fic: Knowing and Nobility
Title: Knowing and Nobility
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: There might possibly be a wee bit of an insult kink? It’s all very vague, though, and might also just be my imagination.
Length: ~6800
Summary: In which Merlin is oblivious, Arthur is nobly repressed, Gwen knows everything, and Morgana takes matters into her own hands.
Note: I’m going to say right up front that I don’t even know how this happened. Any of it. I’ve never written any fic this long, nor with sexy doings, vague though they may be. Originally it was going to be a short fluffy little thing about Arthur and his noble repression (Arthur and His Noble Repression should totally be a band) and then somehow all this happened. I hope it works, but concrit is highly appreciated, particularly on the characterization.
One afternoon Arthur storms into his chambers in an absolute rage. Merlin’s in the process of cleaning out the fireplace and thus completely covered in soot. He knows he looks ridiculous, but Arthur doesn’t say a word about it. Arthur’s jibes and insults have been few and far between in recent weeks, but Merlin would have thought that the sight of his manservant coated in the refuse of the fire would be too much for Arthur to resist. Apparently not.
“Training gear, sword, and mace, now. I need to hit something,” the prince growls. He’s wearing his formal clothes, the ones that only come out when Arthur joins his father in holding court, and Merlin worries that he’s going to rip something when he starts stripping himself, his movements rough and angry. The prince has been sitting in court much more often in the weeks since the questing beast’s bite, the king’s invitations an unspoken attempt to make up for the fact that Gaius’s orders still keep Arthur away from many of the more strenuous patrols and training exercises. Arthur’s frustration with the restrictions has been growing along with his returning strength, but there seems to be something else driving this particular temper.
“Yes, sire,” Merlin says, allowing no sarcasm into the title for once. He grabs a cloth to clean himself up, because getting soot on everything isn’t likely to improve Arthur’s disposition, but Arthur waves him off a moment later.
“Nevermind, you’re filthy. Finish what you were doing, I’ll manage myself.” Merlin drops the cloth without argument and goes back to the fireplace. He’s been trying to reign in his own doting for Arthur’s sake; Arthur bristles under the extra care everyone has been affording him, and the soot is an excellent excuse to indulge the prince’s attempts to reassert his independence. Merlin does find the whole situation a bit ironic. This Arthur, recently returned from the brink of death, so often insists on doing for himself tasks that Arthur in the flush of health dumped on Merlin without a second thought. And Merlin, for his part, is so much more willing than he ever was before to save Arthur any effort.
“What happened?” Merlin asks instead, to distract himself from watching the way Arthur’s left arm still shows signs of stiffness.
“One of the cases that came before us this morning. A scullery maid said the castellan approached her, attempted to solicit her favors, and threatened to dismiss her when she refused him. He, of course, claimed that it was she who solicited him, and that she brought the complaint against him in retaliation for his own refusal.”
Arthur stops there to pull on a plainer tunic, and Merlin is a little relieved when he can no longer see the fresh scar marring the prince’s shoulder. There’s more than enough else to remind him, constantly, of how close he came to losing the man; the sight of the scar makes his gut clench.
Merlin wonders if this scullery maid is the same one he found crying in the stables the other day. The poor girl had been a wreck, refusing to explain what was wrong and flinching away from the hand he’d tried to lay on her shoulder in comfort. It’s an awful thing to be sure, but it doesn’t seem to be adequate cause for the intensity of the anger Arthur radiates now. So Merlin waits patiently for the rest of the story, finally offering a quiet prompt of “Yes?” when it looks as though Arthur isn’t going to continue.
“She had bruises on her arms,” Arthur bites out. “He tried to force her when she balked, it was only another servant walking in on them that stopped him. And apparently this isn’t the first time such a thing has happened, but all the other girls were too frightened of losing their places to speak up.”
“Oh,” says Merlin.
“Yes, oh. He’s being removed from his position but that’s hardly sufficient punishment for such violation. If it were up to me-”
“You’d what?”
“He’s just lucky it isn’t up to me,” Arthur says darkly. He sits down on the bed to pull off his dress boots and flings them viciously across the room, one after the other. “Any man’s trying to force a woman - or another man, for that matter - is unforgivable, but for a man in his position - he’s her better, he’s supposed to look after the staff, not - he should never have even asked her.”
“Why not?” Arthur stares at Merlin like he’s just suggested throwing an infant out a window. Merlin thinks it’s a simple enough question; of course the man’s actions were wrong, but he doesn’t see the harm in the initial request. After a moment the confusion that must be evident in Merlin’s face softens the expression on Arthur’s, and the prince sighs and starts undoing his belt.
“Because, Merlin, he’s her superior. I realize the concept of obedience is a foreign one to you, but few normal people would feel free to refuse someone with such power over them, even without the spoken threat of violence or dismissal. Approaching a girl like that, who’s so far beneath him - it was a gross abuse of his authority before he ever laid a hand on her.”
“Is that why you don’t-” Arthur’s head snaps up at the pronoun, and his expression is so strange, almost frightened, that Merlin stumbles over his words. These weird looks seem to have replaced derision as Arthur’s preferred method for dealing with his manservant, but the frequency hasn’t made them any less weird. Merlin rallies, after a moment. “Why you don’t, uh, sleep with the maids?” (Merlin has overheard enough of the servants’ gossip to know that while many of them would be quite happy to warm the prince’s bed, none of them ever have.)
Arthur blanches, like the question isn’t the one he expected, and turns his gaze back to the fastenings of his trousers. “Yes. It wouldn’t be right. They’re mine to employ and protect, not to take advantage of.”
“That’s very noble of you,” Merlin says, impressed.
Arthur doesn’t respond to that, just finishes changing his clothing in silence.
“Do try not to get soot on absolutely everything,” he says on his way out, but there’s no bite to it.
*
The conversation sticks in Merlin’s mind while he works. He can’t help but feel that he missed something, that there was something more to Arthur’s fury than righteous indignation over the mistreatment of a maid he had probably never seen before. Arthur cares deeply for his kingdom and the people in it, but in Merlin’s experience his emotional response to injustice tends to be one of sadness, of disappointment that he or his father or his men could not do better in the face of it. Arthur’s anger is usually reserved for more personal affronts, as a reaction to his own fear or humiliation or frustration.
It’s an odd thing, to top off the list of recent oddities as far as Arthur is concerned. Merlin worries at the incongruity like a loose tooth as he finishes with the fireplace, lays in fresh wood, and disposes of the debris, but he’s no closer to a solution when the prince returns.
Arthur stomps in flushed and sweaty, his face streaked with grime and his knuckles raw. Merlin has cleaned himself up by this point so he rushes to help, undoing buckles and peeling the plates off with practiced fingers. Arthur is quiet, staring straight ahead, though he sucks in a sharp breath when a piece of metal scrapes across the back of his hand. Merlin drops the armor and grabs Arthur’s fist, glaring at the abused skin.
“What did you do, use yourself as a target for the mace?” he demands. Usually Arthur would point out that a mace injury would look substantially different and more severe and proceed to mock Merlin’s unfamiliarity with the workings of weapons.
“I hit something,” he says instead. “Repeatedly.”
Merlin rolls his eyes. “You couldn’t stick to hitting things with your sword? You’re still supposed to be taking it easy, you know. I’m going to have to bandage this, and then Gaius will find out, and he’ll do the eyebrow at me, and-” Merlin’s babbling eventually earns him a small smile and that’s almost worth it, though he isn’t kidding about the eyebrow.
*
“I don’t know what to do with him anymore,” Merlin confesses to Gwen the next day. They’re out in a field, Gwen gathering flowers for Morgana and Merlin accompanying her because Arthur gave him the morning off for no discernable reason.
“How do you mean?”
“He’s being weird. He’s practically nice when he’s not yelling at me to let him do things himself, hardly any insults at all - he hasn’t called me an idiot in three weeks, I’ve counted, and he keeps looking at me funny, and-”
“Merlin,” Gwen interrupts, gently, with an odd expression, like what she’s saying isn’t quite what she’s thinking and she wants him to know it. “He nearly died a few weeks ago.”
“I know that,” Merlin says, with feeling, and Gwen shakes her head.
“No, I mean - he nearly died a few weeks ago, but he didn’t, and that was thanks to you.” Merlin stares at her, eyes wide; Gwen holds up a hand when he opens his mouth to object. “Don’t deny it, Merlin. He was dying, and then you went away, and when you came back there was suddenly a tincture that saved him? And then your mother - I won’t ask you what it was, Merlin, but I know you did something. Arthur knows that, too.”
“How-”
“My lady,” Gwen admits. “I don’t know how she knew, but - when you went away, the second time, Arthur kept complaining, asking for you, until Morgana went to see him. She told him that you had found his cure, but it came at a cost to your mother, and so you had to go and help her as well. He stopped complaining, after that.”
