Fic: Magic Isn't All That Useful (Except For When It Is)

[rebbeile]

Rating: PG
Pairing: Arthur/Merlin
Genre: Crack, fluff, more crack.
Spoilers: General Season 1/2
Disclaimer: Not mine, sadly
Summary: In which Merlin interprets the phrase 'yes, Merlin, I know you have magic' as 'sure, Merlin, you can use it whenever you want for every single stupid purpose you can think of, no problem.' Unsurprisingly, problems ensue.
A/N: Unbeta'd, cracky, and I imagined Arthur's cupboard to be much larger than any cupboard ever made, ever. Because magic and epic, destined love can create things like that.


It was around the moment when the third airborne boot thumped him across the head that Arthur decided that he and Merlin needed to have a serious talk. The problem with Merlin’s magic wasn’t so much the fact that he actually had magic, but rather that as soon as Merlin knew that Arthur knew about it, he let down every single one of his barriers (and threw what little common sense he possessed straight out the window) in favour of wildly casting spells on every single object that he could reach. Which was fine when the objects that he could reach were inanimate, but less so when Arthur found himself to be on the receiving end of Merlin’s more experimental spells.
“I can still have you executed, you know,” he said conversationally from his perch on top of the cupboard (where Merlin’s last spell had placed him).
Merlin looked up at him with interest. “I didn’t know it did that,” he said. “And you wouldn’t dare.”
Arthur thought that it was getting to the point where he would dare almost anything to stop Merlin from using magic every single second of the day. He had a feeling that Merlin wasn’t reading the magic book he had in his hands so much as blurting out random combinations of words in the hope that they would do something mildly amazing rather than pointless or - more alarmingly - lethal.
“If you accidentally maim me, Merlin, you’ll be in the stocks for a year.”
Merlin grinned widely. “This chapter doesn’t have any dangerous spells,” he said reassuringly. “It’s the next chapter you want to watch out for.” He looked down at the book in his hands, and hesitated, peering more closely at the spells scrawled there. “Oh, hang on,” he muttered quietly, flicking quickly back several pages and reading the chapter title. Arthur, still seated on top of the cupboard, swore that he heard a tiny oops before Merlin paled, slammed the book violently shut and tossed it into the corner of the room. Arthur raised an eyebrow.
“I don’t need spells, anyway,” Merlin continued proudly, peering up at the prince. “It’s all instinct.” Arthur looked down at him sceptically. Merlin’s instincts had never been particularly trustworthy, if their hunting trips were anything to go by (Merlin instinctually dropping all of the arrows in a ditch as he jumped over it to instinctually pet whatever animal Arthur was hunting was not a very reassuring sight).
“I have more faith in the instincts of a cow,” he said. “But seeing as there are none in the room, I’ll have to make do with yours. Now get me down.”
Merlin stared up at him, rubbing the side of his slender neck. “It doesn’t work like that,” he said seriously. “It only works if you’re in danger.” He bit his lip. “I suppose I could conjure up a questing beast to trigger it. Unless you just want to throw yourself off the top and let my magic catch you?” He smiled winningly, as though he’d just suggested they take a casual afternoon stroll through the markets of Camelot rather than endangering Arthur’s life. Or at least several of his most important organs, Arthur thought, as he peered over the side of the cupboard. It was a very long way down.

Arthur glared at the top of Merlin’s dark head. He had no idea where Merlin got his confidence in the absolute infallibility of his magic (whenever he mentioned it Merlin just started rambling about dragons and destiny, which Arthur didn’t think was at all relevant), but he certainly didn’t share it. Sure, it might have been useful when Merlin had forgotten to bring the jam up to Arthur’s chambers along with the rest of his breakfast that morning, and yes, it was helpful that one time that Arthur got his trousers trapped in the saddle of his horse, so that they tugged at certain body parts in a very uncomfortable manner, but this was different. This was Arthur’s life they were talking about.

