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Merlin really is the worst servant imaginable, Arthur thought, not even remotely for the first time. The fact that he was thinking it with more and more affection tempering his irritation as time went by didn’t detract from the fact that the complaint was still a valid one; Merlin really was a terrible servant.
Actually, if anything, Arthur’s growing regard for Merlin only made it all impossibly worse.
If the problem had been a simple lack of skill, that could have been easily remedied. Hell, that much, at least, had been remedied: Merlin, for all of his faults, was a quick learner. He’d learned how to get Arthur into and out of his armor more efficiently than most squires could ever hope to manage, Arthur’s sword was always honed to a razor’s edge and hadn’t been left behind or forgotten since that first tournament in the earliest days of Merlin’s servitude, and these days, Merlin was even cutting fewer corners when he cleaned.
In many ways, he had grown into a perfectly acceptable servant after only a few months of training. In some ways, he was even a superb one, given his habit of anticipating Arthur’s needs without having to be told, and his frankly uncanny skill at keeping Arthur’s food and baths piping hot.
But in other ways…
Merlin curled his fingers, digging his nails into Arthur’s scalp. The pressure he used was hard, just shy of painful. It was incredibly satisfying, incredibly enticing, and far more pleasant than it really ought to have been. It was…
It was all Arthur could do to stifle a moan, honestly.
Oh, yes, in other ways, Merlin was absolutely dreadful, and the worst part was, as far as Arthur could tell, he didn’t even realize it.
The problem was his attitude, and his lack of boundaries. He overstepped on a near-constant basis, treating Arthur in a way that was far less reverent than anything a member of the Royal Family should ever allow. No other servant would dare to take such liberties with a Prince’s person, dancing merrily across the bounds of propriety as if Arthur was nothing more than a village lad— as if he was more of a friend than an employer.
It was absurd!
And… it might have been a little bit Arthur’s fault.
Take his current situation, for instance. He only had himself to blame for it, really. After all, he’d always known Merlin was a bit of a simpleton, and yet he’d been the one to ask Merlin if he was waiting around for an invitation to scrub his back the first time Merlin had drawn him a bath and lingered.
But then again, how was Arthur to know that Merlin would take those words to mean bathing him was part of his job, instead of realizing they had only ever been meant as a bitingly sarcastic hint that he should bloody well leave and give Arthur a bit of privacy?
And how could he have possibly known that being bathed by Merlin would feel so bloody good that he wouldn’t be able to force himself to correct Merlin’s assumption after the fact?
This, Arthur thought, resigned, as Merlin’s hands left his hair and trailed down over his chest, is what comes of taking a peasant as a manservant.
Try as Arthur might, he couldn’t think of a solution to the problem at hand. He couldn’t bring himself to give up Merlin’s touch now, and even if he could have mustered up the strength, it had all gone on so long that it’d be humiliating to bring it up now. His only hope would be for Merlin to realize on his own how inappropriate he was being, and pull away without saying a word, but Arthur didn’t hold out much hope of that: if Merlin hadn’t realized how inappropriate he acted— and sounded; gods above, some of the things he said were utterly beyond the pale and somehow even worse than bathing him was— yet, he probably wasn’t ever going to.
As if to illustrate the point of Arthur’s silent musings, Merlin lost his grip. The washcloth slipped from his hand and landed in the water with a wet plop.
And that is what comes from having an especially clumsy peasant for a manservant, Arthur thought.
“Oops,” Merlin said lightly, already reaching for the dropped cloth. “Don’t worry, sire, I’ll fetch it straightaway. I know how important it is to be thorough in these things; I won’t miss a single inch, I promise.”
Arthur’s face flamed. Honestly, what was wrong with Merlin that he couldn’t hear what that sounded like?
He caught Merlin’s wrist quickly— if somewhat reluctantly— just before his servant’s fingers reached a spot they certainly hadn’t been before in their quest to reclaim the cloth between his thighs.
“That will be all, Merlin. I can finish up the rest.”
Merlin blinked wide, guileless, ignorant eyes— the idiot— and said, “Are you sure, sire? I’d be more than happy to lend a… helping hand” in a low, sleepy sort of voice.
Which, now that Arthur considered it, probably explained his earlier fumble; it had been a long day, so it was no wonder he was showing his fatigue.
“Yes, yes, go on then,” Arthur said graciously. “Get some rest, Merlin.”
Strangely, Merlin seemed irritated over being dismissed instead of appreciating Arthur’s obvious generosity.
“Ungrateful,” Arthur muttered to himself after the door closed behind Merlin’s retreating back.
And if Arthur was a little less careful about splashing water around outside the tub when he climbed out of it than he could have been, by way of vengeance so he could leave a bigger mess for Merlin to clean up in the morning, well, that was his business and no one else’s.
The long, indulgent wank he had while he imagined what it would have felt like to let Merlin touch him there instead of stopping him was also his business and none other’s, and Arthur refused to feel shame over it; there was a limit to what a man could endure, after all, and Merlin frequently pushed him past it.
* * *
Arthur yelped as the cold stone floor rushed up to meet him; the pillow Merlin had somehow positioned right where his head met the ground helped, but not by much. Arthur growled, opened one eye, and glared as best he could while still squinting in the harsh morning light. “Must you do that?”