Merlin flops onto his back in the grass, dizzy with astonishment. “He never said anything, he just-” Then a sudden thought hits him and he jerks upright. “Does Uther-”
“No,” Gwen says. “As far as the king is concerned, his son was saved by one of Gaius’s preparations, nothing more.”
Merlin sags with relief. “I had no idea anyone apart from Gaius…”
Gwen just gives him a crooked, satisfied grin. There’s something about it, about the knowing look in her eyes, that makes him press further.
“Gwen, what else do you know?”
“I know you aren’t ordinary,” she says, significantly, “and I know Arthur’s going to be a great king one day, and…” she trails off, smirking suggestively now, and Merlin leans forward, grinning in anticipation. “And I know a great deal about discretion,” she finishes.
Merlin groans, and Gwen laughs at him, and then he sobers, staring at her with a new respect.
“Gwen, you’re incredible. You really are.” She blushes at that and he leans forward again to press an impulsive kiss against her cheek. “Thank you.”
*
It occurs to him, later, that he should have found out exactly how much Gwen knows, exactly what she meant by ‘you aren’t ordinary,’ but somehow it doesn’t matter. Much as the revelation made his stomach feel as though it fell to his feet, it’s also an incredible relief. One day he’s going to tell her everything, he’s sure, but for now it’s enough that she knows something and that it’s alright.
He wonders about Morgana, too. He remembers when she pulled him into that alcove, the hunted cast of her features, the warning she’d tried to give him. That Gwen knows something of what he did for Arthur is comfort, because she’s Gwen and she’s clever and she notices things. That Morgana knows about it makes his heart ache, because it’s surely the same way she knew about Sophia, the same way she knew about the questing beast.
That Arthur knows… Merlin isn’t sure how he feels about that. It isn’t the first time Merlin has saved Arthur’s life with Arthur’s awareness of the fact, but Arthur’s never acted any differently as a result. Whereas the prince has previously offered him thanks of some kind, grudging though it may be. Merlin doesn’t much care that Arthur hasn’t bothered to thank him this time, it’s not something he ever expected, but he can’t understand why Arthur’s acting like he doesn’t know and yet being so odd.
*
The next morning, when Arthur sits down to breakfast, Merlin deliberately stumbles into the table and knocks over the water jug, just to see what happens. The fact that most of the water ends up in Arthur’s lap is happy coincidence.
Instead of yelling or rolling his eyes or expressing any kind of outrage at all, Arthur just sighs.
“A towel, please, Merlin, and do try to be a bit more careful.”
Merlin stares at him in shock for a good long moment. Long enough that Arthur would be more than justified in complaining again, but the prince just watches him expectantly until Merlin finally forces himself to move.
*
That afternoon, Merlin unwinds the bandages across Arthur’s knuckles. (He had been right about the eyebrow, although Gaius had also reluctantly admitted that Merlin did a good job with the dressing, so it hadn’t been a complete loss.) The scrapes are sufficiently scabbed over that Merlin acquiesces to Arthur’s request that the bandages not be replaced, though the request is so disturbingly polite that Merlin finally decides he can’t take it anymore.
“You know,” he says conversationally, rubbing healing salve into Arthur’s left hand, “You didn’t start being all weird and nice at me any of the other times I saved your life. What gives now?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Arthur. You haven’t called me an idiot once since you were injured, you keep giving me time off for no reason, this morning I dumped water on you and you didn’t even yell at me-”
Arthur blinks at him, his face guarded. “You want me to yell at you?”
“No, I’d just like to know why you’ve stopped.”
“Someone told me not to be a prat,” Arthur says quietly, looking at the hand Merlin isn’t working on. “I’m trying.”
“But why?”
“I don’t have to explain myself to you,” Arthur snaps, and that makes Merlin feel better. Familiar territory, that tone of voice. He finishes the left hand and takes up the right.
“No, no, ‘course you don’t. I mean, I only saved your life, that’s certainly no reason to go around answering simple questions.”
“It’s not a simple-” Arthur sighs and rubs his free hand across his face. “Look, Merlin, thank you. For what you did. I should have said that weeks ago, I just… and I’m sorry for your mother. She shouldn’t have had to suffer on my account. I don’t know what happened exactly and I don’t expect that you’re going to tell me, but thank you.”
“Yeah, well, looking after you is sort of my job,” Merlin mumbles, a little overwhelmed by Arthur’s sincerity.
*
In bed that night, turning over the conversation in his head, Merlin realizes that Arthur never actually answered the question.
*
Faced with Arthur’s increasingly disturbing and inexplicable pleasantries, Merlin does the only rational thing: he avoids Arthur as much as possible and spends more time with Gwen.
She looks at him like he has a mental affliction when he admits that he’s staying away from Arthur because he can’t handle the prince being nice, but he finds it sort of comforting that at least someone is questioning his faculties. It’s not that Merlin likes being insulted, it’s just that the sniping and banter he used to engage in with Arthur is so engrained, so normal, that he feels lost without it.
“You can’t just keep avoiding him,” Gwen says.
“I don’t see why not.”
“Merlin-”
“I’m not shirking my duties, I do everything I’m supposed to, I just don’t hang about when I’m not needed.”
“And you’re miserable.”
“I am not!”
“You miss him.” She’s got that I-know-things gleam in her eye, and it’s enough to make Merlin abandon the pretense.
“I miss the old Arthur. This bizarre intense pleasant Arthur is just… I don’t know what to do, Gwen, I really don’t.”
“Well, your current course of action doesn’t seem to be helping, does it?”
Merlin decides that maybe Gwen knowing things isn’t so great after all.
*
Merlin does miss Arthur. He misses his stupid prattish smile and his laughter and the gleam in his eye when he has something particularly hilarious to inflict on Merlin. He misses their easy companionship, the casual derision that he has long since stopped hearing as anything other than affection, even the excessive manhandling. Arthur doesn’t thump Merlin about the head anymore, or drag him down the hall by the arm, or grab hold of his shoulders to steer him toward some mess he’s supposed to clear up.
No, Arthur’s just patient and indulgent when Merlin makes a mistake, quiet and restless otherwise. And there’s no end to the odd looks, especially when the prince thinks Merlin isn’t paying attention. He watches Merlin, careful and alert and with this curious sadness, and always finds some way to change the subject when Merlin tries to call him on it.
One day Gwen corners Merlin in the hall by Arthur’s chambers. The prince is outside on the training field; these days, when Merlin has no excuse not to observe the exercises, he pays close attention to the routine and leaves early enough to get Arthur’s bath drawn and his clean clothes laid out before the prince finishes. That way, when Arthur’s done, Merlin only has to remove the armor before he can flee.
“Hey Gwen,” Merlin says cheerfully, but she just pries the bucket of hot water out of his hands and says, sternly,
“Enough is enough, Merlin. I’ll see to the prince. You need to go and speak with Morgana.”
“What? Gwen, what’s wrong?”
“Just go and talk to her, Merlin. Trust me. She’s in her chambers.”
He stares after her, dumbfounded, but she bustles inside without another word and finally Merlin has no choice but to do as she says. Arthur’s due back soon anyway, so it’s probably just as well. He was behaving exceptionally oddly this morning, fidgeting and refusing to look Merlin in the eye until Merlin tried to make up the bed, at which point Arthur jumped up as if he were scared and dismissed Merlin, practically throwing him out of the room. The rudeness of the ejection would almost have been refreshing if Merlin hadn’t been so bewildered by the rest.
Not that Morgana is a much more appealing prospect. She has kept mostly to herself since the questing beast, and looked eerie and withdrawn the few times Merlin has seen her. Gwen’s reports indicate that her lady has not been sleeping well. He’s felt as though they ought to have a conversation ever since that revealing discussion with Gwen, but the situation with Arthur has left Merlin too disoriented to force himself to face the matter.
He knocks at Morgana’s door with some trepidation, though she looks bright and regal and collected when he enters at her direction.
“Um. Gwen said-”
“Please, Merlin, have a seat,” Morgana says, smiling. She’s seated at the table with a pitcher, two goblets, and a plate of fruit. Merlin follows her elegant gesture to the chair opposite hers and sits a little awkwardly.
“Won’t you have some cider?” she asks, filling one of the goblets. Merlin accepts it and takes a small sip. “Help yourself to the fruit as well,” she adds. “Now. Gwen tells me you have been avoiding Arthur recently. May I ask why that is?”
The natural impulse to complain about Arthur’s change of character, Merlin finds, overrides any other. “I don’t know what’s come over him. He never makes fun of me, he just keeps giving me time off and looking at me and being polite and - it’s been a month now since he last called me an idiot.”