There was a noise from below him, and Arthur looked down to see Merlin peering up at him with an interested expression on his face. Arthur quickly picked up his boot from where it lay beside him and lobbed it at Merlin’s head. “Don’t you dare conjure a questing beast,” he said fiercely.
Merlin pouted up at Arthur in a very distracting way. Arthur found that his eyes were drawn to Merlin’s lips, pink and full below him, and to the way they curved delightfully as he opened them to speak...
“Merlin!” Arthur roared, suddenly realising that Merlin’s hand was raised, and that the words he was mouthing certainly weren’t a part of any language Arthur knew.
“What?” Merlin said innocently, lowering his hand slightly. He saw the look on Arthur’s face and frowned in disappointment. Arthur didn’t like to see Merlin frown. It made his heart sink a little inside his chest, but he dismissed the feeling as simple, healthy sympathy for Merlin. And also for Merlin’s ears, Arthur thought, as Merlin’s frown made them stick out even further. Poor Merlin’s ears. He really ought to employ somebody to hold them up, just so Merlin didn’t have to. But Arthur discarded the idea immediately, because that meant that there would be someone else touching Merlin, and he really couldn’t allow that. Merlin might get diseased or something.
Arthur shook his head to clear it as he realised that Merlin was still talking. “I’d only conjure a little one, Arthur,” Merlin was saying earnestly. “And then you can keep it around and train it to do hunting for you. And you could breed it with the dragon and have a whole nest of flying questing beast babies to use instead of horses, and maybe they’d breathe fire, and imagine how much easier hunting would be.” He grinned, pleased.
Arthur just looked at him. He’d realised after a while that at times like this, it took at least five seconds for Merlin’s brain to catch up to his mouth, and that Merlin would eventually realise what it was that he was saying if Arthur simply waited long enough.
There was a short pause, and then Merlin’s grin slid off his face. “Oh. Oh. Uther,” he said suddenly. Arthur nodded encouragingly.
“That wouldn’t work, would it?” Arthur slowly shook his head, and Merlin gave a disappointed sigh.
“Now that you’ve seen sense, would you get me off this thing?” Arthur asked. “Without conjuring questing beasts?”
“Can’t you just jump?”
It was only Arthur’s princely upbringing that kept him from rolling his eyes. “I’d break every bone in my body, Merlin. Just use the spell book.” He pointed towards the corner of the room where it lay.
Merlin eyed it doubtfully. “Uh, no. I can’t remember which one I used,” he said. “It’s not my fault, though,” he protested, as Arthur opened his mouth to reply. “You’d have been fine if your cupboard wasn’t so big.” Arthur sighed. His cupboard had been only half the size it presently was before Merlin had started tossing spells around.

In fact, Arthur realised, most of the objects within Arthur’s room had now been altered in some way by Merlin’s magic. The current predicament that Arthur was in, though dreadful, paled into insignificance compared with the absolute horror he had felt earlier that morning upon realising that Merlin had turned his bedspread a pale shade of pink.
“But it’s so pretty!” Merlin had said happily over Arthur’s roar of disapproval. “Just pretend that it’s washed out red.”
Arthur had tried to pretend that it was washed out red, really, he had. But he’d never been very good at pretending, and he couldn’t very well show a pink bedspread to the laundry maids. Lord knows what sorts of tales they’d spread. So instead, he’d chased Merlin around his chambers with his sword in a very princely fashion until the other man changed them back again. Merlin had done so reluctantly, muttering something about red being ‘such an angry colour’ and Arthur being a prat.

