Unasked by Night by skywindsong, PG-13
Unasked by Night
It doesn't happen often, but it always begins the same way.
Soft footfalls still to a halt near his chair. "Sire?"
He is always "sire" when Merlin offers. Arthur thinks it a conscious effort to preserve the illusion given. Merlin stands close, not quite touching, his cheekbones illuminated by the soft glow of the fire as he waits for Arthur to accept.
It is not such a hard thing, during the day. Guinevere may be Morgana's maid, but Morgana's path rarely crosses his own unless she desires it -- and Morgana has been seeking Arthur out less and less of late. Were he to give it much thought, he might conclude something to be troubling her. Then he remembers a bouquet of flowers and a whispered conversation and a peculiar new brand of Merlin evasiveness and the realization confronts him.
It is not only his attention that has strayed.
Because the heart of the matter -- and how ironic that turn of phrase can be -- is that Arthur finds himself inexplicably, increasingly in need of Guinevere. He needs to know if she is well and what she believes the people are thinking and whether she is wearing her lavender dress today.
The most important question is one that threatens to burst from his throat in an inopportune moment: can she still see the man inside him, the man that will become a great king?
He wants very much to become the man that she sees, and it seems impossible without her by his side in every waking moment. But the Crown Prince has no excuse to linger around Guinevere, cannot afford to take liberties with a servant girl that might compromise his ability to appear enticing toward future allies.
Arthur's hands are tied and they clench the arms of his seat as Guinevere flits around the Great Hall, serving wine and exchanging bouts of whispered gossip with the other servants. Flickers of light from the candles are caught in her hair and when all at once she laughs in delight, she seems like an otherworldly, magical thing.
In the Great Hall, there is the low murmur of private conversation and all is well. Sitting here now in his chambers, all Arthur can hear is that single, bell-like laugh.
Something heavy is expanding in his chest and he wonders if what the visiting minstrels say is true and it is possible to waste away for pining.
It is at these times -- through some weird, unspoken intuition of which Arthur would not have believed him capable -- that Merlin steps in too close to Arthur. No words are ever exchanged between them, not beyond Merlin’s initial whisper of his title. Even the first time, when Arthur stared uncomprehending for long moments, no further words were forthcoming.
Merlin simply stands within reach of Arthur, open and offering.
Arthur inhales slowly. He thinks of a rescue and a shared campfire, of heartbreak and an overly cheerful declaration (You've still got me) and Arthur--
Arthur accepts.
He does not pretend to understand why Merlin offers. His sheer ignorance of propriety and not-as-yet-disproven claims of mental affliction aside, Merlin is no fool. Arthur can see the knowledge in his eyes as they come together, see that he knows Arthur thinks his chest too firm, his skin too pale, his hands too large where they clutch desperately at Arthur's shoulders.
Arthur asks him once, after, when they lie spent and languid amongst the mess of rucked-up linens. He almost decides to put on his boots, find some nighttime patrol to surprise when Merlin's strange, quiet voice breaks the silence.
"There is someone," he supplies, somewhat reluctantly, "someone for whom I'm waiting to see me as I truly am. Until then--"
He cuts himself short, and Arthur understands, just a little. When the desired was impossible, one took what one could.
Arthur thinks of dark eyes seeking a matching pair and feels his heart clench in his chest.
"When I am king," he says abruptly, thinking of a conversation held long ago by a river, "perhaps--things could be different. For you and Morgana."
Merlin’s back stiffens and for a moment Arthur wonders whether he has overstepped some unknown boundary of their arrangement. Gradually, however, Merlin's shoulders sag and Arthur hears him let out a sigh.
It may be Arthur's imagination, but Merlin seems almost more dejected than before.
"For you and Gwen as well," he offers and turns over on his side.
He fusses with the sheets a few spare moments before settling his head on the pillow.
Feeling his heart throb dully in his chest once more, Arthur draws up behind Merlin and carefully tucks his head under his chin. As he buries his face in the nest of the dark curls, he tries to imagine he smells flowers.