Three AU Snippets (Merlin)
This is ridiculous. Apparently I'm not just content with the awesomeness of the show as it is, and nor am I simply satisfied by the genius extras and RPF. No, my brain feels that it is also necessary to shove these characters into other worlds instead, and so, as a result, I have three teeny snippets from AUs that I really shouldn't write but totally will, and now you have to be subjected to them too. HAHA!

And so: These are all pre-slash/femmeslash, Arthur/Merlin and Morgana/Gwen, and I'd rate them PG-13. Ish.



I have been watching far too much Sharpe recently, and this is the result: making Arthur an officer in Wellington's army and making Merlin a private. Whose paths are destined to cross, of course. Those are the SD's rules. I do not, of course, own anything to do with Sharpe, he belongs to Bernard Cornwell, ITV, and Sean Bean. I just have a total kink for men running around in uniforms with swords and rifles, and it kind of fits, okay. If you haven't seen Sharpe, then I am sorry, because you're missing out on over 30 hours of awesome television, and a good deal of Sean Bean taking his kit off and putting his sexy, manly accent to good use. This is a picture of Sharpe and Harper, and this shows what their uniforms were like. I am not very good with historical details, and am stealing blatantly from the TV series, so apologies in advance for that.

Words: 2555

Rifles

The clatter of expensive hooves on hard, sandy ground had the men shifting and looking up curiously to see who would be riding out of camp in the early evening.

"Eyes down," Sergeant Eagles muttered, cuffing the backs of the soldiers' heads. "Bloody fop."

Merlin peered up from under dark eyelashes at the fop in question, trotting past regally, resplendent in English red with his golden hair flashing in the cold sun.

"Should he be going off like that?" he asked Eagles. "The French aren't too far from here."

"He's General Pendragon's son. He can do whatever the bloody hell he wants, including get himself killed. One less officer for us to have to bow down to, Emrys."

Merlin looked up at his sergeant, watching as the sharp features contorted into a bitter scowl.

Eagles' head whipped around and he glared at Merlin when he caught his curious gaze. "Clearly you haven't got enough to do, Private. Since you're such a concerned old maid, you can take these shirts to the river and wash them." He flung a pile of stinking laundry at Merlin and bared his teeth expectantly. "Get on with it!"

Merlin obeyed, schooling his face into passive compliance until he was just outside of the camp boundaries, kneeling by the river sorting through the dirty shirts. Only then did he allow himself to long for home, where everything he owned was not covered in dust and he had been able to speak to people without constantly being aware of their rank. He had imagined Spain to be a land of adventure and fascinating history - it possibly was, but all Merlin got to see was endless fields and decimated villages as he marched and camped with the army.

He was three shirts into the pile when he heard the yell, and looked up at the horizon to see five figures on horseback galloping at breakneck speed towards the river.

He recognized the golden flash of hair first, the Pendragon fop from earlier, and then he distinguished the blue uniforms of the French; four of them in pursuit.

He wasn't really thinking as he leapt to his feet and hurriedly loaded his musket, seeing that no one else was around, and waited at the ford for them to come into range. It would take him another thirty seconds to reload after he fired, he thought desperately as the thundering hooves got closer - too much time to do anything but delay the inevitable - but he couldn't just stand and watch.

He fired as soon as the first Frenchman came into range, his aim finding his heart just as the blond Englishman entered the water with a splash.

Merlin was already fumbling for more ammunition when two more shots rang out, this time from the two French soldiers furthest away, and Pendragon's horse let out a scream and fell into the water, his rider toppling with him.

The second attacker was almost at the water by then, and though Pendragon was fighting to his feet, he was slow and the water he was struggling in had turned dark with blood, and Merlin couldn’t be sure if it was all from his fallen mount or whether the man was already doomed. Even if he was uninjured, the oncoming Frenchman would surely strike him down with his sword if Merlin did not make some stand.

He leapt into the water and across the ford, placing himself between the attacker and Pendragon, and as he drew his short sword with trepidation, he hoped that his mother would be informed that he died honourably, without pain.

When the cavalryman slammed into the water, he attempted to wait until the right moment, when he could smell the horse's sweat, then lunged with his sword and ducked all at once, shutting his eyes in blind hope.

