon Institute. Junior Conservator, is it?"

"He's to be made a Senior Conservator," Arthur said shortly. "The promotion will be official next spring."

He did not mention that he, himself, was facing a promotion, Uther having decided to step down from his long-held position as Senior Director and turn the throne…er, the job over to the older of his two sons. The transition would be hardly difficult, as Arthur—in spite of his title of Assistant Director—had been Acting Director for some time. Yet even now, Arthur suspected that Uther would find it almost impossible to relinquish all control, and ominous visions of prime directives and imperious emails and faxes, all from the retired Director, were dancing in his head. Morgana had once joked, rather sourly, that years in the future, when Uther had passed on, he would doubtless return as a ghost to make certain that business in the Pendragon Institute was being conducted in the manner he considered good.

"Careful, boy," Bal Emrys said, interrupting his train of thought. Merlin had virtually upended the little cream pitcher over one of the mugs of coffee, and the overflow was puddling in the center of the table.

"Mer-lin…" Arthur began, and then stopped himself before he could say, "you idiot." It would not do, surely, to be calling his partner and conservator names (however affectionate the inference might be) in front of his father.

Merlin blushed. "Sorry," he mumbled in a low voice, but he did not look particularly sorry, so bright-eyed was he at the sight of Arthur and Bal sitting face to face. "I do that sort of thing all the time," he added in explanation to Bal, shrugging his shoulders in a self-deprecating manner.

"He does, actually," Arthur said, and then hastened to add, "but never in the conservation studios. When he's working there, he's incredibly meticulous. His work is truly amazing. You've heard, perhaps, that other people in the field call him magical?"

"Magic Merlin," muttered his young conservator, pulling a wry face. "It makes me sound like a male stripper."

With an effort, Arthur prevented himself from laughing. "Gaius thinks it's an excellent idea, his promotion, that is, and my…my father approves."

"Really," said Bal Emrys in a noncommittal voice, although his eyebrows, drawn together, suggested that he didn't believe this for a minute.

"So he's informed me," Arthur said coolly. "And regardless of whether he approves or not, my decision stands. Your cup's almost empty, sir. Shall we order another round?"

"No, thank you," replied Bal, but he smiled as he spoke, and looked Arthur in the eyes, directly, for the first time. "I'm afraid I must be going. My flight's tomorrow morning. But I'm glad to hear that you hold Merlin's work in high regard. I'm glad to know that…well…that he has somebody to back him up. I know how difficult the museum world can be. I plan to be in New York next year, in the spring, Mr Pendragon. I hope you won't mind if I ring you…if I stop in at the Institute for a visit."

"Excellent idea," Arthur said soberly. "You're always welcome. And I know, um, I know Merlin would be very happy to see you."

Merlin nudged his knee under the table.

"Oh," his Assistant Director said, as he got to his feet. "And it's Arthur. Please."

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

"Hmm," said Arthur, as he and Merlin packed their suitcases in the welcome warmth of the hotel room. "I didn't have to kill him after all."

"Thank God," Merlin retorted, sweeping a pile of haphazardly folded clothing into his bag. "I don't think I have enough money with me to bail you out of prison."

They were spending one more night in the Chicago hotel, and were scheduled to fly back to New York the next morning. It was a busy season; Arthur would be working in London for a week, later in the month, and Merlin—or possibly Lance—would be courier for a suit of armor being loaned to an exhibition at the Los Angeles County Museum. Just now, they were too fatigued to even think about these things, only about which restaurant to go to for dinner, and whether or not they should check in with Morgana, to see how things were going back at the Institute.

"What do you suppose our colleagues are up to?" Arthur said, yawning, as they walked out of the hotel, searching the street beyond for taxis.

"They've had their dinner; they're an hour ahead of us, remember?"

"I can't remember a thing," muttered Arthur. "My brain's mush. It was a grueling meeting with the Director, and all of those other directors. Nobody could seem to agree about anything. The Directors' lunch was even worse. Then I had to gird myself to meet your mysterious dad. Well, it's Friday. They may have all gone out together."

"They went to Hengist's Grill, as usual, and had beefburgers and beer, or Coke, or Sangria," Merlin replied, rubbing his eyes. He was easily as sleepy as his Assistant Director, and felt both emotionally drained and strangely happy. "Morgana ordered everybody about, and Will made sarcastic remarks, and Gaius told him to shut up. And if Gwaine was there, he told everybody more than they ever wanted to know about a wild night he had with some girl whose name he can't remember, a few years ago. And Lance shook his head in despair, and said it wasn't nice to talk like that about a lady, behind her back."

Arthur chuckled. "More than likely. D'you think Gwaine would like to leave the Metropolitan Museum and work for us? On second thoughts, that's a horrible idea; think of all those susceptible high school girls volunteering in our Library. Good God! I've left my wallet in the room! Well, Merlin, as I don't think either of us wants to go and fetch it, we'll have to rely on your credit card this evening. You don't mind, do you? After all, you're getting a salary increase in the spring. Ah—perfect timing."

His arm shot out, waving imperiously, and several empty taxis veered in their direction.

"Come on then, Merlin, I'm starving, and we really should get to bed, er, to sleep early. It's a nine o'clock flight tomorrow." Without waiting for a reply from his conservator, he set off with his brisk, almost military stride, fair hair glowing under the sharp, flinty light of a Chicago early evening.

"Prat," Merlin mumbled under his breath, rolling his eyes as he followed Arthur toward the taxis lined up along the curb.