A/N: Merlin was produced by Shine Television for the BBC and belongs to Julian Jones, Jake Michie, Julian Murphy and Johnny Capps. Likewise, The Time Traveler's Wife by Audrey Niffenegger is completely her own work. I make no claim to either, and no profit is being made from this endeavour.

Warnings for mild swearing, suggestions of sex and general heartache.

Each meeting occurs at the precise moment for which it was meant. Usually, when it will have the greatest impact on our lives.

Nadia Scrieva

August 21, 2009
Arthur is 23, Merlin is 21

"So everything but the donations to the charity is yours."

It is an anti-climactic end to the meeting and they shake hands. As soon as his hand is freed from the clammy grip of his mother's lawyer (who just happens to be an unsympathetic and soul-sucking bastard), Merlin resolves to make a break for it. He has sat in the meeting with the senior for long enough, and he can no longer bring himself to care about who is getting what and what is going where. He's taking what is his, and he is running, and it seems as long as Aredian gets his hourly fee that he couldn't care less about it all either.

Somehow Merlin manages to ask for directions back down to the reception in between being ushered out of the office and mumbling his own half-hearted comments of appreciation, and Mr. Aredian Dance simply looks at Merlin as if he really is the idiot he had believed him to be from the moment the young man had stumbled into the room. The lawyer points him in the right direction with a cold sneer.

Once Merlin is out of his way, he's all but sprinting down the stairs towards the revolving doors and bolting towards the chilly, typical English weather. It's supposed to be summer, but he hasn't seen the sun in days. Nonetheless he's determined to find a pub (preferably not the one in which Freya works) in which he can sprawl out unceremoniously across the bar or maybe on the benches in the beer garden, where he will consume more than twice his body weight in shots and beer and those god-awful coloured alcopops that give him a headrush. Merlin's not quite sure what will happen afterwards, but he hopes that it will involve crawling back to his flat to curl up and die quietly. He hopes.

So when his plans have to be abandoned the moment somebody decides to grab his arm and keep him from breaking through the fancy doors, Merlin mutters something about Sod's law under his breath and spins around to stink eye the sleeve of an expensive suit.

"Merlin," the stranger breathes.

Merlin slowly pulls his eyes up to a face of a good-looking blonde the arm's attached to, and he only manages a frown before he's drawn into the man's strong arms. His surprised yelp covers whatever uncertain reply he was about to spew out, and he wonders what he has said and done this time to warrant such a reaction.

"I can't believe it. It's you, it's really you," Mr. Expensive Suit murmurs as Merlin clumsily pats the his back. Stupidly, he hopes that it will appease the man long enough to make him let go. It doesn't. Merlin tries to pull away, but he's being held so tightly that it actually becomes slightly flattering instead of completely downright worrying, and it's already weird enough as it is at this point, thank you very much.

Merlin hangs there awkwardly, allowing himself be embraced, and he only really begins to worry when the blonde starts to caress the back of his neck. He whispers, "I love you," again and again and again into Merlin's ear, and then he says, "I've looked everywhere," and Merlin swallows nervously. He wonders how drunk he must have been when he first met this fine piece of ass to have forgotten him so readily, or why his other selves have not warned him.

"I'm really sorry, but—"

He swallows the rest of it when the man holds him out at arm's length and his blue eyes push the words back into his mouth.

Merlin hopes he seems appropriately ridden with guilt as he tries again and says, "Sorry, I'm gonna sound like a right dick, but, um… Sorry." He tells himself he sounds pathetic. "Do I know you?"

The question makes the man drop Merlin like hot coal, but Merlin's focus is not on him—he's busy, anxiously checking their surroundings for people who may be listening in on their conversation. He hopes nobody can hear him being a bastard to this devastatingly beautiful angel who has all but dropped to his feet and begun a ritual of worship.

The blonde looks sheepish. He's stolen the expression Merlin should be wearing. "I'm Arthur," he says with practiced carefulness, and then when Merlin opens his mouth, "No, no, it's okay. I know you don't know me."

"Arthur," Merlin ventures slowly as he warily steers them both to the side of the large reception room. Arthur, however, seems all too willing to be manhandled as he is dragged away from the view of a curious woman of the front desk, and a few clients who are waiting to be chaperoned into their meetings.

"Arthur," Merlin says again in the same careful tone once he has them out of earshot. "I'm sorry. How did we...?"

Merlin thinks that the other man suddenly looks as if he's at a complete loss and like he is almost going to be sick, but Arthur quickly straightens himself and says around his disappointment, "I've known you since I was a kid," as if that settles it all.

"Ah, right," Merlin says as if it very well does. It doesn't. This man clearly knows him—very well, at that—but as far as Merlin can remember, he's never clapped eyes on him in his life. Maybe he hasn't, he thinks. Maybe this is something to look forward to. Or maybe he really was very drunk.

