Fic: Dream A Little Dream
Rating: pg
pairing: merlin/arthur
Warnings: some slash, some crack, some fluff.
words: 9690
Disclaimer: these delightful creatures are the BBC’s playthings. I just borrow them at lunchbreak.
Summary: Merlin dreams of Arthur and his magic quite likes it.
Notes: first fic ever. Un beta’d, un brit-picked. Mistakes are all mine, sorry. Also, this was written way back before the end of season 2.
The first time it happens, Merlin doesn’t wake up. The magic swarms around him, warm against his skin, and gold-hued light seeps from beneath his dark lashes, bathing the smudged shadows below his eyes with a faint light. He turns over in the bed, his hands curling tighter around his body, then mutters softly to himself, half formed words slipping softly into the silent air around him, and slumbers on.
***
“....Merlin, WHAT ARE YOU DOING?”
Arthur’s voice is the first thing he hears when he wakes. On an ordinary day, this would not bode well, as it would suggest that Merlin had overslept and forgotten to go and dress Arthur, or - in a slightly more favourable situation - that the castle was under attack by early-rising sorcerers or giant nocturnal beasties. However, the sheer pitch of Arthur’s screech (it could even, Merlin supposed, be described as a girlish shriek) suggested that Arthur had stormed into Merlin’s room for a far graver reason.
“Is your breakfast not heated to your satisfaction, sire?” Merlin questioned, mustering as much sarcasm into his voice as he could without opening his eyes. “Or have the buttons fallen off your favourite red jacket? Or,” he gave a grin, “Did you repeat that nasty incident from last week, and drop your sword onto Lady Eleanor’s...“ Merlin trailed off as he cracked open his eyelids and realised exactly where he was. “What the-?”
Arthur was not, as he had supposed, standing at the door between Gaius’s chambers and Merlin’s, glaring down at him in all his princely gloriousness, but was rather in his own chambers, lying in his own bed - a bed that he was currently sharing with Merlin.
“Arthur, what? Why-“ he started, confused, looking around him, at the wide sea of white bedding and - oh, gods - the even wider expanse of Arthur’s naked chest. Swallowing nervously, he tore his eyes away and peered up into Arthur’s face.
Arthur was looking at him with an expression that Merlin had previously only seen used when they were facing deadly sorcerers, or Nimueh, or fierce-toothed monsters, or that one time last winter when the maid dropped Arthur’s best chainmail shirt in the mud. It was a look that could make dragons keel over in shock, and magicians faint, and maids simultaneously weep uncontrollably and vomit explosively - not a pleasant combination, Merlin had discovered. Arthur’s eyebrows dived angrily across his face, and his crimson mouth curved into an indignant grimace as he eyed Merlin’s limbs, which were stretched out comfortably beneath the sheets. It was a look that clearly said explain-yourself-right-now-or-die, and as Merlin was unable to even begin to formulate a reason as to why he was lying in Arthur’s bed, in his nightclothes, with his feet wrapped in Arthur’s (admittedly luxurious) sheets, staring at Arthur’s bare, golden (and also luxurious) chest, he did the next best thing, which was to walk manfully from the room. Or, alright, flee like a frightened rabbit. “Sorry,” he managed to splutter as the door swung loudly closed behind him.
***
Merlin managed to avoid Arthur for the rest of the day. Or avoid him physically, at least, because no matter how he tried to control his thoughts, the memories of Arthur’s sleep-crinkled eyes and his tousled blonde hair kept making appearances at the most inopportune moments, such as when Gaius was lecturing him on the plants he needed collected from the forest outside Camelot’s gates. Or when Gwen was asking him about the kitchen maid he had been chatting to yesterday. Or when he was halfway through mucking out the stables, his arms elbow deep in straw that was most definitely not the same colour as Arthur’s eyelashes.
So when Merlin found himself alone in the field outside Camelot, yanking half-heartedly at a tuft of greenery he suspected Gaius certainly hadn’t asked for, he decided that - for his sanity’s sake - he needed to sit down and have a good hard think about how exactly he had fallen asleep in his own bed and yet woken up halfway across the castle in Arthur’s.
