Author's Note: This is my first attempt at Merlin/Arthur, but I'm pretty proud of what I've hammered out. Britpickers, please note that I've included some British slang but omitted some (especially in regards to swearing). I hope it's not too irksome. Reviews are always appreciated! Sequel is ready to be uploaded!

Here's the thing: Arthur isn't even that drunk when he hits the side of the bank. Certainly, he's been drunker. Much drunker. But apparently somewhere between Ellie giving him a lap dance and him pelting five-pound notes at a topless girl on a bar (Meg? Beatrice? Whose tits are those? Note: check phone for photo evidence later), Arthur has ingested quite a lot of alcohol. So much so that he is three times the legal limit for driving when he turns too sharply and into the side of the brick bank. And then there is the matter of Sophie, who is giving him head while he's driving – or at least trying to.

So when his father bails him out of jail (and Sophie, too, though reluctantly), Arthur is still trying to piece together what had happened. He hasn't been hurt, miraculously, though he has a black eye and a very sore ribcage. But Arthur can't quite remember what he'd done – or why he was driving or where he'd been driving to.

And Jesus, his dick hurts. Sophie had bitten it, he's pretty sure. Christ.

After dropping Sophie off at her parents' house, Arthur and his father drive home in very stilted silence.

"Father," slurs Arthur, trying very hard to be coherent and failing.

"—We'll discuss this when you're more suited to conversation," snaps Uther. Arthur notices the bags under his eyes and fleetingly wonders how his father had reacted when the police had phoned to say his son had been in a car accident while driving drunk.

The thought is washed away as Arthur vomits on his shoes.

Morning slams into Arthur's skull like a freight train. Oh, fuck. Arthur tests moving – his whole head feels as if it's burning in acid, or something.

(Speaking of which: had he dropped acid last night? He can't remember.)

Arthur can smell cooking, and it's enough to warrant a run to the loo to vomit. Extensively.

There's a tap at his door and Morgana enters, holding a hair of the dog.

"Hey," she stage-whispers. "I brought you a little pick-me-up."

Wiping his mouth, Arthur stands to regard his step-sister. His eyes narrow suspiciously. "Why?"

Morgana rolls her eyes. "Because I'm a nice person, you twat."

Arthur sips the tonic carefully, watching Morgana out of the corner of his eye. As he drinks, Morgana fiddles idly with his alarm clock.

"And also, Uther wants to speak with you."

Ah, there it is: the true reason for the hair of the dog.

"Fuck," swears Arthur vehemently. "How angry is he?"

"Never seen him as mental," replies Morgana cheerfully. "He's been muttering about your inheritance all afternoon."

Arthur pales: if his father is threatening to suspend his inheritance, it's really serious.

"Wait," he says suddenly to Morgana, "'All afternoon?'"

Morgana taps the screen of his alarm clock. "It's quarter after three."

So it isn't morning after all. Great. Uther can't stand laziness or a lack of timeliness.

"Which is worse," he asks Morgana fervently, "showing up late because I was washing or showing up mangy and on time?"

Morgana purses her lips in thought. "Both," she decides gleefully. "I say, rip off the plaster and just go. He's in his office."

Fuck. Arthur nods and goes to the sink to slap some water on his face. Squaring his shoulders, Arthur nods to Morgana before descending.

"Here goes nothing."

"See you in the aftermath!" Morgana calls after him.

Cheeky bint.

Uther is sitting in his leather chair behind his desk. Even after all these years, Arthur's father can still impart fear in him. He's like a king on his throne in that chair, thinks Arthur. King Uther. He'd like that. Arthur is careful not to let his lips twitch upward – any false move, and he loses his inheritance.

"Arthur," begins Uther in that voice, the voice that still sends chills down Arthur's back, "after I worked out the events of last night, I wondered if I should even go to bail you out."

Arthur is silent; it's best to say nothing.

"I have decided not to suspend your inheritance," continues Uther, and Arthur lets out the breath he was evidently holding.

"—Father, I can assure you—"

"—I'm not finished," says Uther, and Arthur falls silent immediately, his stomach freefalling. "However, I am disinheriting you for the time being," his father says casually. Arthur's jaw slackens.

"—But—" he says involuntarily. Uther stops him short.

"You are to move out," he continues. "Find a flat of your own. Find a job. You are not to see any of your old friends – including and especially Sophie. I do not want to discuss this any further."

Arthur looks up. His father looks ill, grim.

"You should be able to move out by Friday." He meets Arthur's gaze. "That is all."

Shaking, Arthur throws up in the downstairs loo for good measure.