“I must when you’ve new trainees to meet,” Merlin said, unrepentantly. “Come on, buck up, sire; you get to scare a bunch of spoilt nobles who barely know one end of a sword from another. You love doing that! But doing it requires you being awake— or, on second thought, maybe it doesn’t. Heaven knows your snoring could scare a bear, let alone a fresh recruit.”
“I do not snore!” Arthur shouted, scrambling to his feet. He opened his mouth to shout at Merlin some more, and was foiled by a— admittedly rather good— scone Merlin shoved into his mouth the moment his lips parted. It was enough of a surprise to stop his tirade in its tracks, if only because he couldn’t quite believe Merlin’s audacity this bloody early.
He was mostly used to Merlin by now, and yet, he still managed to surprise him, even after well over a year of service.
“Come on, let’s get you dressed,” Merlin said, seizing Arthur’s shoulders to guide him bodily over to his open wardrobe.
On second thought, maybe Arthur wasn’t quite used to Merlin yet; the way he ran his hands all along Arthur’s spine and chest and belly as he dressed him, smoothing out wrinkles so subtle only Merlin could see them, was impossible to get used to. Arthur forced himself to look straight ahead, letting Merlin move him as he wished to. He had to recite several old laws and visualize dull, repetitive sword forms to keep himself under control, but he managed it.
Barely.
When Merlin had him nearly ready, Arthur held out a hand for his belt, expecting Merlin to give it over like he usually did.
He almost swallowed his tongue when Merlin dropped to his knees and reached around Arthur instead.
“Allow me,” Merlin said, looking up at Arthur with eyes that glittered brightly in a perfectly placed sunbeam that fell over his face. “Wouldn’t want you to struggle with it, would we?”
Arthur watched him blankly for a moment, then sputtered and said, indignantly, “I am not fat!”
Merlin shrugged, then turned his attention back to Arthur’s belt buckle; it seemed to be taking a lot longer than it should to lock it in place. “Never said you were,” Merlin muttered. “It’s just that you’re rather…”
“Rather what?” Arthur asked dangerously.
Merlin finally fastened the buckle, then took a few moments to straighten the strap of the belt. He looked up at Arthur, his lashes a dusky veil framing the brilliant blue of his eyes, and licked his lips. “Large,” he said, softly, resting his flattened palms on Arthur’s thighs for balance.
Arthur swallowed hard, wondered again how Merlin could possibly be so stupid, and jerked himself away before he could do something humiliating like harden beneath his breeches and beg Merlin to undo the buckle he just closed; Merlin overbalanced and caught himself on his hands and knees.
Arthur was moving long before Merlin’s head snapped up again, his eyes narrowed in a fierce glare.
“Trainees to see, I think you said? I’d better get moving! You, uhm, ought to see if Gaius needs you today; I’ll be busy. See you at dinner!”
With that, Arthur had reached the hall, and safety.
Gods above, he thought. How does he not realize what he sounds like when he says things like that?
* * *
Arthur blinked away tears and forced himself to breathe. What had happened in the Council Chambers certainly wasn’t new. He should have been ready for it, should have been braced for it. It shouldn’t affect him like this. Not now. Not after so long.
And yet, his father’s scorn was something else he couldn’t seem to get used to, although it was far less pleasant than Merlin’s antics.
You should never have spoken up, Arthur chided himself. You know he doesn’t listen.
He did know, but he’d been so bloody overconfident that he’d ignored his own good sense. He was sure changing the trading route would cut costs down. And yet, when he’d proposed the alternate route, he received not approval but a long, harsh lecture about respecting tradition and realizing that his father and his father’s Council knew more about the Kingdom and its needs than he did. Uther had even gone so far as to call him a foolish child right there in front of the most influential Lords in the Kingdom; it had been humiliating!
Arthur swallowed, shuddered, and managed to get himself a little more under control. He was still upset, and his eyes still burned something fierce, but he didn’t think he was in danger of bursting into tears anymore.
It was a good thing, too, because the door opened without so much as a single knock to warn him. Arthur squeezed his eyes shut and reminded himself that his ill-mood wasn’t at all Merlin’s fault, and that Merlin would only be trying to help when he inevitably started talking, trying to convince him that he wasn’t at fault and that Uther had been overly harsh.
Arthur heard the soft click of a plate being set carefully down on the table, instead of the speech he’d been expecting.
“Here,” Merlin said, softly. “Thought you could use a little pick-me-up.”
Arthur opened his eyes and found himself looking down at a rather generously-sized cake, soaked in honey and fragrant with warm spices. He smiled in spite of himself and reached for it. “Thanks, Merlin.”
Merlin smiled back, then turned away and busied himself with the laundry Arthur hadn’t bothered putting in the basket. Arthur could tell Merlin was still watching him out of the corner of his eye, but he was at least giving him an illusion of privacy while he stayed, making sure he’d be there if and when Arthur needed him.
It was… exactly what Arthur needed, actually.
He probably would have lashed out if Merlin tried to talk him down, but this… this was rather lovely, and it was already helping. He could feel the tension draining out of him.