Morgana’s features retain their perfect composed mask, but he’s sure he can see a hint of laughter dancing in the lady’s eyes.
“Perhaps he has finally realized that when he says ‘idiot’, he really means ‘I love you’,” she suggests lightly. Merlin promptly chokes on his cider.
“What?”
“Oh, dear. You really have no idea, do you?”
“Of what?”
“I had hoped Gwen was exaggerating the extent of your ignorance, but it seems-” She shakes her head and reaches across the table to take Merlin’s hand. “Merlin,” Morgana says kindly, “Arthur is in love with you. Rather desperately.”
“What?” The little voice in Merlin’s mind that sounds rather a lot like Gaius takes a moment to be appalled at the sudden drastic reduction in his vocabulary, but the rest of his brain is incapable of mustering any other response.
“You honestly didn’t even suspect?”
“…No?” Merlin manages weakly. Morgana waits, patient, while he downs the remainder of his cider, then refills the goblet.
“I assure you that he is, and has been for quite some time, though I suspect he only allowed himself to become aware of the fact after his most recent brush with death.” Merlin opens his mouth, then closes it again. “I trust this elucidates the recent shift in his behavior?” Morgana asks.
“Why couldn’t he just say something?”
“Because he’s Arthur,” Morgana says, but the wheels in Merlin’s mind are already turning. He remembers, suddenly, the surprising depth of Arthur’s rage over the castellan’s advances toward the scullery maid.
“He thinks it’s wrong for people with power to proposition those without. But I’m not - Yes, I’m his servant, but he can’t believe that I would-”
“He does have strong convictions about the proper use of authority and the importance of consent without taint of coercion,” Morgana says. “I’m sure that’s the excuse he gives himself, but you’re right. I don’t believe Arthur fears that you would feel compelled to respond to his advances, should they be unwelcome.”
“Then what-”
“How to explain this … Merlin, how would you describe Arthur?”
“Um,” Merlin frowns, considering. “He’s incredibly brave, and he can be a right arrogant git sometimes but he always tries to do the right thing when it counts, um, quite handy with a sword, much too eager to charge into things that are going to get him killed…”
There’s a hint of strain under Morgana’s smile at that, but she just nods.
“Yes, very well. But if you strip away all the trappings of the prince, the duty and the daring and the bravado he shows the world…”
“He’s still a good man,” Merlin insists. “But he’s less… he’s not as sure of himself, I guess. He’s not always sure what’s right, or that he’s going to be good enough.”
“Not that ignorant, then,” Morgana says, grinning. “That’s the crux of it. Arthur the prince sees people falling over themselves to get into his bed because he’s just that good, and abstains simply because it wouldn’t be right to take advantage of them. Arthur the man sees people only interested in the image of the prince. He’s not wrong; there are very few in his life who see him as anything more. And those of us who do,” her smile turns rueful, “are not often moved to nurse his self-confidence. But you, more than anyone, refuse to be taken in by the persona. You serve the man, yet you do not bow to the prince.”
“I still don’t understand,” Merlin admits.
“Oh, Merlin.” She squeezes his hand. “Arthur isn’t afraid that you won’t reject him. He’s afraid that you will.”
Merlin gapes at her for several long beats, completely flabbergasted, and then a slow eager smile blooms across his face. At that Morgana releases his hand and waves him toward the hall. “Go, go,” she says.
Merlin turns in the doorway to smile back at her. “Thank you, Morgana.”
*
Gwen’s gone when Merlin slips into Arthur’s chambers. He finds the prince alone, slumped low in his bath with his eyes closed and his head tipped back against the rim of the tub. Arthur does not appear to have noticed his entrance, so Merlin takes a moment to just look. He admires Arthur’s skin, rosy from exertion and the heat of the water; the tantalizing line of his bared throat; the muscles in his arms; the relaxed set of his features. The fact of Arthur’s physical beauty is not one that has ever escaped Merlin’s notice, but it’s never seemed important before. Now, it’s like an unexpected addition to the prize. He would have been more than satisfied at getting the old Arthur back; the possibility of the old Arthur and then some is a delight he hasn’t really allowed himself to consider yet. He looks, but then his gaze catches the scar, and that is distraction enough to snap him out of his reverie.
Merlin coughs, announcing his presence. Arthur opens his eyes, and upon spotting Merlin he adopts that same startled, slightly scared expression he’s been wearing so often lately. Merlin doesn’t have a plan, exactly, so he just goes with the first words that appear in his head.
“Aren’t you going to berate me for not being here to see to your armor?” Merlin asks, fighting down the urge to smirk.
“Gwen took care of it,” Arthur says. “You may go.”
“Yeah, but see, it’s my job,” Merlin presses.
“Guinevere assured me you had good reason for being elsewhere.”
“I’ve been spending a lot of time with Gwen lately,” Merlin says, deciding to try a different tactic.
“I’ve noticed,” Arthur admits. He looks unhappy and drops his gaze.
“Does that bother you?”
“You’re free to do what you like with whomever you like in your leisure time.”
“Which you’ve been giving me an awful lot of. I wonder why that is.”
“What do you want, Merlin?” Arthur asks, and Merlin is gratified to hear a little bit of sharpness edging its way into the prince’s voice.
“A pony and a toy boat and to be king of all Albion and wear a shiny hat,” Merlin replies promptly. That earns him a surprised laugh and the return of Arthur’s gaze, now openly curious.
“I gave you a shiny hat once. You hated it.”
“That was not a shiny hat. That was a stupid hat, and you only gave it to me so you could make fun of me, and that’s entirely beside the point.”
“Which is?” Merlin marches right up to the side of the tub and leans over, so he can breath hot and close into Arthur’s ear.
“That I want a lot of things, Arthur Pendragon,” Merlin says, slowly, pausing to watch Arthur stiffen, his fingers curling tight around the rim of the tub, “but what I don’t want is you,” and as Arthur’s knuckles go white Merlin realizes what that sounds like and rushes onward, guilty, “acting all distant and polite and hands-off.”
Arthur’s hands relax but a small choked sound escapes him, and the scared look returns.
“What do you want, Arthur?” Merlin asks, backing off just a little. Arthur peers at him, confused and helpless. The expression is very much like the one Arthur had worn on the beach, with two goblets and an ultimatum before them, though now he lacks the determination of that moment. It makes Merlin’s heart flutter in his chest. He wishes that Arthur weren’t so stubborn, that he didn’t feel the need to play this game, that he could just kiss the idiot and trust that everything would be alright after.
“I don’t-” Arthur begins, and then, all of a sudden, it all goes wrong. Merlin can see the precise moment when Arthur gets it, when he realizes that Merlin knows, because his eyes harden and he’s no longer soft and vulnerable and waiting. He’s closed off instead, and angry, and now it’s not the beach Merlin remembers but Arthur’s room, Arthur brandishing a sword with an undead man waiting outside.
“Get out,” Arthur growls, and Merlin stumbles back in shock because that isn’t how he’s supposed to react at all.
“Arthur, wait-”
“You are dismissed. Get out now, or so help me-” No one has the right to be so intimidating while lying naked in a bathtub, no weapon within reach, but somehow Arthur is anyway. Merlin turns and runs, his heart hammering in his ears.
*
Gwen finds Merlin hunched in a corner outside one of the empty guest rooms, swearing steadily under his breath.
“Merlin?”
“Oh god, Gwen, I’ve cocked it all up,” he groans. She settles down at his side and automatically starts rubbing a soothing hand across his shoulder and upper back.
“What happened?”
“Morgana told me, and I went to see him, and I didn’t know what to say, I was just babbling, and then I asked him what he wants and somehow he figured out that I knew but he - I don’t know, he must have thought I was trying to make fun of him, he just shut down and threw me out. What am I supposed to do now?”
“Let him calm down, and then go talk to him,” Gwen says matter-of-factly. “Preferably while he’s wearing clothes.”
“What do clothes have to do with it?”
Gwen rolls her eyes.
“How would you feel if he marched in and made it obvious that he knew your biggest secret while you were naked?” Merlin dutifully pictures that scenario, Arthur raging about liars and sorcery while Merlin scrambles for his trousers, and swallows.
“Right.”
*
Merlin gives it a few hours. He originally intended to wait until tomorrow, but the thought of Arthur so unhappy gnaws at his insides so he knows he won’t be able to sleep, and he hates the idea of letting Arthur stew unnecessarily. He’s already handled it badly enough, he thinks, best set things to rights as soon as possible. So he waits until just after dinner, then approaches Arthur’s chambers.
Morgana, it seems, has arrived first. The door is slightly ajar and Merlin can hear the shouting from the far end of the hall.