Merlin runs a hand through his unruly hair and closes his eyes for a brief second. He owes this guy something. Anything. "Do you want to go and get a coffee, or something?"

Arthur nods a little too quickly and seems to think nothing of it as he laces his fingers through Merlin's and pulls him out of the building, across the busy London street, to the left, and then into a large, conveniently located Starbucks amongst London's corporate hangouts. He is a bag of nerves as he orders both of them cappuccinos and sticks his card into the terminal, before he escorts Merlin to a table at the very back of the coffeehouse. It's all quite very endearing, because Merlin figures Arthur for someone who usually has every detail of his life figured out and under control.

They sit in silence, during which Arthur fidgets nervously and pulls at the sleeves of his suit as if he is suddenly embarrassed, but his eyes never leave Merlin's face, while Merlin is having trouble understanding why he doesn't feel as uncomfortable with this situation as he should be. He is looking very much at home as he clutches his coffee cup with both hands to his chest for warmth, before he remembers with sudden clarity that only moments ago he was intent on getting hammered.

A coffee would have to do, for now.

"Arthur," he starts all over again, if only to put the other at ease. He can't think of anything else to say.

"How do I know you?" Arthur asks for him. He smiles and relaxes into his seat, but only slightly. Then he nods to himself, just as Merlin nods in response. "I was seven. You were... actually, I don't know, but you were a little older than you are now."

"Right. So you know about... me. You know—I mean, who... You know what I am and everything?"

"Yeah, I've always known," Arthur says. He sounds relieved. This is something he knows, something that he is comfortable with but has been keeping secret for a very long time, and now finally he can talk about it. He seems as if can scarcely believe it, let alone that Merlin is in front of him. "Everybody tried to convince me that you were imaginary, what with you being called Merlin, and me Arthur, you know? Although I'm pretty sure Morgana saw you when I was ten, though she never said anything... Anyway, I couldn't be convinced that you weren't real any longer, so they all gave up in the end."

"And Morgana is...?"

"My sister. She's a bitch, but you can't pick your family, right?"

Merlin dips his head, allowing the point, though he doesn't miss how there is a softness to Arthur's tone as if he doesn't mean anything horrible he says about his sister. He sets his paper cup onto the table as he considers this. He still hasn't touched a drop, and neither has Arthur.

"How old are you?" Arthur asks. "Are you travelling? Where are you coming from?"

"I'm 21," Merlin says with a small, amused smile. "I'm not travelling. I'm from present day London."

Arthur doesn't laugh like Merlin wants him to. For the first time, Arthur has truly been rendered speechless and he gapes at Merlin, his eyes wide and his mouth open.

Merlin clears his throat, trying to snap Arthur out of it. He won't try to be funny again. "How old are you?" he asks, as if only to be polite.

"I'm..." Arthur's hands suddenly come down onto the table and he's leaning forwards. "Christ, Merlin, are you really 21? You serious? You're not travelling?" he demands incredulously, but it isn't aggressive and Merlin finds himself still smiling in spite of it all.

"Is it a problem?"

"What? No! But, Jesus, really?"

Merlin can't figure out what Arthur thinks is so surprising, so he goes for his first guess. "Is this the youngest you've seen me?"

Arthur nods again, watching as Merlin gathers his cup into his hands once more. Merlin wants to keep his fingers busy in fear he'll hold onto Arthur somehow, though he's not sure why he wants to so badly.

"I mean, but—Merlin, you don't look 21."

"You don't look 21, either," Merlin offers lamely. "How old are you?"

"I'm 23."

It's impossible to miss the strange tone to Arthur's voice, so Merlin asks, "How's that turning out for you? Is it weird?"

Arthur gives a noncommittal shrug and leans back in his seat. "You've always been the older one."

"So it is weird then."

Arthur finally displays a grin to match his own, and then Merlin finally takes a long drink. He sighs happily after he swallows and sits further back into his seat, warmed for a moment and wondering what he has honestly (or not so honestly) done in his past life to deserve this man who seems to think he is his personal Jesus.

"Do you live in London?"

"I've got a place in Chelsea," Arthur says carefully, but he seems happy when Merlin doesn't gape about how much money he must have because, clearly, Arthur is filthy rich. "What about you?"

"Battersea, but the crap end."

"Are you telling me," Arthur begins slowly, his body coming forward once more, "that you more or less live across the bloody Thames from me?"

Merlin leans away. "It would, uh... It would seem so?"

"Shit!" Arthur cries, and several heads in the coffeehouse turn, but being famously British nobody says anything and they merely raise their eyebrows in disapproval. Arthur ignores them, but Merlin slides down in his seat a little as if to avoid their eyes. "That's not fair! You said London, but..."