He had heard from Gaius that sleepwalking was not unheard of among the inhabitants of the castle, and perhaps, he reasoned, this could account for his bed swapping. But Merlin guessed that even with magically aided wanderings, it would still be almost impossible to traverse three flights of stairs, several locked doors and one ridiculously low-slung doorway in one’s sleep without either getting horribly maimed or waking up. Merlin couldn’t even avoid cracking his head on that doorway when he was awake, for goodness’ sake. And even if it were possible, managing to slip into Arthur’s bed without waking him was an extremely difficult manoeuvre. Since Merlin didn’t wake up well before dawn with a sword through his chest, and instead opened his eyes to bright sunlight and Arthur’s terrifying Look, he could only assume that Arthur - like Merlin - did not wake up when Merlin entered his bed.
Merlin stretched his long fingers out, plucking idly at a stem of grass as he thought. He supposed that he could have been moved from his own room to Arthur’s bed. As some sort of a joke. Uther would find that sort of thing funny, wouldn’t he? He was quite the jester. Merlin gave a wry snort, and tried to imagine Uther laughing. It wasn’t a pretty thought. Perhaps not, then. He sighed, and leaned over to collect his basket, his eyes trailing over the gold-streaked grass at his feet. Oh. Oh. Merlin unfurled his pale limbs quickly, jumping to his feet with a loud cry. “Sorcerer!” he said, then clapped a hand to his mouth, looking furtively around him. The crows in the next field eyed him suspiciously. He gave them his best impression of Gaius-eyebrows, and they took flight, screeching in horror, as Merlin ran back towards the castle.
***
“Gaius!” Merlin gasped, flying into the physician’s chambers. “Gaius, I need to know - Oooff.” He ran into something solid. Something solid and tall and armour-coated. Merlin looked up in horror as the solid, tall and armour-coated thing turned around and glared at him.
“Merlin,” said Arthur. “Enjoying ourselves, are we?” Gaius, hovering in the background, gave what would have passed in a younger man as an amused smirk. Merlin thought he saw some of Gaius’ skin crack under the strain.
“You idiot,” continued Arthur. “I did not give you the day off. Fasten my armour, I’m already late for drills.” Merlin flushed, and scrambled to do up the links as Arthur watched him, his blue eyes slightly puzzled as they combed over Merlin’s face. Merlin worked quickly, his eyes downcast, trying not to notice the way Arthur’s wrist felt beneath the cool slide of metal, or how his lips were plump and red and slightly parted, hovering moistly beside Merlin’s ear as he bent to work on Arthur’s shoulder. The scent wafting from beneath his armour was the same as the one Merlin had woken up wrapped in, and Arthur’s hair was still hanging in tousled, soft-looking streaks about his face. Merlin wanted to reach out and stroke it, just to see what it felt like, to see what faces Arthur would make when he had Merlin’s fingers wrapped tight in his hair. He wondered what sounds he would make if Merlin moved those fingers down his body. He heard a noise, and realised vaguely, in the small part of his brain that had not just been completely decimated with desire, that Gaius was saying something.
Oh. Gaius.