“I suppose you thought it would be funny! Haha, let’s poke fun at stupid besotted Arthur, won’t that be a lark-”
“You idiot. Arthur, I didn’t tell him to make a mockery of you, I told him so he would go and do something about it since you were clearly never going to do anything yourself!”
“I can’t. He’s my servant, if I were to - I’d be no better than the castellan with the maids-”
“You are nothing like the castellan and Merlin is nothing like the scullery maid. Stop hiding behind your damned principles and just admit that you’re too scared to give it a chance!”
“I am not scared!”
“Then why can’t you tell him how you feel?”
There’s a long, stubborn silence. By this point Merlin is just outside the door and so he hears it when Morgana says, much more quietly,
“I have never known you to be a coward, Arthur. Don’t start now.”
And Arthur replies, just as quietly,
“Go away, Morgana.”
Merlin steps back just in time to avoid her sweeping exit. She closes the door behind her and regards Merlin with something like pity.
“I hope you have better luck,” she murmurs, and leaves.
Merlin waits until she turns a corner, then knocks, tentatively.
“Enter.”
Arthur is perched in his chair, glaring at a goblet of wine. And, conveniently, fully dressed. “Merlin,” he says, sounding incredibly tired. “I suppose I owe you an apology for my conduct earlier.”
“Arthur, you don’t have to apologize-”
“I do. Morgana told you something I wish she hadn’t, but my reaction was inappropriate. You should never have been put into this position. If-” he stops, looking pained, and takes a deep drink from the wine, then continues without looking up. “If, in light of the information you have received, you would prefer to leave my employ, I’ll not stand in your way.”
This stiff formality is even worse than Arthur’s earlier detached politeness. It makes Merlin feel as miserable as Arthur looks; in this moment, he would like nothing better than for Arthur to simply smile and call him an idiot.
“No. I told you, I’m happy to be your servant until the day I die.”
“Very well. Then I’ll thank you not to speak of this again.”
”No.”
“Excuse me?”
“I said no.” He moves closer and Arthur watches him, wary. “I do a lot for you, you know. I lie to your father for you, I go on your ridiculous hunting trips, I polish your armor, I fetch your food, I prepare your baths, I clean your chambers-”
“Not very well,” Arthur mutters, and Merlin’s heart soars at the small triumph. He takes another step, stopping right in front of Arthur’s chair.
“I watch your back constantly, I save your life even when it may cost my own - why can’t you believe that just maybe, I want you too?”
Finally, finally Arthur’s expression softens. His mouth goes slack with surprise and he stares up at Merlin, his eyes full of wonder.
“Most of that’s your job,” he says carefully, testing.
“Yeah, but I could quit.” Merlin plants his hands on the arms of the chair, bends forward so there’s not more than a foot between their faces. “And the important parts, those are above and beyond the job description, you have to admit that.”
“I never asked you to die for me.”
“No, you didn’t. I’d do it again all the same.”
“Merlin,” Arthur swallows, hard, “what do you want from me?”
“I want you to stop being all distant and polite. I want you to be my friend, like you were before, and if you want to do more, then I want that too.”
“Merlin-” And that’s the final straw, Arthur’s voice so soft and small and desperate that Merlin can’t do anything but lean in and capture it with his mouth.
There’s a horrible instant when Arthur’s stiff and still and Merlin’s terrified that he’s going to push him away, that it’s all going to go pear-shaped again. But a split-second later Arthur responds, and then the desperation that was in his voice is nothing compared to that of his kiss, and Merlin finds it’s his own breath that’s gone.
Arthur’s hands come up to cup Merlin’s cheeks, then slide back to tangle in his hair while Arthur parts his lips, slides his tongue against Merlin’s, shudders and gasps and clutches at Merlin as if he’s drowning. Merlin still has his hands planted on the chair arms, elbows locked; as soon as he relaxes the hold Arthur tugs him down onto his lap. Merlin’s hands fly to Arthur’s face, neck, shoulder, whatever he can reach, and his knees go everywhere in the attempt to find a position that works, no easy task with his eyes closed and his mouth locked against Arthur’s. In the midst of the sprawl - he barely notices it, Arthur’s sucking on his lip now, the lightest scraping of teeth - he jostles the table and the wine goblet tips over.
The clatter of the goblet hitting the floor startles them both into coming up for air. Merlin presses his forehead against Arthur’s, panting just a little. Arthur looks past him, at the goblet, then back to Merlin, questioning. Merlin smirks.
“All my fault. Don’t you dare hold back,” he whispers. Arthur matches his smile.
“You’re a clumsy oaf,” Arthur says roughly, and never breaking eye contact, he lifts the hand that had settled at Merlin’s waist, reaches around to run his fingers through the spilled wine, then pulls back and drags his palm over his own chest, a crimson stain chasing his touch across the pale blue shirt.
Merlin looks down, then grabs Arthur’s wrist and tugs it up so he can lick the last drops of wine from Arthur’s fingers. He feels Arthur’s answering shiver through his whole body, and the prince’s gaze is open and hungry when Merlin meets his eyes again.
“Look at that mess, Merlin. Hadn’t you better get me out of these filthy clothes?”
“Yes, sire,” Merlin says eagerly, scrambling out of Arthur’s lap to do just that. Arthur flinches, though, and freezes up, looking guilty. Merlin’s confused for just a moment, then - Oh. “Arthur,” he corrects himself urgently, “Arthur, Arthur, Arthur,” and touches Arthur’s face, his hair, kisses his cheeks and temples and the very edge of his mouth until Arthur moans and goes loose and pliant under Merlin’s hands and tilts his head to meet the next press of Merlin’s lips with his own.
Eventually Merlin manages to get Arthur up out of the chair. He peels the stained shirt away, tosses it aside, then bends to lap at the liquid that’s soaked through and beaded right above Arthur’s heart. It’s wine, salt, sweat, the smoothness of skin and the rough scratch of hair; it could be the worst taste and texture in the world and it would still be worth it for the noises it draws out of Arthur.
Then Arthur’s hands are scrabbling at the hem of Merlin’s own tunic, trying to work it off, which would go better if it didn’t leave Merlin tangled up in his own sleeves and neckerchief. But Arthur keeps pulling and yanking, and meanwhile he sucks kisses against every inch of skin that passes anywhere near his mouth, and when Merlin finally collapses flushed and topless on the bed, Arthur cheers with unabashed delight before crawling over him to start on the trousers.
They’re both laughing like idiots before they manage to escape any more of their clothing. Boots before trousers rather than the other way around, they learn, though Merlin could have told Arthur so to begin with. But it’s an excuse to call the prince a bit dim, which is an excuse for Arthur to tell Merlin he’s a tosser in a tone that’s so low and sensual that Merlin’s not sure he’ll ever be able to hear the word again without getting hard.
Merlin is more efficient in divesting Arthur of his remaining clothes, though there are still delays for giggling and grumbling and groaning, for stupid comments and for the sweet, slow kisses that follow. When the last sock is gone, Arthur sprawls across the bed and tugs Merlin down on top of him.
“God, Merlin, why didn’t we do this sooner?”
“Because you were too noble and stubborn to say anything.”
“And you were too oblivious to notice, even though bloody Morgana figured it out-”
“Women know things,” Merlin says. Arthur’s squirming under him, hands hot on Merlin’s back, but then Merlin thinks of Gwen and suddenly he wants to stop, to tell Arthur everything because it isn’t fair that Arthur’s laid himself bare like this while Merlin is still hiding so much. “Arthur, um, there’s something I need to tell you.”
Arthur goes still instantly. He doesn’t pull away, but it’s obvious how much of a struggle that is. “What is it?”
“It’s not - please, Arthur, you’ve got to believe that I never wanted to lie to you, that I’d never hurt you, I just - it’s something I was born with, I didn’t choose it-”
“Spit it out, Merlin,” Arthur says.
“I’m magic,” Merlin says, and cringes. But Arthur just looks at him, quiet and curious, and then says,
“Alright.”
Merlin stares.
“That’s it?”
“I’m going to want details at a later time, of course, but… You keep saving my life, over and over. I can’t believe that it’s all been an elaborate ploy just so you can kill me yourself while we’re in bed together. You’re not clever enough, for one-”
“Hey!”
“-and while I don’t trust magic, I do trust you.”
And that, right there, is enough to make Merlin’s heart feel like it’s bubbling up out of his chest, so full of joy he couldn’t possibly keep it all inside. Merlin has to kiss Arthur, then, curl close and share his overflowing happiness with his lips and tongue and hands. This time Arthur’s response is immediate, every bit as enthusiastic as before, and all the better because there are no more secrets between them.
*
The next time Arthur sees Morgana, she is smug and superior and he says thank you anyway.
The next time Merlin sees Gwen, he doesn’t have to say anything at all, because he smiles and she smiles and it’s obvious that she already knows.