His sword never made contact, and he found himself being pulled under the river's surface by a strong arm, a sharp pain burning across his shoulder as he dropped.

"Get behind me," he was instructed when he resurfaced, the blond hauling him roughly to his feet. Pendragon looked distinctly un-foppish now, his hair plastered to his skull and blood smeared across his temple and brow from some wound to his head.

He followed the order obediently, standing back as the Frenchman turned his horse and headed back to them again, sword raised high with a vicious yell.

Pendragon let out a snarl and dived for him, grabbing his attacker's arm as he slashed and pulling him from his horse, then landing a brutal punch to his face then kidneys to incapacitate him.

“Here!” Merlin caught the French musket Pendragon threw to him with ease, and spun automatically to fire on one of the two remaining cavalrymen.

Equipped with the second fallen Frenchman's sword, Pendragon dealt with the fourth man easily, a quick dodge and a slash to the belly.

Merlin breathed heavily, looking at the fallen men in shock, as he realised that he had somehow survived. A hand falling on his shoulder reminded him that the blond had too, and he whirled round to face him, noting the Captain's insignia on his red uniform. "Sir!" he saluted, then winced as his shoulder flared in pain and his vision blurred.

Pendragon's hand fastened on the elbow of his good arm, keeping him upright, and he grinned at him with sharp white teeth as they began to head to shore. "Bloody good shooting, Private!"

Merlin attempted a responding smile, but his teeth were chattering so hard he was sure it came out as a grimace. The chill faded somewhat as they emerged from the water into the Spanish sun, and then he let out a yelp as fingers poked and prodded at his upper back, pain blossoming once more.

"My first wound," he mumbled, in some awe, and then Pendragon was standing in front of him, blood dying his pale hair a sticky red.

"Your first?" he asked incredulously. "Well, you'll live. I've had worse."

Merlin blinked in surprise at that, but he had no time to muse on the fop's apparent battle history as two men approached, one of them in full regalia, general's insignia on his uniform. Merlin stood up straight automatically, for he may not have been attached to this camp for long but he knew that this was the senior Pendragon, their commander at present.

"Sir," the blond said, not quite as respectfully as he should.

"Good God, Arthur, are you all right?" the General asked, reaching out for the wound to Arthur's temple.

"It's just a crease - I'm fine," Arthur said, ducking away. "Thanks to this man's fine shooting."

Merlin was standing ramrod straight, trying not to tremble too much as the other of the two men peeled his shirt off the sticky wound.

The General moved in front of him, looking him over with a cool, appraising glare. "He's a scruffy looking thing, but that's hardly unusual for Nosey’s lot. What's your name, boy?"

"Private Merlin Emrys, sir!"

"How does his wound look, Gaius?"

The older man ceased his prodding and moved to stand beside the General. "A few stitches and he'll heal nicely," he reported, eyes crinkling at Merlin kindly.

"Well then. It seems you saved my son's life, Emrys. In return, I'm going to offer you a position as my son's aide. Once your wound has been treated, you will be assigned to him and serve his needs."

"Father-" Arthur began, but the General cut him off with a decisive wave.

"Gaius, look after him. Arthur, if you're going to insist on continuing your ridiculous attempt to make a name for yourself, you're going to need someone with a good set of eyes at your back. Now, fall in and accompany me to my tent."

Arthur did so, and Merlin watched them go, then nervously looked up at the man apparently named Gaius - he could see no evidence of any rank on his beige coat.

"Major William Gaius," he supplied, spotting Merlin's curious gaze. "I'm an advisor to his Generalship. I'll take you to get your wound seen to."

“You’re a surgeon, too?” Merlin asked, still feeling somewhat dazed, and Gaius took his arm with a chuckle.

“My coat buckles up over a number of duties, young Merlin, but I’m afraid treating the wounded is not one of them. No, I’m taking you to see Mr. Hurt. He’ll see you right.”

Mr. Hurt was a small man with dry skin and nimble fingers, who made light work of sewing Merlin up while Gaius looked on with interest and explained just what Merlin’s new duties would be.