Touched beyond words, Arthur lifted the cake to his mouth and took a bite.
And then he moaned rather shamelessly; it was bloody fantastic.
“Good gods,” Arthur groaned, “tell Cook she’s to make these more often!”
He wasn’t sure where she’d found the recipe, but she’d be baking cakes like this at every feast if he had anything to say about it. It was warm, comforting, and— unexpectedly— filled with a sort of thick, sweetened cream Arthur could have eaten all on its own. He’d have liked to have a great bowlful of the stuff.
He couldn’t recall ever having tasted a pastry quite like it before.
Merlin blushed and met his eyes for a quick second, then mumbled, “Wasn’t Cook,” as he shook out one of Arthur’s shirts before folding it over his arm, then folding it again and dropping the resulting bundle into the laundry basket. “I made it myself.”
Merlin sounded delightfully embarrassed and terrifically pleased by Arthur’s praise— which worked wonders at distracting Arthur from his troubles, because it was always fun making Merlin blush— and if the cake wasn’t so wonderful, he’d have taken the opportunity to tease him. As it was, Arthur didn’t want to risk Merlin deciding not to make them again, so he decided to take another bite instead of saying something along the lines of, “I should have known you’d be better off in the kitchen; you really are a girl!”
He found himself moaning again, and it wasn’t even a theatrical moan; it really was that good, especially the filling!
He babbled out a few more compliments, making Merlin blush more and more, until the cake was gone and Merlin was reaching out to take the plate away. Arthur leaned back in his chair with a long, contented sigh, then sat upright and said, “Wait!”
Merlin froze, and Arthur reached out to drag his finger through the blob of filling that had fallen onto the plate. He lifted his hand to his mouth and licked it clean, letting his eyes fall shut as he savored that last precious mouthful.
Merlin’s warm breath tickled his ear before he could open his eyes again. “If you ever want more, just ask,” he whispered. “You can have my cream any time you like.”
Arthur was too stunned to react. He felt Merlin linger at his side for a few more moments, then heard him sigh and move away.
As soon as Arthur knew he was alone, he threw his head back and let out a gusty sigh of his own. “Honestly, how is he not hearing himself?” he asked, directing the words to whatever god might be listening that might feel a bit of sympathy for him and his unceasing plight.
* * *
Arthur skimmed the latest document in his pile, initialed off a few changes, and signed it. He set it aside, reached for another report, and valiantly resisted the urge to go looking for his wayward servant.
Not that he’d have to look far; he knew exactly where Merlin was: Morgana’s room. The same bloody place Merlin was any time he had a free moment. Arthur ground his teeth together. The two of them weren’t exactly subtle.
He just didn’t understand it: couldn’t they see how dangerous this little fling of theirs was?
At least, he thought, venomously, he’s stopped bringing her flowers.
Honestly, it wasn’t as if they could have a real future together. Uther might dote on Morgana, but his indulgence wasn’t limitless. He would never allow her to choose her own spouse, and he certainly wouldn’t allow her to take Merlin as a lover.
Frankly, it was a wonder Uther hadn’t caught on yet, what with how bad they were at hiding it; if he wasn’t so ill, he probably would have.
But Uther was ill, and getting sicker, and he was too weak to roam the halls, and no one wanted to report their less than circumspect assignation to him— either out of loyalty to Merlin or Morgana or both, or maybe because they simply feared Uther killing the messenger, as it were.
Still, Arthur wished Merlin had listened to him when he’d warned him off the first time. Or the second time. Or the twenty-second.
He never did, though; no matter how often Arthur told him he needed to move on and get past Morgana, Merlin still found his way to her chambers, and Arthur wasn’t a fool. He knew it was more than simple friendship no matter how often Merlin swore that was all there was to it.
And these days, Merlin’s preoccupation with Arthur’s pseudo-sister meant that Arthur was seeing a lot less of his servant than he was accustomed to.
Arthur would never admit it, but he missed Merlin.
As if Arthur’s thoughts had summoned him, Merlin strode in, whistling cheerfully.
“Having a good time, are you?” Arthur asked dangerously.
Merlin shrugged. “Why shouldn’t I be? It’s a beautiful day, and I’ve already finished my chores.”
Arthur opened his mouth to tell him that he was perfectly happy to give him some more, and Merlin, who clearly expected him to, started talking much faster to stop him from doing it. “Speaking of which,” Merlin said hastily, “I was wondering if you had a moment or two; I was hoping to ask a favor.”
“Oh?” Arthur said, darkly.
“Yeah, I…” Merlin trailed off and reached back to rub a hand over his neck, grinning sheepishly. “Well, I was thinking about what you were saying in yesterday’s training with the knights, about being ready for anything and needing to seize any advantage you can get? And, more to the point, I was thinking about that move you were demonstrating, the one to get out of a hold, and I thought… well, I’m rubbish with a sword, but maybe I could learn that, so I wanted to ask if you would… well, teach me.”
Arthur brightened immediately and found himself grinning so wide it hurt his face. “You?” he asked, putting just the right amount of disbelief into his voice. “Actually wanting to train? The world’s gone mad!”
Merlin rolled his eyes. “Yes, yes, laugh it up. Are you up for it or not?”