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: There might possibly be a wee bit of an insult kink? It’s all very vague, though, and might also just be my imagination.
Length: ~6800
Summary: In which Merlin is oblivious, Arthur is nobly repressed, Gwen knows everything, and Morgana takes matters into her own hands.
Note: I’m going to say right up front that I don’t even know how this happened. Any of it. I’ve never written any fic this long, nor with sexy doings, vague though they may be. Originally it was going to be a short fluffy little thing about Arthur and his noble repression (Arthur and His Noble Repression should totally be a band) and then somehow all this happened. I hope it works, but concrit is highly appreciated, particularly on the characterization.
One afternoon Arthur storms into his chambers in an absolute rage. Merlin’s in the process of cleaning out the fireplace and thus completely covered in soot. He knows he looks ridiculous, but Arthur doesn’t say a word about it. Arthur’s jibes and insults have been few and far between in recent weeks, but Merlin would have thought that the sight of his manservant coated in the refuse of the fire would be too much for Arthur to resist. Apparently not.
“Training gear, sword, and mace, now. I need to hit something,” the prince growls. He’s wearing his formal clothes, the ones that only come out when Arthur joins his father in holding court, and Merlin worries that he’s going to rip something when he starts stripping himself, his movements rough and angry. The prince has been sitting in court much more often in the weeks since the questing beast’s bite, the king’s invitations an unspoken attempt to make up for the fact that Gaius’s orders still keep Arthur away from many of the more strenuous patrols and training exercises. Arthur’s frustration with the restrictions has been growing along with his returning strength, but there seems to be something else driving this particular temper.
“Yes, sire,” Merlin says, allowing no sarcasm into the title for once. He grabs a cloth to clean himself up, because getting soot on everything isn’t likely to improve Arthur’s disposition, but Arthur waves him off a moment later.
“Nevermind, you’re filthy. Finish what you were doing, I’ll manage myself.” Merlin drops the cloth without argument and goes back to the fireplace. He’s been trying to reign in his own doting for Arthur’s sake; Arthur bristles under the extra care everyone has been affording him, and the soot is an excellent excuse to indulge the prince’s attempts to reassert his independence. Merlin does find the whole situation a bit ironic. This Arthur, recently returned from the brink of death, so often insists on doing for himself tasks that Arthur in the flush of health dumped on Merlin without a second thought. And Merlin, for his part, is so much more willing than he ever was before to save Arthur any effort.
“What happened?” Merlin asks instead, to distract himself from watching the way Arthur’s left arm still shows signs of stiffness.
“One of the cases that came before us this morning. A scullery maid said the castellan approached her, attempted to solicit her favors, and threatened to dismiss her when she refused him. He, of course, claimed that it was she who solicited him, and that she brought the complaint against him in retaliation for his own refusal.”
Arthur stops there to pull on a plainer tunic, and Merlin is a little relieved when he can no longer see the fresh scar marring the prince’s shoulder. There’s more than enough else to remind him, constantly, of how close he came to losing the man; the sight of the scar makes his gut clench.
Merlin wonders if this scullery maid is the same one he found crying in the stables the other day. The poor girl had been a wreck, refusing to explain what was wrong and flinching away from the hand he’d tried to lay on her shoulder in comfort. It’s an awful thing to be sure, but it doesn’t seem to be adequate cause for the intensity of the anger Arthur radiates now. So Merlin waits patiently for the rest of the story, finally offering a quiet prompt of “Yes?” when it looks as though Arthur isn’t going to continue.
“She had bruises on her arms,” Arthur bites out. “He tried to force her when she balked, it was only another servant walking in on them that stopped him. And apparently this isn’t the first time such a thing has happened, but all the other girls were too frightened of losing their places to speak up.”
“Oh,” says Merlin.
“Yes, oh. He’s being removed from his position but that’s hardly sufficient punishment for such violation. If it were up to me-”
“You’d what?”
“He’s just lucky it isn’t up to me,” Arthur says darkly. He sits down on the bed to pull off his dress boots and flings them viciously across the room, one after the other. “Any man’s trying to force a woman - or another man, for that matter - is unforgivable, but for a man in his position - he’s her better, he’s supposed to look after the staff, not - he should never have even asked her.”
“Why not?” Arthur stares at Merlin like he’s just suggested throwing an infant out a window. Merlin thinks it’s a simple enough question; of course the man’s actions were wrong, but he doesn’t see the harm in the initial request. After a moment the confusion that must be evident in Merlin’s face softens the expression on Arthur’s, and the prince sighs and starts undoing his belt.
“Because, Merlin, he’s her superior. I realize the concept of obedience is a foreign one to you, but few normal people would feel free to refuse someone with such power over them, even without the spoken threat of violence or dismissal. Approaching a girl like that, who’s so far beneath him - it was a gross abuse of his authority before he ever laid a hand on her.”
“Is that why you don’t-” Arthur’s head snaps up at the pronoun, and his expression is so strange, almost frightened, that Merlin stumbles over his words. These weird looks seem to have replaced derision as Arthur’s preferred method for dealing with his manservant, but the frequency hasn’t made them any less weird. Merlin rallies, after a moment. “Why you don’t, uh, sleep with the maids?” (Merlin has overheard enough of the servants’ gossip to know that while many of them would be quite happy to warm the prince’s bed, none of them ever have.)
Arthur blanches, like the question isn’t the one he expected, and turns his gaze back to the fastenings of his trousers. “Yes. It wouldn’t be right. They’re mine to employ and protect, not to take advantage of.”
“That’s very noble of you,” Merlin says, impressed.
Arthur doesn’t respond to that, just finishes changing his clothing in silence.
“Do try not to get soot on absolutely everything,” he says on his way out, but there’s no bite to it.
*
The conversation sticks in Merlin’s mind while he works. He can’t help but feel that he missed something, that there was something more to Arthur’s fury than righteous indignation over the mistreatment of a maid he had probably never seen before. Arthur cares deeply for his kingdom and the people in it, but in Merlin’s experience his emotional response to injustice tends to be one of sadness, of disappointment that he or his father or his men could not do better in the face of it. Arthur’s anger is usually reserved for more personal affronts, as a reaction to his own fear or humiliation or frustration.
It’s an odd thing, to top off the list of recent oddities as far as Arthur is concerned. Merlin worries at the incongruity like a loose tooth as he finishes with the fireplace, lays in fresh wood, and disposes of the debris, but he’s no closer to a solution when the prince returns.
Arthur stomps in flushed and sweaty, his face streaked with grime and his knuckles raw. Merlin has cleaned himself up by this point so he rushes to help, undoing buckles and peeling the plates off with practiced fingers. Arthur is quiet, staring straight ahead, though he sucks in a sharp breath when a piece of metal scrapes across the back of his hand. Merlin drops the armor and grabs Arthur’s fist, glaring at the abused skin.
“What did you do, use yourself as a target for the mace?” he demands. Usually Arthur would point out that a mace injury would look substantially different and more severe and proceed to mock Merlin’s unfamiliarity with the workings of weapons.
“I hit something,” he says instead. “Repeatedly.”
Merlin rolls his eyes. “You couldn’t stick to hitting things with your sword? You’re still supposed to be taking it easy, you know. I’m going to have to bandage this, and then Gaius will find out, and he’ll do the eyebrow at me, and-” Merlin’s babbling eventually earns him a small smile and that’s almost worth it, though he isn’t kidding about the eyebrow.
*
“I don’t know what to do with him anymore,” Merlin confesses to Gwen the next day. They’re out in a field, Gwen gathering flowers for Morgana and Merlin accompanying her because Arthur gave him the morning off for no discernable reason.
“How do you mean?”
“He’s being weird. He’s practically nice when he’s not yelling at me to let him do things himself, hardly any insults at all - he hasn’t called me an idiot in three weeks, I’ve counted, and he keeps looking at me funny, and-”
“Merlin,” Gwen interrupts, gently, with an odd expression, like what she’s saying isn’t quite what she’s thinking and she wants him to know it. “He nearly died a few weeks ago.”
“I know that,” Merlin says, with feeling, and Gwen shakes her head.
“No, I mean - he nearly died a few weeks ago, but he didn’t, and that was thanks to you.” Merlin stares at her, eyes wide; Gwen holds up a hand when he opens his mouth to object. “Don’t deny it, Merlin. He was dying, and then you went away, and when you came back there was suddenly a tincture that saved him? And then your mother - I won’t ask you what it was, Merlin, but I know you did something. Arthur knows that, too.”
“How-”
“My lady,” Gwen admits. “I don’t know how she knew, but - when you went away, the second time, Arthur kept complaining, asking for you, until Morgana went to see him. She told him that you had found his cure, but it came at a cost to your mother, and so you had to go and help her as well. He stopped complaining, after that.”