“For the most part, you’ll be making sure Captain Pendragon is comfortable - setting up his tent, turning down his bed, and always having a hot cup of tea ready for him if he needs it. But Arthur is not your usual officer. He’s got it into his daft head that instead of accepting a Colonel’s commission, which General Pendragon was all set to purchase for him, he’d keep the captaincy he earned in India and join up with the Camelot Rifles, and earn his promotions.”

“It doesn’t sound that daft,” Merlin said, straining his neck to look up from his face-down position on the cot.

“An idealist, are you?” Gaius asked with a smile. “You’ll suit Arthur well, then. But watch out for him, Merlin. He’s the type of officer that won’t settle for fitting in - he won’t be happy in the mess. He wants to be out there, fighting, and that’ll mean you’ll be out there too.”

“I’m no coward,” Merlin protested hotly. “I may not have seen combat yet, but I’m a good shot and I’m prepared to die for my country.”

Gaius reached out to pat Merlin’s shoulder. “Just make sure you don’t die for no reason at all,” he said, heading for the door. “If you decide to join him, there’s a new uniform waiting for you with Sergeant Eagles. Put it on, and meet Arthur by the ford tomorrow at dawn. Nobody would think less of you should you choose not to turn up.“

He exited, and Merlin stilled on the cot, resting his chin on his hands as the surgeon began to dress the wound, considering Gaius’ words.

“Will you go with him?” Hurt enquired after a few moments, startling him.

“I - well, I haven’t decided,” he replied, frowning. “I’m not sure - I trained for a clerk, back home. I wasn’t expecting to do much more than that out here.”

“Sometimes, our path is not of our choosing,” Hurt said vaguely. “It chooses us.”

“So, are you saying I should take the opportunity?” Merlin asked, confused.

“I’m not telling you anything. I’m just suggesting that one should not try to avoid one’s destiny. All done.”

He clapped Merlin’s back, and Merlin struggled to a sitting position, pulling his white shirt back on, and eyed the mysterious surgeon warily. “Er, thanks.”

“You’re welcome,” Hurt said benignly. “Keep it dry, and change the dressing every two days for a fortnight.”

Merlin nodded, easing himself onto his feet and testing the shoulder, finding the mobility unaffected, if a little stiff.

“It’ll soon heal up in the mountains,” he thought he heard Hurt mumble behind him, but when he whirled around, the surgeon was busy tidying his instruments, and Merlin took his leave quickly.

Eagles was waiting for him when he returned to their billet, and he chucked a pile of dark green clothing towards him. “I hear you’re turning waiter for that idiot Pendragon. New uniform. Bloody disgrace, if you ask me.”

Merlin waited until Eagles had wandered off to find some other Private to torment before scowling. “I didn’t.”

He picked up the clothing and took it over to his bunk, and laid it out carefully. It was a far cry from the red, white and gold of his current jacket, which hung too large and bulky on him anyway. The green jacket was clearly well-worn, a few worn patches on the elbows and a hole that looked suspiciously bullet-shaped in the back, and the trousers were stained and did not properly match. But the silver buttons gleamed, even in the dim candlelight, and Merlin fingered the black detailing with a slightly shaky hand, lips parted in awe. He could tell already that it would be a perfect fit on his slight frame.

Folding the uniform carefully for the morning, Merlin pulled his threadbare blanket over him, and made up his mind.

---

Arthur’s grin on seeing him only helped convince Merlin that he had made the right choice, as he approached the ford and spotted Arthur waiting, sparkling in matching green. His uniform was clearly brand new, fitted him like a ball of wax, and the detailing was even more ornate.

Merlin clicked his heels and saluted when he reached him, but Arthur seemed not to notice, and instead thrust a rifle into his hands, relieving him of his musket and setting it aside.

“Baker Rifle,” he announced - unnecessarily, for Merlin had seen soldiers carrying these and envied them, and he ran a finger along the smooth wood in reverence. “If you can kill a Frog at 200 yards with a bloody musket, I can’t wait to see what you’ll do with one of these.”

Merlin grinned shyly, and felt himself blush. Looking away, he saw the carcass of Arthur’s mount pulled up at the side of the river, and frowned. “I’m sorry about your horse.”

“Shame, he was a fine beast,” Arthur agreed. “Poor Monty. Still, it probably would have happened eventually anyway, and I prefer fighting from the ground. Where we’re going, he would just have been a drain on resources.”

