Title: Personal Assistance
Pairing/s: Merlin/Arthur, background Morgana/Gwen
Character/s: Merlin, Arthur, Morgana, Gwen
Summary: Arthur is the UK's youngest PM in decades; Merlin is his delectable PA. We all know how this goes.
Word Count: 1080w.
Prompt: 318 Naughty.
Author's Notes: This is purely crack-fic and in no way intended to represent anything that might (or might not) actually occur in the PM's private offices. At all.
Merlin’s smile was the first genuine thing Arthur had seen in weeks, so perhaps it was only natural that it was also the first to catch his eye when he stepped into Number 10.
“Who’s that?” he asked his sister, gesturing discreetly to the unfamiliar PA on the other side of the room. The young man was in earnest conversation with Gaius, Arthur’s media advisor, his dark hair rumpled and his red skinny tie askew.
“Him? Oh, that’s Merlin,” Morgana said dismissively. “He’s Gaius’ nephew or something.” Her eyes narrowed, and she pointed the tip of her Mont Blanc fountain pen at him. “Don’t even think about co-opting him,” she said. “He’s sweet. I don’t want you to scare him off like you did the last one; Gaius would never forgive you.”
Arthur made a face at her as she turned away, before remembering that he was now the duly elected leader of men (and other genders, as Morgana would no doubt remind him), and should probably act like it. With his luck, there would be a photo of his expression in The Sun tomorrow morning, with the caption, Too Young for Politics? beneath it in 32-point font. He could already imagine his father’s reaction.
In fairness, being the actual Prime Minister of an actual country wasn’t all bad. Arthur had a nice, large office with a desk made of genuine oak—probably one of those thousand-year-old trees the environmentalists were always banging on about—and his own chauffeur service and company car, complete with security detail. He also had possibly the worst new Personal Assistant in the entirety of the United Kingdom. Or perhaps the whole of Europe.
“Merlin,” Arthur said, for what might have been the fiftieth time. “You do realise that hitting ‘reply all’ whenever you answer an email causes it to be sent to the entire office?”
“Sorry,” Merlin said, wincing. “It’s just—having you looming over my should like that makes me nervous, so I keep hitting the wrong button by mistake.”
“I do not loom,” Arthur said, before back-tracking. “Wait. I make you nervous?”
“Well, yes?” Merlin rubbed sheepishly at the back of his neck. “I only took this job to do my uncle a favour; I never expected to end up working for the bloody Prime Minister.”
Oh. Right. That.
“You won’t be working for him for much longer if you keep forwarding his personal correspondence to the Queen,” Arthur said, rather more snappishly than was strictly necessary. “Kindly pay more attention in future.”
“Yes, sire,” Merlin said.
The thing was, Merlin was a terrible assistant. He lost important folders and rediscovered old ones. He had a tendency to be late whenever Arthur needed him and he dressed like someone’s hipster younger brother who was still under the impression that corduroy was cool. He couldn’t follow instructions worth a damn and yet somehow he always managed to pull through in a pinch.
Arthur was head over heels in love with him.
“So you want to bend your assistant over a desk and do naughty things to him,” Morgana said, imperturbably, when Arthur went to her with this particular moral dilemma. In retrospect, he ought to have known better. “Who doesn’t? I’m afraid I fail to see the problem.”
Gwen, who had the misfortune of being Morgana’s Personal Assistant—as a member of the Loyal Opposition, she had her own staff—choked and dropped a pile of papers, and Morgana smiled at her serenely.
“He’s my employee,” Arthur said, exasperated. He bent down to help Gwen collect her files, and she thanked him, her cheeks turning a lovely shade of red. “I’m the bloody Prime Minister, for Christ’s sake. It’s not the done thing.”
“So, sack him,” Morgana said. Her eyes were on Gwen, and Arthur rather suspected she wasn’t listening. “You’re always complaining about his work. It’s insufferable. I’m sure you could manufacture some kind of excuse.”
“I thought you said Gaius would never forgive me.”
“I said Gaius would never forgive you if you made Merlin quit,” Morgana corrected him, smirking. “But I’m sure he’d make an exception if it meant you were getting laid.”
Arthur didn’t really want to fire Merlin. Once you looked past the lukewarm cups of tea and the frankly ridiculous filing system, he was actually useful in the most unexpected ways. Sometimes the only thing that could displace the cloud of gloom permeating Arthur’s office after a day full of financial crises and media-related screaming matches was the sight of Merlin’s brilliant, if vaguely gormless, smile. And Merlin was always smiling—until one day, he wasn’t.
“Arthur, can I talk to you?” he asked, catching Arthur’s arm as he entered the office. He always called Arthur by his first name, which Arthur allowed because it, oddly, made him feel special. “In private, I mean.”
“Of course,” Arthur said, manfully ignoring the way Morgana was making obscene gestures from across the room. “What seems to be the problem?”
“I want to resign,” Merlin blurted, as soon as Arthur had shut the door. His stomach gave an uncomfortable lurch, then immediately proceeded to plummet through the floor. “Er, that is, personal circumstances—really feel that I should—”
“Is everything all right?” Arthur asked, interrupting him. “Are you—” he swallowed, “unhappy here?”
Merlin’s expression softened, and he took a step forward. “No, I’m not unhappy,” he said, looking down. “It’s just—if I don’t resign, then I can’t do this.”
He caught hold of Arthur’s tie and tugged, and, taken by surprise, Arthur went. Merlin’s mouth was soft and certain beneath his, the flick of his tongue between Arthur’s lips enough to make him wobbly-kneed. He supposed that, if his feelings had been a secret at any point, they probably weren’t anymore.
“I’ve been wanting to bend you over that massive desk of yours for weeks,” Merlin murmured, confirming this suspicion. “But I don’t fuck my bosses.”
“And I don’t sleep with employees,” Arthur agreed, feeling breathless. He let Merlin nudge him backward towards the wooden desk, and it was ridiculous that he was getting hard from just a kiss, but he definitely was. “Okay,” he said, his eyes on Merlin’s mouth. “Resignation accepted.”
Merlin’s face lit up—and there was that grin again, so honest and affectionate it made Arthur’s heart flip over. “Excellent,” he said, leaning in to nuzzle at Arthur’s throat. “Now, tell me, Prime Minister—does that door have a lock?”