“Naturally,” Arthur said, already rounding the desk. “The important thing is to be vigilant. See, getting out of a hold is possible, but it can be tricky. It’s always better to avoid it in the first place. Otherwise—”
Arthur lunged.
Merlin very much didn’t avoid his grapple; Arthur had him backed up against the bedpost in a flash, with his hands pinned up above his head.
“—you’re starting at a disadvantage,” Arthur finished. Merlin gasped and made a rather poor attempt at twisting his hands free. Arthur held his wrists in place with hardly any effort at all and smiled benevolently.
“Now, tell me what you remember from the training: how could you get free?”
Merlin kept up a weak struggle for a few more heartbeats, then stopped and thought. “Well,” he said, licking his lips. “I could try to surprise you. I could lean forward and bite you, which might make you loosen your grip. Or, I could take advantage of the weak point every man shares.” Merlin lifted his leg, slotting his thigh firmly between Arthur’s. “If I was trying to hurt you, my knee would be a pretty good weapon, no?”
Arthur swallowed and reminded himself that they were training, and the hot press of Merlin’s body against his wasn’t what it felt like.
“Good start,” he said, his voice a little too rough. He cleared his throat carefully. “But you can’t count on it. Some people have a higher threshold for pain than others. What you really need is leverage, and—”
“You know, when I said I wanted to learn how to break free of a hold, I was actually thinking of the move you used to get Elyan off you when he had you pinned to the ground,” Merlin said, interrupting him neatly. “I already know I can get free of this kind of hold; I’m pretty slippery.”
Merlin proved his point by somehow writhing out of Arthur’s grip and sidestepping him rather smoothly. Arthur gaped at him for a moment, then lunged again. “You asked for it!”
They toppled onto the bed with a startled gasp from Merlin; he must not have expected Arthur to move so quickly. Arthur was just grateful they’d been close enough to fall onto it, instead of onto the floor. The stone of his chamber would have been a lot less forgiving than the grass on the training field— and really, what had possessed Merlin to ask for lessons here instead of during training?— and he didn’t want to hurt Merlin or risk an accident when he was still learning the move. So, the mattress was a blessing.
They still landed hard enough to force the breath from Merlin’s lungs, though Arthur pulled himself up to straddle Merlin so he wasn’t suffocating the man in short order after that.
Then he waited, smiling with all his teeth.
“What, not slippery enough to get out of this?”
The taunt was enough to spur Merlin to motion. He bucked his hips, twisted, turned, and writhed beneath Arthur.
Arthur reminded himself again that they were training; the bed might be safer than the floor, but damn it, it was giving him ideas.
He let Merlin flail about for a while, then frowned. “Come on, Merlin, you can do better than that! And you should be reacting a lot quicker: the longer your attacker has you grounded, the bigger their advantage grows.”
Merlin huffed out a velvet smooth laugh. “Maybe I’ve got a plan, hmm? Maybe there’s an advantage to being under you that you haven’t considered yet; maybe I’m exactly where I want to be.”
Merlin made one last effort at getting free, in spite of his words; he tried to twist out of Arthur’s grip again, rolling his entire body like a snake under Arthur’s bulk. His hips brushed Arthur’s inner thighs, but he didn’t even come close to dislodging him.
Arthur blinked down at him, flummoxed, then rolled his eyes.
Of all the stupid, idiotic, thoughtless…
“It’s a good thing we don’t have to depend on you for tactics, Merlin, if that’s the sort of idea you’re holding onto. There’s absolutely no advantage to be had in your position. Ground fighting is always a bad idea! For one thing, your attacker can bring their full weight down on you, which makes it harder to escape, and might even crack or break a rib if they’re that much bigger than you or know how to use their weight. For another, you’ve got limited mobility and— even worse— limited visibility! Your allies will have a harder time seeing you, and you’ll have a harder time seeing other combatants who might be showing up to give your attacker reinforcement!”
Arthur grinned triumphantly as Merlin’s jaw dropped incredulously; clearly, he hadn’t considered that.
Arthur pressed on. “Being on the ground limits your responses something fierce, and having someone over you limits them even more. It’s dangerous, and your focus should always be on getting back up, no matter how—”
Merlin’s eyes glazed over, then hardened unexpectedly. “Ugh!”
Maybe Merlin did have a surprise advantage: lulling Arthur into a state of false confidence.
Before Arthur could properly react, Merlin reached up and out, knocking the outsides of his wrists into Arthur’s arms, which had been braced on Merlin’s shoulders up until then, pinning him down. Arthur’s weight suddenly turned against him, and he dropped. Merlin’s hands darted back in, bracing against his chest, and his hips snapped up with a lot more force behind them than before as those hands pushed.
Arthur found himself toppling arse over teakettle and landing hard on the floor— Merlin had flipped him right over the bed!
“That was pretty good, actually,” Arthur was forced to admit; he didn’t particularly like the way his voice wheezed, but he thought Merlin had rather earned it.
Strangely, Merlin didn’t appear to appreciate the praise. He flung his hands up, muttered something that sounded like “You’re impossible,” and launched himself off the bed, across the floor, and out the door.