“Where are we going? Sir,” Merlin asked.

Arthur grinned at him again, and ran his tongue over his sharp teeth in clear anticipation. “We’re going to be going 100 miles behind enemy lines, Merlin. Special mission from my father and Major Gaius - devil that he is.”

“Major Gaius?”

“Well, both of them,” Arthur said casually. “What did Gaius tell you he did?”

“He said that he was an advisor to your father, sir. An engineer.”

Arthur let out a rich laugh. “Gaius is one of my father’s Exploring Officers, Merlin. He’s a bloody spy, and a crafty bugger. But he’ll make sure we don’t get stuck doing mindless duties. We’re going to be doing something useful.” He eyed Merlin carefully, tilting his head. “That uniform suits you.”

“Thank you, sir,” Merlin said, embarrassed. “Er, likewise.”

A throat cleared from behind them, and they turned to see Gaius approaching on his own mount, taking a hit of snuff and wiping at his nose with a handkerchief. He looked at Merlin and bowed his head almost imperceptibly, his eyes a mixture of respect and concern. “Time to go, lads,” he said. “Follow on.”

“Shoulder your rifle, Private,” Arthur instructed, and looked at Merlin with clear, bright blue eyes. “Ready?”

Merlin straightened up and hooked the rifle over his shoulder, forgetting even to wince as it caught his wound, feeling his blood pump faster through his veins as though Arthur’s enthusiasm was catching. “Ready,” he confirmed.

Arthur’s grin grew even wider. “Then let’s go to war.”





Another product of my watching too much TV, this time Silent Witness, which is a show about three Home Office pathologists on the BBC. BRADLEY WATCHES IT TOO, GUYS, HE SAYS SO IN THE DVD COMMENTARY. AS THOUGH I NEEDED AN EXCUSE TO LOVE HIM MORE. Again, blatant thievery.

Words: 732

CSI: Camelot

The wind is furious and loud, and batters the windows of Merlin’s Fiesta, rocking the little car and making it even harder for him to suit up in the cramped space - but he knows that if he attempts to do it outside, his clothes will be soaked within seconds and the suit will likely get away from him.

When he finally does get out, the car door is nearly ripped away from him by a vicious gust, and he breathes in sharply at a sudden icy sluice of rain that hits his face.

He’s parked in a lay-by on the B298 behind two police cars and a BMW, and to get to the crime scene he has to climb up the steep, muddy bank by the road. Fighting to keep the rain out of his eyes and hold onto his bag, when Merlin gets to the top he slips up and teeters on the edge, struggling dizzily to keep his balance.

A hand reaches out and grabs him by the elbow of his free hand, and yanks him forward onto slightly firmer ground.

“Are you the pathologist?” his rescuer asks when he‘s recovered his equilibrium, and Merlin turns to face a man who looks far more handsomely at ease than anyone wearing a blue plastic coverall, hair flattened to his skull, should have any right to look. “You took your bloody time getting here.”

“Er, yeah,” Merlin replies, getting out his ID. “I’m Merlin Emrys. Sorry about that, I’m new, and this isn’t a very car-friendly city.” He’s just spent the last forty minutes navigating the confusing one-way streets of Camelot, and it’s practically impossible to read a map whilst driving in the rain at 3.30 in the morning.

“It isn’t a very prostitute-friendly city either, apparently,” the man says, seemingly disinterested in his difficult journey. “Come on.”

He moves towards the tent, clearly expecting Merlin to follow him. “Sorry, but who are you?” Merlin asks as he squelches along beside him, and receives an incredulous look in response.

“I’m Arthur Pendragon, the leading DI on the case,” the man says, as though he can’t quite believe Merlin doesn’t automatically know who he is.

Arthur proves himself to be just the kind of detective Merlin usually hates to work with, hovering beside him as he tries to do his job quickly, efficiently, and impassively. As soon as Merlin has taken the initial liver temperature, Arthur is demanding a time of death, and then waving his hands dangerously close to the gaping wound in the victim’s stomach. “Is that the cause of death?”