Arthur sat upright, his head brushing against the ceiling. “Why don’t you conjure a ladder, then?” he asked, and Merlin looked up at him thoughtfully.
“That could work,” he admitted. He waved his hand wildly through the air, his irises flashing gold as he spoke. Now that was a truly pretty colour, Arthur decided, as the pale folds of skin around Merlin’s eyes shone with golden light. He wanted to do things with that colour - he wanted to dye his bedsheets with it, and then all of his clothes, just so that he could be wrapped in it for all the days of his life. He wanted to marry someone while wearing that colour. He wanted to see them walking through the hall towards him with that colour draped delicately across their pale skin, and flowers of the same pure, beautiful gold weaved through their dark hair.
Arthur’s daydream was rudely interrupted by two things. The first was when Merlin’s eyes returned to their original blue (which Arthur had been expecting) and the second was when there was a loud quack from the foot of the cupboard (which Arthur certainly hadn’t). He looked down in confusion.
“A duck?” He said in disbelief. “Merlin, you idiot, how did you get from a ladder to a duck?”
Merlin was looking as surprised as Arthur. “Ah,” he said slowly. “I think I tried for a ladder, but concentrated on the rungs, because I didn’t want to forget about them. And rungs are like bungs, which you find on boats, which you find in the water, like ducks?” The duck gave a haughty quack. 
Arthur stared at him. “Just get rid of it,” he managed after a moment. It was at times like these that Arthur felt a deep sense of appreciation for the brain that he’d been given. He had a feeling that Merlin had been off chasing a unicorn or doing something equally as instinctual when the brains got handed out, and by the time he got back there were barely any left. Whoever was in charge had probably given Merlin the one that had been sitting in the sun all day and was all dusty and shrivelled, and Merlin, silly fellow that he was, didn’t even bother to complain.
Merlin was staring at the duck with an intense expression on his face. The duck stared back in an equally intense manner (or at least Arthur supposed that it was an intense manner. He wasn’t educated in duck expressions). There was a short silence, and then Merlin looked helplessly back up at Arthur. “I can’t,” he said in confusion. Arthur heaved a long sigh. He really didn’t want to think about how Merlin had planned on getting rid of the questing beast.
“You can take it down to the kitchens later,” he said, and shuffled quickly back from the edge as the duck gave him an evil glare. “Try the ladder again.”

Merlin tried. He tried for a whole hour, and Arthur discovered a lot more than he had ever wanted to know about the way in which Merlin’s mind worked. There was a rapidly-growing pile of seemingly random objects sitting beside the cupboard. Arthur glared at them. As well as the duck, there were several pairs of socks, a saddle, half a sandwich (I’m hungry, Merlin had explained sheepishly), Uther’s spare crown, Gaius’ glasses, a bouquet of flowers, a small rock and a hay bale. Something that looked suspiciously like a gag had appeared after Arthur told Merlin he was an idiot for the fifth time, but Merlin, blushing fiercely, had shoved it quickly out of view before Arthur could ask him about it.
“It isn’t working,” Arthur admitted finally, as Merlin raised his hand yet again. There was a small pop and something small and foul-scented landed at Merlin’s feet. “What is that?” he asked in disgust.
Merlin picked it up and grinned. “A bladder,” he said. “We’re getting closer.”
Arthur snorted. “Oh, of course we are, Merlin,” he said sarcastically. “Just drop the B and we’ll be in business.”
“In Usiness, actually,” Merlin replied cheerfully.
Arthur wondered whether it was possible to have Merlin placed in the stocks for an entire week. It probably was, he decided, as long as someone fed him every so often. Perhaps Uther would let him do it. For some reason, the idea of pushing food between the other man’s pretty, parted lips seemed oddly appealing.

