Tumblr Masterpost: undercover-moffat ~ post/44609387559/hit-the-stage-and-knock-these-curtains-down-merthur

If there's anything Arthur Pendragon hates more than meetings, it's the rain.

As of this moment it's coming down in pounding waves, and he can already feel a headache blooming at the temples - he sighs and rubs them, as if to chase it away with the pressure of his fingers, but to little avail. Thunder booms outside-loud, and incredibly close, practically shaking the windows of his limousine-and he groans.

"Leon," he calls to his chauffeur and is met with impatient eyes in the rear view mirror. "Do me a favor and shield the windows."

"Of course, Mr. Pendragon," Leon says, and Arthur doesn't miss the slight bitterness in his tone, but he let's it go. He's actually quite fond of Leon - unlike all of his (i.e, his father's) other employees, he's not afraid to be a bit rude to Arthur's face, even if it is just a bit. It probably shouldn't, and it's certainly something Leon would get fired over if it was done to Uther, but it makes Arthur respect him just a little.

Leon does as Arthur asks, flipping some switch or another (Arthur really doesn't have the time to learn how it all works; that's what Leon is for, after all) and the slides on the windows close down, darkening the interior. Arthur breathes another sigh and leans back against his seat, closing his eyes.

He can still hear the pounding of the rain against the roof and another crack of thunder, but it's better than it was before, and his oncoming headache slows down. It's still coming, he knows, but at least it's not as quickly. He's just glad that said headache decided to make an appearance after his meeting and not before. He would've have been able to sit through the droning of the deals and shared profits and stock market points by his father and all the other business executives who loathe the Pendragon name (out of envy, mostly). He could care less about any of it, and the only reason he's even dragged to the dreadful things is because one day he's supposed to inherit the company.

The thing about Camelot is it's everywhere. Really, there's no where you can go without seeing it. Arthur's not even sure where it originated - there is no grand back story of his father building it from the ground up. No, the Pendragon line's been rich and posh for just about as long as the name's existed (according to Uther, Arthur's father, it was even the name of royalty at one point). Just that it owns at least three of every minor business there is (at least, minor compared to them), all across the globe. As far as Arthur knows, the only thing it even manufactures is technology, so how it ended up owning fast food joints and book stores and other such places is beyond him.

The company itself is worth billions of dollars, and of course Uther wouldn't just pass it on to anybody, so Arthur's been in-training to inherit it since the day he was born. There isn't a time where he isn't crunching numbers for practice or running miniature "businesses" of his own (he had a whole chain of lemonade stands when he was four, but that's besides the point).

If Arthur can be honest, he'd give anything not to have that weight on his shoulders.

He's thinking about all of this, and how there's so much to be expected of him, the perfect son, and the headache only increases in strength. He heaves another sigh - he never runs out of them apparently - and at the moment, there's nothing he wants more than a drink. Uther's supposed to be wrapped up in the office for the remainder of the day, and quite possibly the night, anyhow, and Arthur contemplates telling Leon to change directions. It's not like Leon would rat him out - he makes more of a point to avoid Uther than Arthur himself does.

"Leon," he calls back up on a whim, and the strain in Leon's voice is clearer than every when he replies to Arthur.

"Yes, sir?"

"Do you know any good pubs around here?" Arthur asks, pulling the shade on the nearest window up with one finger. Leon knows better than to take the long route through London back to the Pendragon estate, and makes a point of cutting through every shortcut he can find, even if it's through the, er, lesser parts of the city. The one Arthur peers out at isn't posh in any way, but it seems a lot more friendly than some of the other places Leon's driven him through, the reckless bastard.

Leon's quiet for a moment, no doubt thinking of a way to hide a witty comeback in seemingly normal words, but eventually he simply says, "Avalon's not the worst, sir. Only ten minutes from here." He pauses. "It's not the finest establishment, sir, but one could say it's classy."

"I don't care about classy," Arthur hums. "Take me there then, and I'm counting." He taps his watch for affect, and Leon nods sharply, setting his jaw.

"Of course, Mr. Pendragon."

Leon gets Arthur to the so-called pub (from the outside, it doesn't look anything like - if anything, a cafe of sorts) in exactly nine minutes and forty seven seconds, and when he pulls to the side, and parks, he turns around with the slightest of grins on his face, waiting for a command.

Arthur takes a moment to scrutinize the outside of the building, raising an impressed eyebrow at it's state. It's low to the ground, and surrounded by nothing but pavement, a little ways from the road, with a sign that says "Avalon" in fancy, cursive script.

"It's new, sir, just opened a few weeks ago," Leon says, following Arthur's gaze. "Though, it's not really -" he breaks off, eying Arthur. "For your crowd." There's a glint in his eyes when he says 'your crowd' and the phrase is Leon at his bravest. Arthur turns his stare to him, but Leon doesn't even flinch - Arthur is reminded yet again of his respect for him. (Because if it wasn't for that, Leon would've been fired ages ago.)

"Yes, thank you, Leon," Arthur says with just the right amount of sarcasm, adjusting his suit around himself and pocketing his phone. "Don't wait up," he tells Leon, but then pauses with his hand on the handle of the door. "But if I call and there's not a ride here in no more than fifteen minutes, don't expect your paycheck to be as much as it was last month."