Merlin flops onto his back in the grass, dizzy with astonishment. “He never said anything, he just-” Then a sudden thought hits him and he jerks upright. “Does Uther-”
“No,” Gwen says. “As far as the king is concerned, his son was saved by one of Gaius’s preparations, nothing more.”
Merlin sags with relief. “I had no idea anyone apart from Gaius…”
Gwen just gives him a crooked, satisfied grin. There’s something about it, about the knowing look in her eyes, that makes him press further.
“Gwen, what else do you know?”
“I know you aren’t ordinary,” she says, significantly, “and I know Arthur’s going to be a great king one day, and…” she trails off, smirking suggestively now, and Merlin leans forward, grinning in anticipation. “And I know a great deal about discretion,” she finishes.
Merlin groans, and Gwen laughs at him, and then he sobers, staring at her with a new respect.
“Gwen, you’re incredible. You really are.” She blushes at that and he leans forward again to press an impulsive kiss against her cheek. “Thank you.”
*
It occurs to him, later, that he should have found out exactly how much Gwen knows, exactly what she meant by ‘you aren’t ordinary,’ but somehow it doesn’t matter. Much as the revelation made his stomach feel as though it fell to his feet, it’s also an incredible relief. One day he’s going to tell her everything, he’s sure, but for now it’s enough that she knows something and that it’s alright.
He wonders about Morgana, too. He remembers when she pulled him into that alcove, the hunted cast of her features, the warning she’d tried to give him. That Gwen knows something of what he did for Arthur is comfort, because she’s Gwen and she’s clever and she notices things. That Morgana knows about it makes his heart ache, because it’s surely the same way she knew about Sophia, the same way she knew about the questing beast.
That Arthur knows… Merlin isn’t sure how he feels about that. It isn’t the first time Merlin has saved Arthur’s life with Arthur’s awareness of the fact, but Arthur’s never acted any differently as a result. Whereas the prince has previously offered him thanks of some kind, grudging though it may be. Merlin doesn’t much care that Arthur hasn’t bothered to thank him this time, it’s not something he ever expected, but he can’t understand why Arthur’s acting like he doesn’t know and yet being so odd.
*
The next morning, when Arthur sits down to breakfast, Merlin deliberately stumbles into the table and knocks over the water jug, just to see what happens. The fact that most of the water ends up in Arthur’s lap is happy coincidence.
Instead of yelling or rolling his eyes or expressing any kind of outrage at all, Arthur just sighs.
“A towel, please, Merlin, and do try to be a bit more careful.”
Merlin stares at him in shock for a good long moment. Long enough that Arthur would be more than justified in complaining again, but the prince just watches him expectantly until Merlin finally forces himself to move.
*
That afternoon, Merlin unwinds the bandages across Arthur’s knuckles. (He had been right about the eyebrow, although Gaius had also reluctantly admitted that Merlin did a good job with the dressing, so it hadn’t been a complete loss.) The scrapes are sufficiently scabbed over that Merlin acquiesces to Arthur’s request that the bandages not be replaced, though the request is so disturbingly polite that Merlin finally decides he can’t take it anymore.
“You know,” he says conversationally, rubbing healing salve into Arthur’s left hand, “You didn’t start being all weird and nice at me any of the other times I saved your life. What gives now?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Arthur. You haven’t called me an idiot once since you were injured, you keep giving me time off for no reason, this morning I dumped water on you and you didn’t even yell at me-”
Arthur blinks at him, his face guarded. “You want me to yell at you?”
“No, I’d just like to know why you’ve stopped.”
“Someone told me not to be a prat,” Arthur says quietly, looking at the hand Merlin isn’t working on. “I’m trying.”
“But why?”
“I don’t have to explain myself to you,” Arthur snaps, and that makes Merlin feel better. Familiar territory, that tone of voice. He finishes the left hand and takes up the right.
“No, no, ‘course you don’t. I mean, I only saved your life, that’s certainly no reason to go around answering simple questions.”
“It’s not a simple-” Arthur sighs and rubs his free hand across his face. “Look, Merlin, thank you. For what you did. I should have said that weeks ago, I just… and I’m sorry for your mother. She shouldn’t have had to suffer on my account. I don’t know what happened exactly and I don’t expect that you’re going to tell me, but thank you.”
“Yeah, well, looking after you is sort of my job,” Merlin mumbles, a little overwhelmed by Arthur’s sincerity.
*
In bed that night, turning over the conversation in his head, Merlin realizes that Arthur never actually answered the question.
*
Faced with Arthur’s increasingly disturbing and inexplicable pleasantries, Merlin does the only rational thing: he avoids Arthur as much as possible and spends more time with Gwen.
She looks at him like he has a mental affliction when he admits that he’s staying away from Arthur because he can’t handle the prince being nice, but he finds it sort of comforting that at least someone is questioning his faculties. It’s not that Merlin likes being insulted, it’s just that the sniping and banter he used to engage in with Arthur is so engrained, so normal, that he feels lost without it.
“You can’t just keep avoiding him,” Gwen says.
“I don’t see why not.”
“Merlin-”
“I’m not shirking my duties, I do everything I’m supposed to, I just don’t hang about when I’m not needed.”
“And you’re miserable.”
“I am not!”
“You miss him.” She’s got that I-know-things gleam in her eye, and it’s enough to make Merlin abandon the pretense.
“I miss the old Arthur. This bizarre intense pleasant Arthur is just… I don’t know what to do, Gwen, I really don’t.”
“Well, your current course of action doesn’t seem to be helping, does it?”
Merlin decides that maybe Gwen knowing things isn’t so great after all.
*
Merlin does miss Arthur. He misses his stupid prattish smile and his laughter and the gleam in his eye when he has something particularly hilarious to inflict on Merlin. He misses their easy companionship, the casual derision that he has long since stopped hearing as anything other than affection, even the excessive manhandling. Arthur doesn’t thump Merlin about the head anymore, or drag him down the hall by the arm, or grab hold of his shoulders to steer him toward some mess he’s supposed to clear up.
No, Arthur’s just patient and indulgent when Merlin makes a mistake, quiet and restless otherwise. And there’s no end to the odd looks, especially when the prince thinks Merlin isn’t paying attention. He watches Merlin, careful and alert and with this curious sadness, and always finds some way to change the subject when Merlin tries to call him on it.
One day Gwen corners Merlin in the hall by Arthur’s chambers. The prince is outside on the training field; these days, when Merlin has no excuse not to observe the exercises, he pays close attention to the routine and leaves early enough to get Arthur’s bath drawn and his clean clothes laid out before the prince finishes. That way, when Arthur’s done, Merlin only has to remove the armor before he can flee.
“Hey Gwen,” Merlin says cheerfully, but she just pries the bucket of hot water out of his hands and says, sternly,
“Enough is enough, Merlin. I’ll see to the prince. You need to go and speak with Morgana.”
“What? Gwen, what’s wrong?”
“Just go and talk to her, Merlin. Trust me. She’s in her chambers.”
He stares after her, dumbfounded, but she bustles inside without another word and finally Merlin has no choice but to do as she says. Arthur’s due back soon anyway, so it’s probably just as well. He was behaving exceptionally oddly this morning, fidgeting and refusing to look Merlin in the eye until Merlin tried to make up the bed, at which point Arthur jumped up as if he were scared and dismissed Merlin, practically throwing him out of the room. The rudeness of the ejection would almost have been refreshing if Merlin hadn’t been so bewildered by the rest.
Not that Morgana is a much more appealing prospect. She has kept mostly to herself since the questing beast, and looked eerie and withdrawn the few times Merlin has seen her. Gwen’s reports indicate that her lady has not been sleeping well. He’s felt as though they ought to have a conversation ever since that revealing discussion with Gwen, but the situation with Arthur has left Merlin too disoriented to force himself to face the matter.
He knocks at Morgana’s door with some trepidation, though she looks bright and regal and collected when he enters at her direction.
“Um. Gwen said-”
“Please, Merlin, have a seat,” Morgana says, smiling. She’s seated at the table with a pitcher, two goblets, and a plate of fruit. Merlin follows her elegant gesture to the chair opposite hers and sits a little awkwardly.
“Won’t you have some cider?” she asks, filling one of the goblets. Merlin accepts it and takes a small sip. “Help yourself to the fruit as well,” she adds. “Now. Gwen tells me you have been avoiding Arthur recently. May I ask why that is?”
The natural impulse to complain about Arthur’s change of character, Merlin finds, overrides any other. “I don’t know what’s come over him. He never makes fun of me, he just keeps giving me time off and looking at me and being polite and - it’s been a month now since he last called me an idiot.”