Merlin stepped back suddenly, blushing as he realised how close he was standing to Arthur. He looked carefully over Arthur’s broad shoulder, avoiding the prince’s eyes, and sent Gaius his best oh-my-god-I-think-there’s-another-sorcerer-in-Camelot stare. He was rewarded with an eyebrow, which, in Gaius-speak, could mean anything from ‘Alright, Merlin’ to ‘Pass the herbs. No, the other herbs. That’s a rose, Merlin. Honestly, haven’t you ever been outside before?’ Merlin really hoped it was the former. He looked back down as he finished fastening Arthur’s armour, and his hand was already swinging through the air for a manly back-clap before Merlin realised that (even if this was common behaviour between them, which it wasn’t) Arthur might not appreciate overt amounts of touching from a man who had, only hours earlier, woken up beside him in bed. Merlin slowed his hand, shocked, but he was too late, and he watched in horror as it bumped gently against Arthur’s shoulder in what was less like a man-to-man gesture of approval and more like a caress. Arthur jerked as Merlin’s fingers scraped his armour. His eyes widened, flicking to Merlin’s, and his tongue swiped nervously over the crimson curve of his lips. He stared intently at Merlin’s face, as though trying to understand what exactly Merlin had just done. Merlin merely stared back, trying to reconnect his brain to his mouth so that he could blurt out something, anything, to stop Arthur gaping at him like that. Arthur’s brow was furrowed in the centre, creased in just the same place as it was when he gripped an unfamiliar sword, adjusting to its weight, or when he assessed a new foe. A tense silence shrouded the room for a long moment, and then dissipated slowly as Arthur shifted away and strode jerkily out of the room. Merlin was left clutching at empty air, feeling oddly abandoned.
“I assume your panicked stare means you have a good reason for returning without my basket,” Gaius said behind him. Merlin jumped, and turned around sheepishly.
“Ah,” he said, looking hopefully at his feet in case he had somehow dropped the basket there. “Sorry. It’s just... I think there’s a sorcerer in Camelot.”
Gaius looked solemn, sitting down at the potion-strewn table in the centre of the room. “That is a serious declaration, Merlin. Why do you think that? Have there been attacks?”
“No.”
“Has there been an attempt on the Prince’s life?” Merlin shivered, remembering the countless attacks he had witnessed - Myror, Valiant, Nimueh - and how close Arthur had come to death on each of those occasions .
“No.” He admitted. Not unless you count the heart attack Merlin nearly gave him this morning.
“Have you seen anyone using magic? Have you seen any magical beasts? Or have there been any magical appearances?”
“Well... No.” Except Merlin’s appearance in Arthur’s bed. He didn’t quite know how to explain that one to Gaius.
“Then what has happened, Merlin? Because it seems to me as if the only sorcerer in Camelot at the moment is you.”
Merlin stopped fidgeting. Well. That was a possibility he hadn’t considered. Could he use magic while asleep? He knew he had done it before, with that ball of light when Arthur was in the cave searching for the poison cure, but this was different. Bigger. If it was true, he would have transported his body across the entire castle unknowingly. But for what reason? He looked up, realising that Gaius was still waiting for an answer.
“I thought I...never mind, it must have been nothing,” he managed, and escaped to his room, feeling Gaius’ frown upon him long after he shut the door.
***
Five hours and three hundred pages later, Merlin had to admit that the book of magic Gaius had given him was simply not going to give him the answers he was looking for. He stretched out on the bed, his neck aching as he pushed his face into the pillow and inhaled. It smelled of dust, and Merlin caught himself casting a forlorn, yearning thought towards the prince’s pillows, which were feathery and fat and Arthur-scented. He shook himself firmly, rubbing a tired hand over his eyes. There was nothing for it. He would have to go and see the dragon, and work out what on earth happened, and whether the incident was likely to happen again. With some talk about destiny thrown in for good measure. He lifted a weary arm to move the book off his chest, but his eyelids sunk down before he could finish the motion, and he drifted helplessly into sleep.
***
This time, Merlin woke before Arthur. This would have been beneficial to almost anybody else, but Merlin , upon half-waking to find himself with altogether too much room in his bed, flailed about wildly, managing to trap one long arm beneath Arthur’s sleep-heavy body and strike him hard across the face with the other.
“Wubmmmff...ow...MERLIN?” was Arthur’s reply, and Merlin, suddenly wide awake, tried to manipulate his expression from abject terror to something more closely resembling dignified bemusement. He might have managed puzzled dread. It was difficult to maintain careful control over his features when Arthur’s beautiful, sleep-crumpled face was inches away from his own.
