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“Good god,” said Arthur, when the coughing fit had finally subsided. “I ought to be taken out back and shot.”
Merlin muttered something into his blankets.
“What’s that?”
“I said, you can’t say that,” mumbled Merlin. “It’s not invented yet. Anachronisms.”
Arthur considered this. “Bollocks,” he said. Merlin shifted unhappily in his bed, pushing the covers down and pulling them back up again just as quick, his body seizing up in a way that meant Arthur’s precious ears were likely to be treated to another onslaught any moment now. He pushed on with annoying Arthur regardless.
“Anyway, if anyone deserves to be put out of their misery, it’s me,” said Merlin, looking extremely pathetic, and Arthur nudged him with the feet he had propped up on the bed.
“Nonsense. You’re delirious, you can’t imagine the strain this is having on an intelligent brain."
“Maybe if there was one in the room,” muttered Merlin, and collapsed further into the pillows. Arthur tutted.
“There, there,” he said, magnanimously. “Chin up.”
Merlin let out another long, gurgling breath. Arthur scrunched up his nose.
“S’not,” started Merlin, blinking hard and pawing aimlessly at the covers with one sweaty hand. “S’not, er— it’s not— dying—”
“Of course you’re not dying,” said Arthur. “It’s a cold, Merlin. You’re fine.”
“Should call it a hot,” mumbled Merlin, “‘cause it’s hot.”
He started coughing again; Arthur dutifully leaned over and picked up the bucket, holding it close to the bed, and Merlin’s body writhed and contorted and finally expelled a great big glob of green smack bang in the centre of it, right on top of one of the cloths he’d been using as a hanky. It was disgusting. Arthur put the bucket down without comment.
“Thanks,” said Merlin.
“No problem,” said Arthur.
Merlin sank back into his pillows, turning onto one side and shivering. Arthur was a bit miffed about it, really; Merlin only had the one pillow, which meant the difference had been made up with Arthur’s own, because it was important to keep the body elevated when one was sick. Now they’d be all sweaty and horrible forever, and Arthur was going to have to get new ones. He was sure that top one had cost almost ten pounds.
“Feeling any better?” he tried, attempting to make his voice sound cheerful. He had a sneaking suspicion that his bedside manner left something to be desired— Gwen had spent the morning muttering sweet nothings whilst mopping Merlin’s brow, and Gaius was, as expected, a kindly and reassuring presence whenever he poked his head into the bedroom. Arthur wasn’t sure what he brought to the table, expect perhaps the promise of annoying Merlin to death before the cold finally got to him.
Merlin grunted. He’d tucked his hands up under his chin and his pale fingers looked odd next to his pink cheeks, an unappealing shine spread over his brow. The wet cloth at the bedside looked like it was itching to go another round, but it wasn’t like Arthur was going to do that. He had limits.
Merlin snorted, coughed again, and let out the most pathetic little whining noise Arthur had ever heard.
“My god, Merlin,” he said, getting up from the chair and pushing Merlin’s knees down to make room for himself on the bed. It sank appallingly low under his weight when he sat, and Arthur had to wiggle a bit to get comfortable. “Don’t ever get injured in battle, will you?”
“Wasn’t planning on it,” said Merlin, and Arthur picked up the cloth and arranged it on Merlin’s forehead, pushing the hair back from his face. He drew the line at saying anything nice about it, but he wasn’t a monster. “My head hurts.”
“Yes, well. It can’t be helped, I’m afraid.”
“Never been this sick,” said Merlin miserably. “Not ever.”
Arthur patted him on the shoulder. “There’s a first time for everything. The last time I was sick, it was for three weeks and it was foul. I had a fever, couldn’t keep anything down, not even broth, and my chest hurt so much you’d’ve thought I’d gone a round with a boar. I swear I thought I’d break a rib from the coughing—”
A note of pride had accidentally crept into his voice, and Merlin peered up at him out of one glassy eye, ruining Arthur’s reminiscence. It was like a broken bone, or a particularly nasty infection— one took a bit of pleasure in recounting the grisly bits, even if all one had actually done was lie in bed and moan.
“Are you seriously one-upping me at being sick?” asked Merlin, and Arthur schooled his expression into something more princely, bringing his hands back into his lap.
“Of course not. I’m just saying, I’ve had worse.”
“That’s a comfort,” said Merlin, and closed his eyes again. “Maybe I’ll be sick for four weeks.”
Arthur tucked a smile into his collar. “I can only hope. Mind, if it’s a choice between your terrible service and the coughing, I know which I’ll go for.”
“That bad, is it?”
“You can hear it.”
“Yeah,” agreed Merlin. “Feel it, too.”
Arthur put a hand on his side in what he hoped was a comforting sort of gesture, and also possibly not able to be felt beneath the blankets. “You’ll be alright,” he said again. “It’s just a flu.”
“I know. ‘M not an idiot.”
“Could’ve fooled me,” said Arthur. He stayed there a minute, listening to Merlin’s rattly breaths, and thought how unfortunate it was that he couldn’t slay the trouble with a sword.
“You don’t have to stay,” said Merlin finally, after a probably too-long period of just inhales and exhales. “I’m not— you don’t have to nurse me.”
“Don’t be stupid,” said Arthur. “It’s not nursing, it’s— something else. Something manly and impressive.”
“Sure,” said Merlin, with one corner of his mouth ticking up. It made Arthur think of being a child, and pretending to be asleep when his father or a nursemaid came into the room. He didn't appreciate the comparison. “Okay. I’m going to sleep now, though, if that’s okay. Manly-ly. So.”
He patted clumsily at Arthur’s hand and turned his face into the pillows. It dislodged the cloth a bit, so Arthur set it to rights upon Merlin’s forehead, his fingertips brushing against the hot skin.
“Get some sleep,” he said softly, and Merlin huffed. The fever had unfortunately not yet wiped out his sarcasm, nor taught him any manners.
“’S what I just said.”
“Well get on with it, then,” complained Arthur, and adjusted the blanket. “Honestly, Merlin.”
“Idiot,” said Merlin.
“Yep. Now, feel better, alright? I’ll come back tomorrow and see if we can thrash it out of you with a training session.”
“Oh, goody,” muttered Merlin, but he was smiling. He turned his face further into the pillow. “Night, Arthur.”
“Goodnight,” said Arthur, and stood up from the bed with one final tweak of the cloth. He fixed the folds he’d made in the covers and poured a new cup of water from the pitcher, and then dawdled on his feet a moment, looking at Merlin’s sickly form. On the one hand, it was only a cold, but on the other, if anyone was going to die from one, it probably would be Merlin. He sighed.
“Arthur?” said Merlin blearily, when there was the distinct lack of those sounds that might have indicated leaving. “You alright?”
“Shut up, Merlin,” said Arthur from the chair. “And don’t cough any more, I mean it.”
Merlin yawned. “I’ll try,” he said, but of course he did, and Arthur stayed anyway. He figured it could be his noble deed for the week. Maybe the month.
And if he stayed the following day too, then, well. Then he was just being proactive.