Morgana’s features retain their perfect composed mask, but he’s sure he can see a hint of laughter dancing in the lady’s eyes.
“Perhaps he has finally realized that when he says ‘idiot’, he really means ‘I love you’,” she suggests lightly. Merlin promptly chokes on his cider.
“What?”
“Oh, dear. You really have no idea, do you?”
“Of what?”
“I had hoped Gwen was exaggerating the extent of your ignorance, but it seems-” She shakes her head and reaches across the table to take Merlin’s hand. “Merlin,” Morgana says kindly, “Arthur is in love with you. Rather desperately.”
“What?” The little voice in Merlin’s mind that sounds rather a lot like Gaius takes a moment to be appalled at the sudden drastic reduction in his vocabulary, but the rest of his brain is incapable of mustering any other response.
“You honestly didn’t even suspect?”
“…No?” Merlin manages weakly. Morgana waits, patient, while he downs the remainder of his cider, then refills the goblet.
“I assure you that he is, and has been for quite some time, though I suspect he only allowed himself to become aware of the fact after his most recent brush with death.” Merlin opens his mouth, then closes it again. “I trust this elucidates the recent shift in his behavior?” Morgana asks.
“Why couldn’t he just say something?”
“Because he’s Arthur,” Morgana says, but the wheels in Merlin’s mind are already turning. He remembers, suddenly, the surprising depth of Arthur’s rage over the castellan’s advances toward the scullery maid.
“He thinks it’s wrong for people with power to proposition those without. But I’m not - Yes, I’m his servant, but he can’t believe that I would-”
“He does have strong convictions about the proper use of authority and the importance of consent without taint of coercion,” Morgana says. “I’m sure that’s the excuse he gives himself, but you’re right. I don’t believe Arthur fears that you would feel compelled to respond to his advances, should they be unwelcome.”
“Then what-”
“How to explain this … Merlin, how would you describe Arthur?”
“Um,” Merlin frowns, considering. “He’s incredibly brave, and he can be a right arrogant git sometimes but he always tries to do the right thing when it counts, um, quite handy with a sword, much too eager to charge into things that are going to get him killed…”
There’s a hint of strain under Morgana’s smile at that, but she just nods.
“Yes, very well. But if you strip away all the trappings of the prince, the duty and the daring and the bravado he shows the world…”
“He’s still a good man,” Merlin insists. “But he’s less… he’s not as sure of himself, I guess. He’s not always sure what’s right, or that he’s going to be good enough.”
“Not that ignorant, then,” Morgana says, grinning. “That’s the crux of it. Arthur the prince sees people falling over themselves to get into his bed because he’s just that good, and abstains simply because it wouldn’t be right to take advantage of them. Arthur the man sees people only interested in the image of the prince. He’s not wrong; there are very few in his life who see him as anything more. And those of us who do,” her smile turns rueful, “are not often moved to nurse his self-confidence. But you, more than anyone, refuse to be taken in by the persona. You serve the man, yet you do not bow to the prince.”
“I still don’t understand,” Merlin admits.
“Oh, Merlin.” She squeezes his hand. “Arthur isn’t afraid that you won’t reject him. He’s afraid that you will.”
Merlin gapes at her for several long beats, completely flabbergasted, and then a slow eager smile blooms across his face. At that Morgana releases his hand and waves him toward the hall. “Go, go,” she says.
Merlin turns in the doorway to smile back at her. “Thank you, Morgana.”
*
Gwen’s gone when Merlin slips into Arthur’s chambers. He finds the prince alone, slumped low in his bath with his eyes closed and his head tipped back against the rim of the tub. Arthur does not appear to have noticed his entrance, so Merlin takes a moment to just look. He admires Arthur’s skin, rosy from exertion and the heat of the water; the tantalizing line of his bared throat; the muscles in his arms; the relaxed set of his features. The fact of Arthur’s physical beauty is not one that has ever escaped Merlin’s notice, but it’s never seemed important before. Now, it’s like an unexpected addition to the prize. He would have been more than satisfied at getting the old Arthur back; the possibility of the old Arthur and then some is a delight he hasn’t really allowed himself to consider yet. He looks, but then his gaze catches the scar, and that is distraction enough to snap him out of his reverie.
Merlin coughs, announcing his presence. Arthur opens his eyes, and upon spotting Merlin he adopts that same startled, slightly scared expression he’s been wearing so often lately. Merlin doesn’t have a plan, exactly, so he just goes with the first words that appear in his head.
“Aren’t you going to berate me for not being here to see to your armor?” Merlin asks, fighting down the urge to smirk.
“Gwen took care of it,” Arthur says. “You may go.”
“Yeah, but see, it’s my job,” Merlin presses.
“Guinevere assured me you had good reason for being elsewhere.”
“I’ve been spending a lot of time with Gwen lately,” Merlin says, deciding to try a different tactic.
“I’ve noticed,” Arthur admits. He looks unhappy and drops his gaze.
“Does that bother you?”
“You’re free to do what you like with whomever you like in your leisure time.”
“Which you’ve been giving me an awful lot of. I wonder why that is.”
“What do you want, Merlin?” Arthur asks, and Merlin is gratified to hear a little bit of sharpness edging its way into the prince’s voice.
“A pony and a toy boat and to be king of all Albion and wear a shiny hat,” Merlin replies promptly. That earns him a surprised laugh and the return of Arthur’s gaze, now openly curious.
“I gave you a shiny hat once. You hated it.”
“That was not a shiny hat. That was a stupid hat, and you only gave it to me so you could make fun of me, and that’s entirely beside the point.”
“Which is?” Merlin marches right up to the side of the tub and leans over, so he can breath hot and close into Arthur’s ear.
“That I want a lot of things, Arthur Pendragon,” Merlin says, slowly, pausing to watch Arthur stiffen, his fingers curling tight around the rim of the tub, “but what I don’t want is you,” and as Arthur’s knuckles go white Merlin realizes what that sounds like and rushes onward, guilty, “acting all distant and polite and hands-off.”
Arthur’s hands relax but a small choked sound escapes him, and the scared look returns.
“What do you want, Arthur?” Merlin asks, backing off just a little. Arthur peers at him, confused and helpless. The expression is very much like the one Arthur had worn on the beach, with two goblets and an ultimatum before them, though now he lacks the determination of that moment. It makes Merlin’s heart flutter in his chest. He wishes that Arthur weren’t so stubborn, that he didn’t feel the need to play this game, that he could just kiss the idiot and trust that everything would be alright after.
“I don’t-” Arthur begins, and then, all of a sudden, it all goes wrong. Merlin can see the precise moment when Arthur gets it, when he realizes that Merlin knows, because his eyes harden and he’s no longer soft and vulnerable and waiting. He’s closed off instead, and angry, and now it’s not the beach Merlin remembers but Arthur’s room, Arthur brandishing a sword with an undead man waiting outside.
“Get out,” Arthur growls, and Merlin stumbles back in shock because that isn’t how he’s supposed to react at all.
“Arthur, wait-”
“You are dismissed. Get out now, or so help me-” No one has the right to be so intimidating while lying naked in a bathtub, no weapon within reach, but somehow Arthur is anyway. Merlin turns and runs, his heart hammering in his ears.
*
Gwen finds Merlin hunched in a corner outside one of the empty guest rooms, swearing steadily under his breath.
“Merlin?”
“Oh god, Gwen, I’ve cocked it all up,” he groans. She settles down at his side and automatically starts rubbing a soothing hand across his shoulder and upper back.
“What happened?”
“Morgana told me, and I went to see him, and I didn’t know what to say, I was just babbling, and then I asked him what he wants and somehow he figured out that I knew but he - I don’t know, he must have thought I was trying to make fun of him, he just shut down and threw me out. What am I supposed to do now?”
“Let him calm down, and then go talk to him,” Gwen says matter-of-factly. “Preferably while he’s wearing clothes.”
“What do clothes have to do with it?”
Gwen rolls her eyes.
“How would you feel if he marched in and made it obvious that he knew your biggest secret while you were naked?” Merlin dutifully pictures that scenario, Arthur raging about liars and sorcery while Merlin scrambles for his trousers, and swallows.
“Right.”
*
Merlin gives it a few hours. He originally intended to wait until tomorrow, but the thought of Arthur so unhappy gnaws at his insides so he knows he won’t be able to sleep, and he hates the idea of letting Arthur stew unnecessarily. He’s already handled it badly enough, he thinks, best set things to rights as soon as possible. So he waits until just after dinner, then approaches Arthur’s chambers.
Morgana, it seems, has arrived first. The door is slightly ajar and Merlin can hear the shouting from the far end of the hall.