Leon smirks a little at that and Arthur gives a mock salute. He pushes the door open just a crack at first, peering out to see if it's still raining and smiles a little in victory when he's noticed that it's stopped. In one fluid movement, he climbs out of the car, shutting the door behind him. (Arthur never lets Leon open the door for him, even if Leon ever offered in the first place - it's more out of defiance of his father than anything else. He's been told several times that that's exactly what "people" (people meaning nothing more than servants) are for, but he stands by letting himself out. He's not a child, he's quite capable of opening a door.)

Leon wastes no time in gunning the engine and leaving Arthur in his wake, and Arthur rolls his eyes. It's not quite evening, but even through the clouds, Arthur can tell that it's about that time where people start going out - it is a Friday, after all - and handfuls of citizens make their way to the entrance of the pub. A few stop and stare or point or break out their camera phones at Arthur - he is an easily recognizable figure, after all - not that he particularly minds. He almost laughs at the idea of the paparazzi showing up and his father to grill him for appearing in such a neighborhood. It's an amusing vision, to say the least.

Arthur does a lot in defiance of Uther. Really, he's twenty-one, and Uther's getting no younger - it's only a matter of time before Arthur takes over as CEO of Camelot and all of the (albeit, little) freedom he has left is snatched right out of his hands.

Besides, Arthur doesn't particularly like waiting for a drink, and certainly not when he needs one as badly as he does. And he knows that if he were to go home and take a drink, he'd probably just end up staring miserably out the window like some sort of over-emotional teenager or, even worse, some middle-aged alcoholic, and really, nobody needs to see that, especially not the maids and butlers that are awake at every hour in the house. More so, his acting on a whim of asking Leon where he ought to go is just a surefire way of avoiding both the a fore mentioned self-pitying-at-home fest, and a self-pitying-while-surrounded-by-people-that-dont-care-about-him-and-he-doesn't-care-about-either fest.

Arthur doesn't particularly enjoy the company of any of his friends, and he's certain they don't like him at all either. If they aren't in it for the money, then it's certainly more to keep up pretenses - there's certainly those who's own father is no worse than Uther Pendragon.

He doesn't exactly feel like dealing with any of that now, and if he were to show up here there's no doubt there'll be more than few people clinging on his arm.

Maybe if he's lucky, he can find a good shag as well.

Arthur's just about to step towards the entrance, when a body comes crashing into from somewhere off to his left and he's thrown to the ground in a flurry of bony limbs and curses.

"Watch it, you clumsy fool!" he snaps out more out of an automatic response than anything else, as he scrambles back to his feet, brushing gravel of his suit (Westwood, thank you very much.)

"Terribly sorry," comes the reply, a voice deeper than he expected considering the elbow that had jabbed into him felt thin. The voice is more strained than Leon's is (and that's saying a lot), and Arthur glances up.

The face staring back at him is wide-eyed and shocked at first, but it quickly registers Arthur's face - and recognizes, apparently - and promptly drops off whatever mask of apology it was wearing. The eyes that narrow at him are a bright mix of blue and maybe a hint of green, paired with ridiculously high, prominent cheekbones, and a smirk on downright kissable lips (not that Arthur notices - okay, he does, but really, one can't blame him, his description is rather accurate). "Oh," the stranger says, and it's then that Arthur notices he's clutching a guitar case to his chest. "Didn't mean to damage your Westwood, mate."

There's more sarcasm in there than Arthur's ever heard and he frowns at first in confusion. He can't lie and say that he hasn't been meant with bitterness and dislike, but never so quickly - to be honest, he's usually met with fawning, if not terrified politeness, at first (and then the bitterness, which is usually done when he's turned away), and he can't even begin to fathom why this stranger seems to harbor so much of both for him. Then there's the fact that he recognized Arthur's suit as Westwood, and that certainly says something.

Arthur retaliates in his usual way, and that's with sarcasm right back. "Quite alright, sir," he nods at the stranger's guitar case. "I do hope your instrument is quite alright. I could pay for it, if it's damaged in any way. Actually, I could just buy you a better one, I really doubt that one's of much quality."

The stranger cackles with laughter, and it's the last thing Arthur expected, so he blinks a bit in surprise. "Oh, you're exactly as I pictured," he snorts, and Arthur raises an eyebrow.

"Really, and how's that?"

The smirk he's wearing broadens. "An ass."

Arthur can feel his cheeks flush in irrational anger, but before he can make some sort of remark, the stranger let's loose another bark of of laughter and then walks away, slinging the strap of his guitar case over his shoulder. Arthur stares furiously after him for a moment, still trying to make sense of the brief exchange, and huffs. Who did the man think he was, anyhow? Arthur's - well, he's Arthur Pendragon, and he could probably buy the man, for all that he was worth.

Arthur's glad more than ever that he's standing in front of a pub, because if he didn't need that drink before, he certainly does now. He brushes more dirt of his suit, grumbling some more about it, before noticing a piece of paper on the ground. It's face up, and features the pub's same script across the top. Arthur frowns and picks it up, more out of curiosity than anything else, and quickly scans it, realizing quickly it's an advert. It appears to feature something about performances for some event or another, and there's a list of names and bands.

Arthur looks at the names, and then back over his shoulder, but the stranger is nowhere in sight.

With little thought to it, Arthur crumples the paper up and shoves it in his pocket.

He certainly needs that drink.