Arthur blinked up at the ceiling for a while, then pulled himself gingerly to his feet and wondered if he couldn’t talk Merlin into helping him demonstrate that move at the next training; it was actually better than the move he’d used, and it might help the recruits to see someone like Merlin throw off a much larger attacker with a rather clever use of leverage and redirected force like that.
* * *
When Arthur asked him the next morning, he received a glare so glacial he changed the subject and decided against bringing it up again.
* * *
Merlin’s mood didn’t improve for weeks. He spent a lot of time avoiding Arthur, or glaring at him, but eventually he got over whatever problem he had with Arthur’s attempt at training him.
Frankly, Arthur had been a little upset that he was acting so short-tempered— after all, it had been his idea in the first place— but when Merlin finally showed up unannounced at the end of the month with another one of his special cakes and a wry, apologetic smile, Arthur was too relieved by the end of his strange hostility to make anything of it. They ended up sharing the cake between them, and sharing more than a few glasses of wine, too.
* * *
The next morning, Merlin was a bit clumsier than usual. Not by much, but he kept misjudging distances and brushing up against Arthur when he tried to move past him. Arthur rolled his eyes and spent the day wondering how Merlin could spend so much time in the tavern and still be such a lightweight.
But then, when Merlin started tripping and having to catch himself by putting a bracing hand on Arthur’s shoulder again and again, he started to look for a deeper cause and started to suspect it had more to do with Merlin’s abominable footwear than anything else. He could hear the soles coming detached, and if he’d told Merlin once to get those boots replaced, he’d said it a hundred times.
It all came to a head the next day, when Merlin was still clumsy, which only proved Arthur’s new theory that it hadn’t been the wine. Arthur had just finished a midmorning bath after sparring with Gwaine, and had only just wrapped the towel around his waist when Merlin stepped on a puddle.
If his shoes had proper tread, he probably wouldn’t have slipped, but as it was, he was yelping and flailing and falling.
It was only quick thinking and quicker reflexes on Arthur’s part that halted the oncoming disaster and stopped him from falling headlong into the tub. Arthur reached out, snatched Merlin right out of the air, and pulled him tight against his chest, holding him firmly while he caught his balance. Merlin buried his head in Arthur’s chest and breathed heavily for a moment or two, probably working through the rush of adrenaline. Then he looked up at Arthur and sighed deeply.
Infuriatingly enough, his first words weren’t an apology or a heartfelt expression of thanks. No, the fool had the audacity to pull out a joke, and not even a particularly good one. He looked up at Arthur, batted those glowing eyes of his, and said, simperingly, “I just can’t help falling for you, can I?”
Arthur rolled his eyes and snorted, which was rather the called-for response. He thought about saying something along the lines of “What would Morgana think if she heard you saying that?” but ultimately decided on tackling the more pressing issue.
“You certainly could help it if you’d just bloody well listen to me and buy some halfway decent boots. It’s no wonder you’re tripping over your feet all the time; they’re falling apart, and I don’t think they were ever even the right size to begin with! Honestly, Merlin, you ought to have coin enough for a new pair with what I’m paying you, even with your frequent trips to the tavern!”
Merlin tore himself away, made a hissing sound that came suspiciously close to being the word “arse,” and stomped off.
Hopefully, in the direction of the nearest cobbler.
* * *
When Uther died, everything in Camelot came to a grinding halt. It wasn’t the sort of end Arthur had expected for him, either; Uther should have gone out fighting a sorcerer, or a monster, or at least an assassin or a skilled duelist. He certainly shouldn’t have died from a lung infection that even Gaius couldn’t cure without using magic— something Arthur would have been willing to do, but Uther couldn’t accept.
Arthur had to admit: the month following his father’s death was something of a blur. He remembered pieces, some good, and some bad.
The bad: hearing Uther beg him to keep up the fight, to end the scourge of magic in his Kingdom, and knowing he’d be disappointing him, because Arthur was tired of fighting a war he didn’t really believe in; finding out just how much of a lying hypocrite his father had been over the years when the truth about Morgana had come out; seeing his father gasping for breath and finding none, dying with his hand spasming around Arthur’s; standing vigil for Uther, wax pale and lifeless and looking like he was already judging Arthur from the Great Beyond; knowing that he wasn’t ready to be King, and that ready or not, he had no choice in the matter.
The good: learning that while he was losing a father, he’d gained a sister, officially; walking out after his vigil to see Merlin waiting for him with a sympathetic— but not, thank the gods, pitying— expression and a heartfelt “I didn’t want you to be alone;” seeing the look on Merlin’s face when he was crowned and hearing his voice calling out “Long live the King!” far louder than anyone else’s.
But after that first month, things became… oddly normal. He grieved his father, yes, and that grief seemed to wash over him at the strangest times, sometimes without any warning whatsoever— once, he’d broken down sobbing just because he smelled the sort of cheese Uther liked best, for gods’ sakes— but for the most part, he was too busy to wallow.
And, whenever he showed signs of wallowing, Merlin pulled him out of the worst of his grief with wine, cakes, and a whole host of ill-thought-out phrases that sent Arthur’s mind straight into the gutter. Arthur found himself laughing and thinking Some people never learn far too often to fall into anything resembling true despondency, and he would always be grateful to Merlin for that. Honestly, he doubted he would have survived the loss without his constant presence.