Merlin resorts to physical measures and smacks Arthur’s hands away like a mother would a child’s in the kitchen, as his so-far polite requests for him to keep a more substantial distance haven’t had any effect. “I can’t answer any of your questions with any certainty until I have performed the full post-mortem back at the mortuary,” he snaps. “I would estimate that she has been dead for over twelve hours, given the maximal rigor, and from this very cursory examination I would suggest that this wound could have lead to her death from massive blood loss.”

Arthur blinks at him. “Is there anything definite that you can tell me?”

Merlin huffs out a frustrated breath. “The body is that of a young girl, probably no older than eighteen, and from the bruises on her inner thighs I would say that prior to her death she engaged in intercourse. Of course, I can’t say whether it was consensual or not, at the moment, but you did seem to think she was a prostitute.”

“I don’t just think it,” Arthur informs him darkly. “She works on Bell Street - I let her off the hook a month ago.”

Merlin isn’t too sure of what to say to that. He doubts that Arthur is a man who would think too well of useless apologies.

“I’ll do the post-mortem first thing in the morning,” he says after a moment. “I’m assuming you’ll want to attend. To observe.”

Arthur agrees with a smirk, and slides back down the bank with effortless ease as Merlin trips and stumbles through the mud. He slips out of his protective suit and shoots Merlin a wide grin while he is still struggling to escape his own, then calls out as he climbs into - of course - the BMW. “Looking forward to working with you, Merlin!”

Merlin shakes his head in despair.





I felt ridiculously guilty that I wasn't giving the girls anything alternative to do, and then my raging, slightly embarrassing love of Cagney and Lacey reared its head. And so, Morgana and Gwen became female cops in the misogynist eighties, enjoying a faintly lesbian partnership. You know you want more of that. Again, stealing, Barney Rosenzweig owns the original TV show. Which hasn't come out on DVD apart from the first series. *cries*

Words: 425

On The Streets

Morgana slammed into the ladies’ toilets with a vicious yell of frustration, and pounded her fist against the stained, grimy mirror.

“Careful,” Gwen said, following more calmly behind. “Break one of those and it’s seven years bad luck.”

“I couldn’t possibly have any more bad luck than I do already,” Morgana spat. “Stuck in a misogynist hellhole of a cop shop, working with the most arrogant, chauvinistic pigs I’ve ever met in my life - we should be out on the streets solving murders, robberies, the big stuff - not baiting and trapping pathetic middle-aged creeps who can’t get sex unless they pay for it!”

She paced for a few moments longer, her hair flicking out angrily to match her mood, and Gwen waited patiently for her fit of temper to pass.

It did, eventually, or at least it faded enough that she stopped pacing and offered Gwen an apologetic smile. “Sorry. I don’t want to take it out on you.”

“Hey, I’m your partner,” Gwen said, shrugging sweetly. “I can take it. And I agree - I don’t think I can suffer wearing this ridiculous outfit for one more day.”

She gestured at her cheap zebra-print jacket, buckled over an indecently short - in her opinion - sparkly red dress and killer heels, and looked at Morgana, similarly garishly attired but looking much more at ease with it.

“You look - good,” Morgana said, surprising her, and Gwen blushed and looked down at the cracked tiles. “I mean, it’s a change from your usual, you know.”

Gwen did know - Morgana breezed into work every day looking like she’d just walked off the cover of Vogue, all tight jeans and colourful tops that flaunted her figure, while Gwen preferred muted brown and navy, revealing as little skin and curves as possible.

A loud bang at the door made both of them jump, and was followed by a brash yell. “Yo, ladies, I ain’t got all day. Let’s go!”

“Coming,” Gwen called back politely, cutting off whatever Morgana was about to retort with a gentle hand on her arm. “The only way we’re going to get off the prostitute duty is by solving all those dull, boring cases on our desks and proving to those guys out there that we’re just as capable as them. We made plain clothes, Morgana, that’s something all in itself.”

Morgana seethed for a moment, then relaxed a little in Gwen’s grip. “Okay,” she sighed wearily. “You’re right. Let’s show these sons of bitches just what us girls can do.”



Consider this post market research, or simply fishing for compliments - I would love to know what you guys think of them - is there a burning desire to see Arthur and Merlin storm the breach at Badajoz? To see Merlin, the wily pathologist, solve the mystery of Jack the Ripper with his genius? (Not really.) And what about Morgana and Gwen, flying across New York in their Chevrolet Caprice?