There was a noise of disgust below him, and Arthur looked down to see Merlin peering closely at the bladder.
“Arthur,” he started hesitantly, turning it over in his hands, “I think it might be human.”
Arthur sighed. “Have you even seen a human bladder before, Merlin?”
“Well, no. But it feels human.” He poked it with a pale finger.
“That’s disgusting. Just put it in the pile, and you can feel it all you want later on.” Arthur would take great pleasure in throwing it at him just as soon as Merlin was safely confined in the stocks.
Merlin tossed the bladder onto the pile with a squelching sound. It came to rest between the flowers and Uther’s spare crown. Merlin would definitely have to scrub that before taking it back.
Arthur shook his head, realising that he was never going to get down from the cupboard if one of them didn’t start using their brains. “Right,” he said. “I’m sure there’s a ladder somewhere in Camelot. Go and find it, and bring it back here. Without using magic.” Merlin looked up at him, disappointed, and Arthur felt a wave of something like guilt sweep through his stomach.
 “Go,” he said firmly, poking at his stomach in annoyance.
But Merlin didn’t move. His expression shifted, determination sweeping over his features as he stared up at Arthur.
“I can do this, Arthur,” he said earnestly. Arthur raised his eyebrows, looking pointedly from the pile of decidedly non-ladderish objects to Merlin and back again.
“I can, you prat.”
“No, Merlin, you can’t.” Arthur knew that there were some things in the world that people simply couldn’t find it within themselves to do. Arthur couldn’t stop thinking about Merlin. Merlin couldn’t conjure ladders.  It was just the way the world worked.
Merlin, however, didn’t seem to know this. For all the time that Arthur had known him, Merlin had never once shown any sign of giving up simply because he shouldn’t be able to do something. The fact that Arthur’s candles currently had cinnamon-scented flames and the view from his window more closely resembled the ocean than the castle courtyard was proof of that. It was nice, sometimes, to have someone around who believed so firmly in what they could achieve. It made Arthur feel like he could do anything, too.
But right now, with Merlin steadfastly ignoring Arthur’s protests and stubbornly raising his hand to perform another spell, Arthur had to admit that it wasn’t very nice. And when Merlin finished the spell and the cupboard beneath Arthur collapsed, sending him tumbling towards the ground - well, that was downright awful.
“Urgghhh,” Arthur said from his position on top of the now crumbled cupboard. He heard an answering groan from somewhere off to his right, and cracked open an eye to make sure Merlin hadn’t impaled himself. Suprisingly, he hadn’t. The duck, however, was looking somewhat worse for wear. Arthur rubbed his head tentatively, sending a spray of splintered wood across the floor. He was pretty sure that he had knocked it against Merlin’s freshly conjured rock as he fell.
“You idiot,” he managed, as Merlin sat upright and peered blearily around at the rubble.
Merlin looked dolefully back at him. “You’re down, aren’t you?” he replied.
“You have got to be the worst warlock in the world, Merlin, honestly,” Arthur said as he rose stiffly to his feet. Merlin didn’t respond. Arthur looked over at him and saw the other man staring at Arthur’s chest with an expression of mild disgust plastered across his face.
“What?” Arthur asked.
“Ah,” Merlin began tentatively. “It’s just - I think you might have landed on the bladder.”

***

Merlin was really far too much effort, Arthur thought as he sat on the edge of his bed. He’d stripped off all of his bladder-juice-coated clothes and tossed them as far away from himself as possible as soon as Merlin left to fetch the bath. It was only after he was naked, however, that he realised that all of his other clothes were buried beneath the remains of his cupboard, and he had nothing with which to cover himself up. Oh, Merlin was a complete idiot.

Arthur wondered whether it was possible to salvage any of his clothes. Standing up, he crossed the room to the splintered remnants of his cupboard, figuring that he’d simply pull out what bits he could and force Merlin to spend hours piecing them back together. Merlin would have to sit close by the fire to do it, with his head bent over and the pale curve of his neck beautifully exposed, and Arthur would sit behind him and stare at the places where his dark curls brushed against his skin, and imagine what it would be like to run his hands over...
Arthur’s thoughts trailed off as he spotted something gleaming in the rubble. He bent down and pulled it out, puzzled. It looked exactly like the tattered remains of his favourite red shirt, only... it was gold. Arthur rubbed a finger over it. He didn’t remember owning any gold shirts. He reached down into the pile again, and quickly unearthed several more torn items of clothing. They were all gold (even the breeches, and Arthur would never, ever have owned gold breeches). Arthur stared at them in confusion.