And it was constant; Merlin was with him almost every waking moment. Gaius had to send Pages out to fetch herbs— and complained often that they brought back an abundance of weeds he never asked for— Gwaine was forced to rely solely on Percival to help him steal from the kitchens, and Morgana spent her days and nights with Guinevere and Lancelot, though Arthur still caught her staring at Merlin with a strange, unreadable expression sometimes… especially when she looked out to see Merlin standing particularly close to Arthur.
Arthur… didn’t like to admit that he enjoyed keeping Merlin mostly to himself, but a large part of him did.
But then, of course, came the day when Morgana invited Arthur for a drink in her private chambers, and turned to him as soon as he sat down and took a drink, and said, “Let’s talk about marriage, shall we?”
* * *
Morgana swore violently when wine erupted from Arthur’s mouth and nose, splattering the covers on her bed and half the contents of her vanity table, but as far as Arthur was concerned, she had no right to complain after starting a sentence like that without warning.
“Has—” Arthur coughed, opened his mouth, and coughed again several more times before he could continue— “has someone made an offer for your hand?”
Morgana glared at him in a way that said, without words, “Are you really done?” and waited.
When he went nearly a full minute without spluttering and choking again, she sighed and said, “No, but I want to know what changes you’re going to make in Camelot.”
“Changes?” Arthur asked, thoroughly confused.
Morgana rolled her eyes. “I mean that without Uther here to tell us what to do, we have the chance to be happy. Truly happy. With people who make us happy. And we shouldn’t waste that. Do you… do you understand?”
Arthur, unfortunately, did. His heart clenched.
No, that wasn’t right: his heart wasn’t just clenching, it was breaking.
But Morgana was his sister, and he loved her, even if he was frankly terrible at admitting it. He could support her in this; he had to.
“I…” Arthur licked his lips. “Merlin is one of the best men I know,” he said, solemnly, “and if he makes you happy, then you have my bless—”
“Oh, for the love of—” Morgana reached up and pinched the bridge of her nose, hard, and breathed deeply. The skin under her nails turned bright white, and Arthur found himself wincing in response to the sight; it looked like it had to be painful, pinching herself that tightly.
“Arthur,” Morgana said, in the measured, overly sweet tones that generally meant she thought he was being particularly thick-headed— although he couldn’t imagine why; he’d taken her meaning instantly— “I am not in a relationship with your manservant.”
“What?” Arthur yelped.
Morgana went on as if he hadn’t spoken. “Merlin isn’t courting me, and he never has, nor have I approached him. I’m not interested in him that way, and he certainly isn’t interested in me. We’re friends. Good friends, yes, close friends, but just friends! That’s all!”
“Oh,” Arthur said. Merlin had said that before, but Arthur always assumed he was trying to tell Arthur what he wanted to hear since Merlin knew he didn’t approve. But with Morgana saying it, too… although, if she didn’t want to marry Merlin, who did she want to marry?
He should probably ask her, but honestly, the thought of Morgana wanting marriage to some faceless, unknown lover seemed less important than the news that she wasn’t carrying on with his manservant the way he’d long suspected she was. “Then… then Merlin isn’t seeing anyone?”
Morgana stopped pinching her nose in favor of rubbing her temples so hard it pulled her eyes into thin, slanting creases. “Not yet,” she said, stiffly. “Not unless someone grows a spine and decides to make him an offer before it’s too late.”
Arthur jolted again, dropping the rest of his wine onto the floor and standing bolt upright in an instant. He paid the fallen cup no heed whatsoever, and ignored the reemergence of Morgana’s glare.
It didn’t matter. What mattered was that she knew something he didn’t; she simply had to: there was no way that deliberately articulated “someone” of hers hadn’t been a pointed clue.
“Someone’s thinking of making him an offer?” Arthur asked, urgently. “Who?”
Morgana’s eye twitched violently. “Get out.”
“Not until you tell me who—"
“Out!” Morgana thundered, reaching for a mostly empty perfume bottle made of thick, heavy glass. Arthur eyed it, felt himself paling, and fled.
He only just managed to pull the door shut behind him and make it to safety when the bottle crashed into the door and shattered. He heard Morgana shrieking in wordless, frustrated rage even through the thick stone and wood that stood between them and decided he’d better get as far away from whatever bout of insanity had possessed her as it was possible to get, and kept on fleeing until he was safely locked away in his own chambers.
Of course, that didn’t stop him from thinking about Merlin and whatever someone was planning to ask for his hand. Arthur hadn’t heard even an inkling about a courtship involving his manservant— apart from the false one between him and Morgana that Arthur had apparently invented all on his own— so where and when had it started?
And he should have heard about it, make no mistake: Merlin was with him constantly. If he was mooning over some girl— other than Morgana— or worse, some git, Arthur certainly would have picked up on it. Merlin would have needed to deliberately hide his ardor for Arthur to not notice it. And even if there was some kind of secret courtship happening, well, that only meant whoever this someone was wasn’t worthy of him in the first place; Merlin wasn’t someone to be hidden away like a secret shame. He deserved to be cherished!