“Merlin, would you stop staring at me in abject terror and tell me WHY THE HELL YOU’RE IN MY BED?!” Arthur gestured expansively to the bed in question, allowing Merlin to free his arm from where Arthur’s chest was crushing it rather pleasantly into oblivion. He took the opportunity to roll quickly sideways away from Arthur, gaining a faceful of Arthur-scented sheets as he did so. Mmmm. The scent was heavy, and calming, and he had to force himself to stop burrowing into the sheets, wrapping his body in Arthur’s smell and never leaving again. Arthur’s voice stopped, abruptly, and Merlin froze, hoping Arthur hadn’t noticed him sniffing his bed. Any explanation he could come up with would probably sound altogether too infatuated.
“Um... Sorry... I don’t know,” he mumbled in answer to Arthur’s question, then took the only option he could think of, and bolted from the chambers. Arthur stared after him, shocked, his face crumpled in disappointed confusion.
***
He didn’t stop running until he reached the dragon’s cavern.
“He...Hell....Hello,” he gasped, leaning against the rough rocky wall.
“Bonjour,” it said smugly. “Exercise is good for a growing warlock.”
“What?” Merlin managed, staring at the dragon in confusion.
“That was French. And I thought I might make some comments upon your lifestyle. I suspect that they would remain largely unheeded, however.” The dragon rolled a large eye at Merlin’s flushed, red face. “Destiny will not wait for you,” it added.
Merlin nodded. This was more familiar ground. “I have to ask a question,” he said.
“Of course you do, young warlock. For you and Arthur are two sides of the same coin,” the dragon proclaimed. “Your paths are intertwined. Though I daresay young Pendragon will be travelling along his faster than you will along yours,” the dragon looked pointedly at the sweat beading around Merlin’s temple.
Merlin shook his head. “Look, I just want to know if it is possible for me to do magic while I’m asleep.”
The dragon puffed thoughtfully. “Emotions can manifest themselves in strange ways, young warlock. You and Pendragon are two halves of a whole.” It nodded, pleased.
“So is that a yes?” Merlin pressed.
“It may be,” said the dragon.”Do not forget to eat fresh fruit and vegetables.”
Merlin gaped at the dragon, wondering whether the isolation had finally sent it insane. He turned away, walking along the path out of the cavern, muttering something about prats and stupid stuck up lizards. Behind him, the dragon took flight, and as Merlin reached the guard’s post, he could have sworn he heard a faint voice.
“Five servings a day. It is your destiny,” it said.
Merlin ignored it.
***
Merlin decided that the best way to avoid Arthur without risking running into him half-dressed and furious was to get all of his chores done when Arthur wasn’t there. This made it rather difficult to stick to his usual schedule, as Arthur was in his chambers for large sections of the day, and when he wasn’t, he seemed to be perpetually lingering around the passageways that Merlin was walking along, resulting in Merlin having to make hasty dives for cover behind pillars and doorways and - in one instance - behind a group of maids who were carrying laundry up to the nobles’ chambers.
“Merlin? What are you doing?”
Merlin turned from where he had been creeping along behind a particularly stout matron.
“Oh. Hello Gwen.” Merlin looked sheepish. “I’m... hiding.”
Gwen gave a sympathetic smile. “Did Prince Arthur ask you to scrub him in the bath again?”
“Gwen!” Merlin hissed. “That was one time! And I had just come from Ealdor! How was I supposed to know that a manservant had to... well, you know.” Gwen giggled. “And besides, it wasn’t as though Arthur was...” Merlin trailed off as he realised that Arthur, who had been standing at the end of the hall, was now moving towards the group of maids with a suspicious look on his face. Merlin gulped, and whispered a hasty goodbye to Gwen before jumping out from behind the matron and sprinting down the hall. He did not slow down until he had reached the safety of the kitchen, where Arthur had not dared to tread since he had mistakenly cast aspersions on the quality of the head cook’s best dish (while the stew had been fine on its own, mixing it with copious amounts of banquet wine, as Arthur had done, was not conducive to digestion). Merlin sat down at the wooden table and sighed. Somewhere along the way, he suspected that he had lost the last few shreds of his dignity. But, he supposed, he would rather lose it fleeing down a hallway then have it stripped from him by Arthur’s haughty questions about why exactly Merlin had woken up in his bed.