"I did?"

"You said we would meet in London… That it would happen when it would happen."

"Sounds annoying."

"You were a little infuriating then, yes."

Merlin can't fight another smile. "When did you last see me?"

"Four years ago, give or take. I was just going to start my first year of university. I took a gap year."

Merlin whistles. Four years is a long time when you're still growing up. "Wow. How old was I?"

"You were about 30," Arthur says, and he laughs lightly when Merlin pulls a disgruntled face. "You never said. You just told me that it would be a while until we saw one another again, that it would be when we were both in the present, together. You know, not travelling. I didn't believe it. I couldn't believe it when I saw you… I mean, you warned me what to do, what to say, how to handle it, but I've failed spectacularly at that… Although, I must say, you are taking it better than you said you would. I think you were convinced that it wouldn't happen the same way twice, but of course, it would, wouldn't it?" Arthur remembers to breathe. "I've been waiting for this day for... God. You told me to take it easy on you. Am I taking it easy on you?"

It takes a second for Merlin to catch up. "Apart from the incessant babbling and throwing yourself on me in front of all those rich people, yes, you are."

Arthur turns a light shade of pink. "I'm sorry about that."

"It's okay. Coffee's turned out to be more appealing than what I was imagining doing to my liver."

"Shit," Arthur exclaims again, though it is quieter and somehow with more feeling this time. Something seems to dawn on him. "Why were you at my father's law firm?"

Merlin nearly spits his cappuccino all over Arthur. "Your father?"

"Yes. Uther Pendragon."

"You're a Pendragon," Merlin breathes, as if it should have been completely obvious. "Of course you are," he says then, as if the world makes sense again although it really doesn't.

"Why were you there?"

Merlin looks uncomfortable for the first time since Arthur found him. He takes a moment to fiddle with his coffee cup again. "My mum died," he says after a long, torturous minute, keeping his eyes averted from the pity that he expects to be shining in Arthur's. "Some bastard, one of the senior lawyers, Aredian... He was her lawyer."

"I know him," Arthur says. He reaches out for one of Merlin's hands and holds it tightly in both of his across the table, eyes soft as he gazes at Merlin, who stares down at their entwined hands. He is absurdly grateful that Arthur hasn't offered an apology or his condolences like every other person. It's oddly refreshing.

"Let me take you out," Arthur says instead. "Later. Tomorrow. Soon. Pizza. Chinese. Anything."

All of this has been so easy and new and completely overwhelming that Merlin can't bring himself to refuse, and they arrange to meet at Clapham Junction the following evening at half past seven, because Arthur says he loves the all-you-can-eat Chinese Buffet Restaurant nearby. They exchange numbers and Arthur seems so beside himself with joy it makes Merlin feel incredible, because the man is simply happy Merlin that has said yes.

"I know you can't promise, but at least promise me you'll try?" Arthur asks. "I'll wait. You know, if something happens."

Something in Arthur's voice tells Merlin that all Arthur probably does is wait, and while he feels pleased, guilt settles heavily in his stomach. "I'd appreciate that," Merlin says. "I'll be there."

Arthur beams.

They stand. Arthur's cappuccino is still untouched and warm and he leaves it behind without a second thought, but Merlin's still clinging to his gratefully as they head for the door. He briefly wonders if he should go back for Arthur's. How welcoming would the public of London be of a man at the Tube station drinking from two cups? He could probably get away with it. He's seen stranger things.

"Tomorrow? You sure?"

Merlin's awkwardly huddling into his coat as he holds his coffee, his train of thought lost as he nods eagerly. "Of course," he says, and Arthur believes him.

"About what you said earlier," Arthur says, jerking his head towards the coffee. He seems worried. "No pubs… okay? It… It sets you off."

Merlin frowns. "It does?"

"Yeah."

"You better tell me about it tomorrow."

Arthur smiles again and Merlin smiles, too, because he's made this guy absurdly happy and it makes him want to fight. He doesn't want to carry on simply surviving anymore. In less than half an hour, a complete stranger has made him want to live and be somebody worth remembering because this stranger, this gorgeous stranger wants to spend time with him.

"Tomorrow," Arthur agrees. He leans forward a little, eyes locked onto Merlin's own, studying him.

Bloody hell, Merlin thinks, and then he stops thinking altogether as Arthur's lips press ever so softly to his own. They linger to the point where Merlin is ready to drop his coffee, but then Arthur is gone, running through busy Westminster, looking completely insane but as if he's just won the lottery. He even punches the air.

Merlin watches him go. He is near tears and he doesn't know why, but he manages to find his way to the tube station without falling.