Besides, no one was worthy of Merlin, no matter how well they treated him. Arthur might have been able to accept his own sister laying claim to him— barely— but no one else was good enough for his… for Merlin. No one at all.
Except…
Well, what Morgana had said about taking the chance to be happy…
Merlin made him happy.
He still wasn’t good enough for Merlin— he really didn’t think anyone was— but it wasn’t as if Merlin could do better than the King! And… well, the things he said and did… Arthur knew Merlin didn’t mean to come across as a terrible flirt, but maybe there was something to his words anyway. As Gwaine always said, “A slip of the tongue just shows where the tongue really wants to slip into, if you know what I mean,” and—
And Arthur had sunk low enough to try and use one of Gwaine’s eyebrow-wiggling turns of phrase to justify himself.
That was hardly a good sign!
Still, if he didn’t snatch Merlin up, someone would, so maybe… maybe he should just try.
Arthur nodded, suddenly and firmly resolved to court the hell out of his manservant and make him his before whatever faceless someone Morgana had in mind could.
* * *
Merlin strode in without knocking, as he always did, and stopped in the middle of the room. He cocked his head to one side, stared at the table laden with food and the massive bouquet of flowers that took pride of place between the dishes, and said, “Did someone send you flowers?”
Arthur fought the urge to roll his eyes and wound up wringing his hands together nervously instead. “No, Merlin, I sent for them.”
“Oh,” Merlin whispered. Then, louder, “Oh. I, err, suppose that means you’re waiting for someone. Who’s joining you for dinner, then?”
“Just you,” Arthur said, before taking a few halting steps forward; it felt like he was wading through deep, thick mud, but he managed to get to Merlin’s side even so. He reached up to put his hands on Merlin’s shoulders, taking great care to move slowly, giving Merlin plenty of time to move away if he didn’t want to be touched, and he kept his grip on Merlin’s shoulders light so he could retreat the second he wished to.
If he wished to.
Arthur really hoped he wouldn’t.
“Merlin, you must know that I’m not commanding you, I’m asking you, and not as your King, but as a man, to—”
Merlin surged forward. Their lips crashed together, teeth clacking for one jarring moment before they adjusted the angles of their jaws and sank easily into a rhythm that was beyond perfect. Merlin licked into his mouth, moaned, sucked on his lower lip, and whispered something.
It took a second or two for Arthur to understand what he’d said— it was hard to hear anything past the roaring pulse in his ears— but then Merlin’s words registered.
“Fuck me.”
Well, that was a bit sudden, but damn it, Arthur was more than happy to oblige him.
He bent slightly, caught Merlin up behind the legs and round his shoulders, and lifted him off the ground. Merlin flung his arms around Arthur’s neck for balance and kissed him again, deeply, as Arthur carried him to the bed.
And then…
Well, they really rather obliged each other.
* * *
When Arthur woke the next morning to the feel of Merlin’s fingers threading through his hair, he started talking almost immediately, because he didn’t think he could bear it if Merlin spent even a second thinking this meant less than it did. He wanted absolutely no room for error: Merlin needed to know what he meant to Arthur, needed to know about the feelings Arthur had spent years fighting, first because of their very different status and then because he thought Merlin was gone on Morgana… although, Arthur didn’t think he really needed to know why Arthur was fighting those feelings.
Actually, on second thought, Merlin ought to know what he was feeling, but maybe it’d be best to leave off just how long he’d been feeling it in secret.
Arthur made it all as plain as he could without going into too much detail about how long he’d spent pining, telling Merlin in no uncertain terms that it wasn’t about sex for him— or at least, not just about sex— and that he didn’t expect Merlin to act as some sort of discrete, convenient catamite.
No, what he wanted, more than anything, was to have Merlin by his side every moment of every day.
A few tearful kisses later, Merlin agreed.
Luckily, though, they both agreed it would probably be better to let the Court settle a bit before they made any sort of public announcements. Arthur had only just taken the throne; he’d have a much smoother transition to power if he didn’t have to justify a very male consort right out the gate.
And so, they built a plan: Merlin would go have a quiet word with Guinevere and Morgana— who knew how to be subtle and curb their enthusiasm— while Arthur gathered up the rest of their friends— who certainly didn’t— for the sort of forest patrol that was really just an excuse to get away from the city for a night or two. Once they made camp, where his men could react as loudly as they pleased, they’d announce their new romance.
* * *
In the end, it wasn’t so much an announcement as it was an acknowledgment, and no one even had the decency to look at all surprised.
They set up camp, Merlin lit a fire in record time even by his exacting standards, and passed out the drinks. Then, before they could say a word or propose a toast on their own behalf the way they’d planned to, Gwaine caught sight of the way their fingers brushed against each other’s and lingered when Merlin gave Arthur his cup.
Somehow, that had been enough for him to know.
As soon as Merlin sat down, Gwaine nodded in their direction and said, “So it finally happened, huh?”
Arthur bristled slightly, more than ready to point out that there was no finally about it, because it all went off exactly as he planned, and Merlin succumbed to his advances as soon as he started making advances, and—
“Yeah,” Merlin said, smiling dreamily. “And I can’t believe I’m saying this after how often I’ve complained about it, but it was worth the wait.”