“I suppose you thought it would be funny! Haha, let’s poke fun at stupid besotted Arthur, won’t that be a lark-”
“You idiot. Arthur, I didn’t tell him to make a mockery of you, I told him so he would go and do something about it since you were clearly never going to do anything yourself!”
“I can’t. He’s my servant, if I were to - I’d be no better than the castellan with the maids-”
“You are nothing like the castellan and Merlin is nothing like the scullery maid. Stop hiding behind your damned principles and just admit that you’re too scared to give it a chance!”
“I am not scared!”
“Then why can’t you tell him how you feel?”
There’s a long, stubborn silence. By this point Merlin is just outside the door and so he hears it when Morgana says, much more quietly,
“I have never known you to be a coward, Arthur. Don’t start now.”
And Arthur replies, just as quietly,
“Go away, Morgana.”
Merlin steps back just in time to avoid her sweeping exit. She closes the door behind her and regards Merlin with something like pity.
“I hope you have better luck,” she murmurs, and leaves.
Merlin waits until she turns a corner, then knocks, tentatively.
“Enter.”
Arthur is perched in his chair, glaring at a goblet of wine. And, conveniently, fully dressed. “Merlin,” he says, sounding incredibly tired. “I suppose I owe you an apology for my conduct earlier.”
“Arthur, you don’t have to apologize-”
“I do. Morgana told you something I wish she hadn’t, but my reaction was inappropriate. You should never have been put into this position. If-” he stops, looking pained, and takes a deep drink from the wine, then continues without looking up. “If, in light of the information you have received, you would prefer to leave my employ, I’ll not stand in your way.”
This stiff formality is even worse than Arthur’s earlier detached politeness. It makes Merlin feel as miserable as Arthur looks; in this moment, he would like nothing better than for Arthur to simply smile and call him an idiot.
“No. I told you, I’m happy to be your servant until the day I die.”
“Very well. Then I’ll thank you not to speak of this again.”
”No.”
“Excuse me?”
“I said no.” He moves closer and Arthur watches him, wary. “I do a lot for you, you know. I lie to your father for you, I go on your ridiculous hunting trips, I polish your armor, I fetch your food, I prepare your baths, I clean your chambers-”
“Not very well,” Arthur mutters, and Merlin’s heart soars at the small triumph. He takes another step, stopping right in front of Arthur’s chair.
“I watch your back constantly, I save your life even when it may cost my own - why can’t you believe that just maybe, I want you too?”
Finally, finally Arthur’s expression softens. His mouth goes slack with surprise and he stares up at Merlin, his eyes full of wonder.
“Most of that’s your job,” he says carefully, testing.
“Yeah, but I could quit.” Merlin plants his hands on the arms of the chair, bends forward so there’s not more than a foot between their faces. “And the important parts, those are above and beyond the job description, you have to admit that.”
“I never asked you to die for me.”
“No, you didn’t. I’d do it again all the same.”
“Merlin,” Arthur swallows, hard, “what do you want from me?”
“I want you to stop being all distant and polite. I want you to be my friend, like you were before, and if you want to do more, then I want that too.”
“Merlin-” And that’s the final straw, Arthur’s voice so soft and small and desperate that Merlin can’t do anything but lean in and capture it with his mouth.
There’s a horrible instant when Arthur’s stiff and still and Merlin’s terrified that he’s going to push him away, that it’s all going to go pear-shaped again. But a split-second later Arthur responds, and then the desperation that was in his voice is nothing compared to that of his kiss, and Merlin finds it’s his own breath that’s gone.
Arthur’s hands come up to cup Merlin’s cheeks, then slide back to tangle in his hair while Arthur parts his lips, slides his tongue against Merlin’s, shudders and gasps and clutches at Merlin as if he’s drowning. Merlin still has his hands planted on the chair arms, elbows locked; as soon as he relaxes the hold Arthur tugs him down onto his lap. Merlin’s hands fly to Arthur’s face, neck, shoulder, whatever he can reach, and his knees go everywhere in the attempt to find a position that works, no easy task with his eyes closed and his mouth locked against Arthur’s. In the midst of the sprawl - he barely notices it, Arthur’s sucking on his lip now, the lightest scraping of teeth - he jostles the table and the wine goblet tips over.
The clatter of the goblet hitting the floor startles them both into coming up for air. Merlin presses his forehead against Arthur’s, panting just a little. Arthur looks past him, at the goblet, then back to Merlin, questioning. Merlin smirks.
“All my fault. Don’t you dare hold back,” he whispers. Arthur matches his smile.
“You’re a clumsy oaf,” Arthur says roughly, and never breaking eye contact, he lifts the hand that had settled at Merlin’s waist, reaches around to run his fingers through the spilled wine, then pulls back and drags his palm over his own chest, a crimson stain chasing his touch across the pale blue shirt.
Merlin looks down, then grabs Arthur’s wrist and tugs it up so he can lick the last drops of wine from Arthur’s fingers. He feels Arthur’s answering shiver through his whole body, and the prince’s gaze is open and hungry when Merlin meets his eyes again.
“Look at that mess, Merlin. Hadn’t you better get me out of these filthy clothes?”
“Yes, sire,” Merlin says eagerly, scrambling out of Arthur’s lap to do just that. Arthur flinches, though, and freezes up, looking guilty. Merlin’s confused for just a moment, then - Oh. “Arthur,” he corrects himself urgently, “Arthur, Arthur, Arthur,” and touches Arthur’s face, his hair, kisses his cheeks and temples and the very edge of his mouth until Arthur moans and goes loose and pliant under Merlin’s hands and tilts his head to meet the next press of Merlin’s lips with his own.
Eventually Merlin manages to get Arthur up out of the chair. He peels the stained shirt away, tosses it aside, then bends to lap at the liquid that’s soaked through and beaded right above Arthur’s heart. It’s wine, salt, sweat, the smoothness of skin and the rough scratch of hair; it could be the worst taste and texture in the world and it would still be worth it for the noises it draws out of Arthur.
Then Arthur’s hands are scrabbling at the hem of Merlin’s own tunic, trying to work it off, which would go better if it didn’t leave Merlin tangled up in his own sleeves and neckerchief. But Arthur keeps pulling and yanking, and meanwhile he sucks kisses against every inch of skin that passes anywhere near his mouth, and when Merlin finally collapses flushed and topless on the bed, Arthur cheers with unabashed delight before crawling over him to start on the trousers.
They’re both laughing like idiots before they manage to escape any more of their clothing. Boots before trousers rather than the other way around, they learn, though Merlin could have told Arthur so to begin with. But it’s an excuse to call the prince a bit dim, which is an excuse for Arthur to tell Merlin he’s a tosser in a tone that’s so low and sensual that Merlin’s not sure he’ll ever be able to hear the word again without getting hard.
Merlin is more efficient in divesting Arthur of his remaining clothes, though there are still delays for giggling and grumbling and groaning, for stupid comments and for the sweet, slow kisses that follow. When the last sock is gone, Arthur sprawls across the bed and tugs Merlin down on top of him.
“God, Merlin, why didn’t we do this sooner?”
“Because you were too noble and stubborn to say anything.”
“And you were too oblivious to notice, even though bloody Morgana figured it out-”
“Women know things,” Merlin says. Arthur’s squirming under him, hands hot on Merlin’s back, but then Merlin thinks of Gwen and suddenly he wants to stop, to tell Arthur everything because it isn’t fair that Arthur’s laid himself bare like this while Merlin is still hiding so much. “Arthur, um, there’s something I need to tell you.”
Arthur goes still instantly. He doesn’t pull away, but it’s obvious how much of a struggle that is. “What is it?”
“It’s not - please, Arthur, you’ve got to believe that I never wanted to lie to you, that I’d never hurt you, I just - it’s something I was born with, I didn’t choose it-”
“Spit it out, Merlin,” Arthur says.
“I’m magic,” Merlin says, and cringes. But Arthur just looks at him, quiet and curious, and then says,
“Alright.”
Merlin stares.
“That’s it?”
“I’m going to want details at a later time, of course, but… You keep saving my life, over and over. I can’t believe that it’s all been an elaborate ploy just so you can kill me yourself while we’re in bed together. You’re not clever enough, for one-”
“Hey!”
“-and while I don’t trust magic, I do trust you.”
And that, right there, is enough to make Merlin’s heart feel like it’s bubbling up out of his chest, so full of joy he couldn’t possibly keep it all inside. Merlin has to kiss Arthur, then, curl close and share his overflowing happiness with his lips and tongue and hands. This time Arthur’s response is immediate, every bit as enthusiastic as before, and all the better because there are no more secrets between them.
*
The next time Arthur sees Morgana, she is smug and superior and he says thank you anyway.
The next time Merlin sees Gwen, he doesn’t have to say anything at all, because he smiles and she smiles and it’s obvious that she already knows.