There was a thud from the doorway behind him, and Arthur looked up from the clothes to see that Merlin had managed to get the bathtub wedged tightly in the doorframe as he tried to drag it into the room. He crawled underneath it, unperturbed, and began tugging at it from the other direction.
“Merlin,” Arthur started suspiciously, looking from the clothes in his hands to the warlock and back again, “Why are my clothes gold?”
Merlin dropped the edge of the bathtub and turned to face Arthur. He opened his mouth to reply, but then stopped, staring, his eyes fixed somewhere below Arthur’s waist.
 “Merlin,” Arthur repeated imperiously, but Merlin didn’t respond. There was an expression on his face that Arthur hadn’t seen there before. He looked down at himself, wondering what on earth could have Merlin so fixated, and realised that... oh. He was still naked. He shifted uncomfortably, well aware that he’d never been fully undressed when Merlin was around. He wondered whether it was too late to cover himself up. But Merlin had already seen everything - and was still seeing everything, Arthur realised, because the other man hadn’t stopped staring - and besides, he was Prince Arthur of Camelot. He didn’t need to cover himself for anyone.
“Merlin,” he said instead, summoning as much authority into his voice as he could. Merlin looked up, distracted, and then realised what he had been doing and blushed a deep, scarlet red.
“Ah, sorry,” he blurted, and turned back to face the bathtub, his shoulders hunched in embarrassment. Arthur felt a slight pang of something - disappointment? Rejection? - within his chest, but squashed it immediately, because it just wouldn’t do for a Prince to have feelings such as those. He pulled on the least tattered of the pants, and then walked over to Merlin.
“Merlin,” he repeated again, lifting a hand to the man’s shoulders to let him know that it was alright to turn around. But once he had it there, nestled beside the gentle, pale curve of Merlin’s neck, it felt altogether too natural to lift it away.

Merlin turned around slowly, his cheeks still pink, his bottom lip caught nervously between his teeth, and Arthur thought for a second that he was going to step away, crawl back under the bathtub and run down the corridor until Arthur was nothing but a memory, small and distant. But then his eyes were on Arthur’s, and his face was turned to Arthur’s own, and it seemed to Arthur that the only logical thing to do was to lean in and press his lips against Merlin’s, just to see whether they fitted together like Arthur had imagined that they would. Merlin responded eagerly, his thin arms wrapping around Arthur’s neck, and suddenly it didn’t matter that Merlin was an idiot, or that Arthur’s trousers were gold and he had a dead duck in the corner of his room, or that he had a cupboard in splinters on his floor, a bathtub stuck in his doorway and no idea how in the world this ­- him and Merlin, together - would ever work out. Because there were some things that Arthur, Prince of Camelot, couldn’t find it in himself to do, but kissing Merlin wasn’t one of them.

But then Merlin pulled back, gently, and rested his chin against Arthur’s shoulder, and Arthur felt a wash of fear, that Merlin didn’t feel this like Arthur did. That Merlin didn’t want this like Arthur did.
“Arthur,” Merlin said slowly, his voice warm in Arthur’s ear, and Arthur knew what was coming - knew that it was everything he had ever expected and everything he had never wanted to hear. “Arthur, why are your breeches gold?”
Oh. Oh. Somewhere within Arthur’s chest, his heart stuttered back into motion. “I don’t know, Merlin,” he replied, relief blunting the sarcasm in his voice. “Perhaps because your magic turned them that colour?”
“It did?” Merlin sounded genuinely surprised.
“Yes. Wait, you mean you didn’t know?” Arthur asked in bemusement.
Merlin turned his face back up to Arthur’s, his eyes wide and blue. “No, I told you that it’s instinctual, Arthur. I guess my instincts thought you needed gold clothes.”
Arthur considered that as he ran his lips over the base of Merlin’s neck. He remembered the way Merlin’s eyes had flashed gold, and how he’d longed to see more of that colour. How he’d wanted to wear that colour. And as he felt Merlin’s hands running across his bare chest, Arthur realised that Merlin’s instincts weren’t so bad after all.
And after he’d had that thought, it seemed only natural for Arthur to drag Merlin over to the bed and tear off all of his clothes, because Arthur’s instincts were telling him to. And he had a feeling that - what with him being the prince of Camelot and all - his instincts, at least, were always, always right.