Wait? What wait?
“What wait?” Arthur repeated aloud, long before his brain could catch up with his mouth and decide he’d probably be better off asking when he was alone with Merlin.
The campsite fell into a deep, fraught silence for perhaps half a heartbeat before Merlin squawked and turned on his log to face Arthur fully.
“What wait? What wait?” Merlin asked incredulously, looking at Arthur as if he’d said something unbearably stupid. “Gee, Arthur, I don’t know, maybe the literal years I’ve spent trying to get you to make a bloody move, or at least respond to one of mine? I’ve been flirting with you practically since the day we met!”
Arthur blinked. “You’ve been flirting with me?” He’d known Merlin cared about him, and occasionally said the sort of thing that could have hinted at buried feelings, but deliberately flirting?
The words went down like a falling stone. Merlin stared at him, mouth agape, as did all of his knights.
Feeling rather put on the spot and cornered, Arthur snarled and said, “Well, Merlin, obviously you didn’t do it very well, if I never realized!”
Merlin’s irritation and astonishment vanished in a flash. They were replaced instantly with— oh dear, Arthur really was in trouble— the sort of smug, lopsided grin he only ever wore when he was about to well and truly ruin someone’s day.
“You might be right,” Merlin said, conversationally. “Maybe I wasn’t clear enough.”
He turned slightly and raised an eyebrow. “Gwaine, hypothetical question: if you had a servant who, let’s say, kept dropping a washcloth when you were in the bath so he’d have an excuse to go rooting around between your legs after saying something about needing to make sure he washed every inch of you, would that be at all unclear? Because I’ve tried that on Arthur at least half a dozen times over the years.”
Gwaine spat out a mouthful of mead and looked at Arthur like he thought he was the stupidest man alive by an impossibly wide margin.
Truth be told, now that Merlin laid it out like that and pointed out how often it had happened, he was beginning to feel like he rather was.
“Then again, Gwaine thinks everyone’s flirting with him all the time—”
“Oi!”
“—so maybe he’s not the best man to ask.” Merlin turned again. “Leon, you’re a sensible chap. If a man was kneeling in front of you with his hands on your belt, licking his lips, then looked up at you through his lashes and talked about how large you were, would that be even the slightest bit opaque?”
Leon put his head into his hands and visibly Despaired. Lancelot got up and bloody well left the camp without saying a word.
Arthur rather wished the ground would open up and swallow him whole.
“Percival, maybe you can weigh in. If someone who you knew hated combat training suddenly asked you for private hand-to-hand lessons, then just sort of squirmed once you had them pinned instead of trying to fight back properly, with a particular emphasis on rubbing their crotch against yours, and justified their lack of effort by saying they were right where they wanted to be when you told them they’d never break free like that, would you lecture them about combat strategy and taking their safety seriously, or just get on with snogging them senseless?”
It was official: Arthur really was the biggest fool imaginable.
Apparently, his men agreed. Percival swallowed, blushed, and looked away, unable to meet Arthur’s eyes. Elyan leaned in and asked him, in an undertone that was all too audible for Arthur’s tastes, “Should he really be in charge of the entire Kingdom?”
“Please tell me that didn’t really happen,” Leon whimpered, his voice only slightly muffled by the hands that were still pressed tight over his face. “No one is that thick!”
By then, Arthur’s face burned hotter than their campfire, and he’d come to the conclusion that he was surrounded by unrepentant traitors.
Merlin rolled his eyes skyward. “Honestly, he’s so oblivious I could have waited in his bed stark naked and oiled up, and he probably would have just told me off for ruining his sheets before pointing out oh-so-helpfully that I had a perfectly good bed waiting for me in my room, and needn’t be napping in his,” he said, in a voice dripping with scorn. “And it’s a good thing he said something when he did, because I was so frustrated that was going to be my next move, and I probably would have just killed him myself if even that failed!”
Not one of his knights protested that threat to Arthur’s life; in fact, most of them simply nodded along as if it would have been perfectly reasonable under the circumstances. Arthur suspected it would have been all of them nodding if it weren’t for the fact that Leon was still refusing to lift his head from his hands and Lancelot was still missing in action.
Arthur folded his arms over his chest and glared at the whole lot of them before turning his strongest glower on Merlin.
“Sometimes I think you’re more trouble than you’re worth,” he said, petulantly; he didn’t really mean it, and if the way Merlin snorted into his cup and rolled his eyes could be trusted, his lover didn’t believe it for a second either.
After a long drink, Merlin set his cup aside, leaned in slightly, blinked rapidly as if there was something stuck in his eye, and said, in a low, slightly rumbling voice, “I suppose I’ll just have to try very hard to make it up to you, then, won’t I? I’m sure we’ll think of something I can do to prove my worth.”
“You could start by promising not to tell Morgana,” Arthur grumbled, largely because the revelation of his own stupidity had put rather a new spin on their earlier conversation. “She’d never let me hear the end of it, and really, I’m not that oblivious, and—”
“Seriously, Princess?” Gwaine shouted.
Arthur realized all at once that everyone in the clearing— including Leon, who’d been shocked into looking up— was gaping at him again. “What? What’d I do?”