Merlin’s name never really sat well with him. It felt too overly distinguished, and every time he pictured a Hamish he imagined someone posh and snobby with an upturned nose, the very last image he wanted to associate himself with.
So it is not without irony when he gains his position at Kingsman, surrounded by colleagues he once swore he’d avoid associating with at all cost. However, the title the job comes with offers him a palpable relief, and he is glad to finally be able to shed the emotional cape of Hamish he never asked for.
Merlin. Now there was a name he delighted in inhabiting. Being Merlin felt like slipping into the most comfortable pair of shoes he’d ever had in his life, more him than he’d ever felt before. It felt like he finally belonged somewhere, and was appreciated and respected for exactly who he was. And best of all, being called Merlin sparked a tinge of pride within him because it was a name he knew he’d earned, rather than one that had been simply given to him.
However, older knights that preceded his arrival at Kingsman didn’t let him forget Hamish. And the first time one of them had the audacity to use it to get his attention after he’d officially been installed as Merlin ended up facing a glare full of cold fury fueled by all the memories that had suddenly been dredged up of a desperate lack of feeling like he belonged anywhere.
Merlin’s correction, measured, but sharp as a knife’s edge, barely masks his rage and shame.
Merlin. It’s Merlin, and nothing else.
From that day forward, the term Hamish vanished from the Knights’ vocabulary.
That is, until a certain Harry Hart gradually installed himself as a permanent fixture in Merlin’s office. After getting over the initial intrusiveness of having an actual human being in a space he once shared with nothing but electronics and manila files, he finds himself speaking absentmindedly to the air about his day and life in general just to dispel the awkward silence as he tinkered with gadgets and busied himself with paperwork. Harry simply sat in a tatty armchair in the corner, nose buried in his novel of choice, murmuring little noises of acknowledgement and slipping in a question or two now and again.
It’s grown into such a comforting routine that by the time the question of his name came up, the word Hamish spills from his lips before Merlin has a chance to stop himself. He freezes, and a brief moment of silence passes before he adds “but I don’t like it much” in what he hopes is a nonchalant tone.
“Merlin does suit you well. But Hamish is a lovely name all the same.”
Strange, it doesn’t sound that bad when Harry says it.
If he was being honest to himself, it even sounded a bit endearing, hearing Harry speak his old name. It didn’t really feel like he needed to be Merlin around Harry. Harry actually cared about who he was, underneath all of the Merlin he projected. And that thought was unexpectedly reassuring, like a warm blanket had been draped around him.
Very hesitantly, Merlin ventures, “But you could call me Hamish…if you like.”
He doesn’t turn around, but he can hear Harry’s soft chuckle from across the room before the man speaks.
“I think I’ll stick with Merlin while we’re on Kingsman property. But if I ever spot you out and about, or say the pub this Friday evening at a quarter past nine, I can’t say I’ll turn down the opportunity to use it.”
At this point, Merlin found that a smile had plastered itself across his face.
“Aye, make that a quarter to nine.”
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