stillane | So... Merlin.

Having been lured in by promises of unadulterated fun and incredible slashiness, my guilty pleasure of the week has been to catch up with pretty, anachronistic, ~~(British? Can we say they're British? Albionan? *ponders*)~~ legendary boys gallivanting about a mythical countryside.

All in all, I have reached two conclusions:

1. My god, they really are that slashtastic. *marvels gleefully*

and

2. I can no longer trust programming originating from across the Atlantic.

See, here's the thing: I fear Torchwood has permanently addled me. I can't tell anymore what's intentionally really, really gay, and what is only made so by the wearing of rather strong goggles. At one time my default setting would have been, Nope. Totally in my head, but these days... You never know when there might be a left turn at Albuquerque involving sudden boykissing. Unexpected canon slash is unexpected, is what I'm saying.

There are certain American shows (or, well, theoretically American shows which are often populated with Canadians, to be honest) which you will never convince me are produced without one or several someones involved aiming straight (hee) for the slash audience. Highlander, for instance; there is no possible way Peter Wingfield and Adrian Paul did not know exactly what they were doing. For those not yet exposed, I dare you to watch the infamous Battle at Carside and its outtakes and provide an alternate reading. I'll wait.

Other examples include:

House... well. It's House. 'Nough said.

The Sentinel. Um, see above re: House.

The Persuaders, which cannot all be chalked up to "it was a different time" syndrome. Tony Curtis goes for absolute broke, frankly, and Roger Moore skips gleefully along with him. I can't even describe this one, if you haven't seen it. It's technicolor gay gallivanting, people. Whee.

I have my suspicions about Joe Flanigan, too, honestly. Not that I'm going to get all scary tinhat about it, but I'm not entirely sure that he didn't turn around somewhere circa late season three and think, You know what? Why the hell not. This'll be fun, and proceed to play John Sheppard as being head over heals for a cranky, male astrophysicist. He just comes across as that sort of guy.

For the most part, though, I've always figured slash was what happened in our heads, and with few exceptions would stay there. And then came Captain Jack "Anything that walks, and I'll make exceptions for sentient crawlers" Harkness, and my certainty got pwned. And then there were German soap boys. Now, anything not explicitly stamped with the mark of U.S. syndicated assurance gives me pause.

So, I'm watching Merlin, and I can't begin to decide what they mean to do and what they don't. I mean, on the one hand, I gather it's intended to be an early evening, family-friendly sort of deal, and so not so much with the swift departure into homosexual adventures ahoy. On the other... seriously, the eyefucking. It's monumental. Then there's the dressing/undressing - which is twice put forth as an explicitly romantic deal, btw - in which Merlin gets a hell of a lot handsy-er with Arthur than Morgana does. They even meet cute, by my standards - although I'm not entirely sure what it means that my standards for this include insulting banter and attempting to thwap one another with sharp implements - and continue to keep each other on their toes. Four episodes in and Arthur's already going to the ends of the Earth to save Merlin, while the latter's whispering Arthur's name on his deathbed. They are soul bonded, folks.

I would worry that my unrealistic expectations of eminent snogging would be horribly disappointed, but I'm having too much fun. So long as they continue to be an exact inverse of the Smallville approach to destiny, I will be thoroughly hooked.

Now there just needs to be more fic, preferably of the epic-love-and-daring-do variety. Yes. *waits*