Merlin stood up and wandered out of the kitchen, wondering how he was going to avoid Arthur when his next task involved strapping him into armour for training. He had spent the morning dashing into Arthur’s chambers while he was meeting with his father or the knights, and straightening everything up in a quick whirl of magic. He had left Arthur’s lunch on a tray outside his door at noon, whipping around the corner just as Arthur gave an exasperated roar. He shrugged. He would simply have to get Arthur’s armour onto him as quickly as possible, and escape before Arthur posed any questions that he was unable to answer.
Merlin thought over his visit to the dragon as he wandered reluctantly up towards Arthur’s chambers. The dragon had supported his theory - well, sort of - and Merlin supposed that he had been accessing his magic while asleep, and that somehow he was transporting himself across the castle to Arthur’s bed without waking up. But why? Merlin did not think that waking up in Arthur’s bed was beneficial to either himself or Arthur. It certainly wouldn’t help him succeed in his destiny. All it did was make Arthur oddly cross and Merlin oddly happy. Merlin stopped. Oh, that was a very big problem. Arthur made him happy. Arthur’s bed made him happy. And when he dreamt of Arthur, in Arthur’s bed, with his golden skin gleaming in the candlelight, as he had been doing on the night it first happened, well perhaps his magic simply recognised his desire and acted on it. Merlin groaned. This was not good. He knew that the prince could be nice, and loyal, and brave, and selfless, but he was still, essentially, a royal prat, and there was no way in the world that he could lower himself to feel the same way about Merlin as Merlin did about him.
Merlin would just have to retrain his magic, or something. He’d stopped himself from acting out instinctually - well, most of the time - and he supposed that he could apply the same technique to his magic’s impression of Arthur. He would just teach it that Arthur was bad, and Arthur’s bed was very bad, and Merlin in Arthur’s bed was... oh, gods, it was really, really good. Merlin dropped his head into his hands. This was going to be hard.
***
Arthur was waiting by the window when Merlin arrived, his eyes unfocused, staring down into the courtyard. He looked up when Merlin walked in, and opened his mouth to speak.
“Uh, hello, sorry, Gaius wanted me to do some stuff today,” Merlin interrupted, almost running over to the table where the armour was laid out. “So I thought that I had better do it. The stuff, I mean. Because otherwise Gaius would have to, and he’s really too old to be doing that kind of thing.” Merlin shoved Arthur’s head through the chainmail shirt, and whatever reply he might have made was cut off with a muffled ‘uurgg.’
“And I thought that maybe you would be okay with me doing stuff, because you’re a prat most of the time but sometimes you actually, you know, care for other people. Like Gaius.” Merlin wondered where he was going with this. Arthur’s head had emerged from the armour and was peering at him in baffled amusement. “And anyway, I polished your armour two days ago, and it’s still shiny.” He looked down at Arthur’s shiny silver chest, and realised that his hands were still grasping Arthur’s arms. He glared at them, the traitors, and then turned his head and glared at the bed too, trying to muster up as much hatred as he could for it. Stupid bed. Stupid armour. Stupid Arthur. Stupid magic.
“Merlin, would you stop scowling at the furniture?” Arthur said, rubbing his jaw where the armour had scraped against it. “What has gotten into you this week? You’re acting even more idiotic than usual.”
Merlin blushed. It wasn’t so much a question of what had gotten into Merlin, but rather what Merlin had gotten into. Namely, Arthur’s bed. He moved around to Arthur’s back, his hands fastening links as quickly as he could. And okay, he may have used a little magic to assist him, which would no doubt have earned him one of Gaius’ more fiercely-eyebrowed expressions, but Merlin didn’t care, because if he didn’t get out of the room right now he knew that the conversation, such as it was, would head for places that he really didn’t want it to go.
Arthur was still talking, shifting uncomfortably as Merlin tugged at the armour.
“Is it because of what happened this morning?” Arthur turned his head, looking impossibly royal as his jaw caught the sunlight, and tried to look at Merlin. “Because Merlin, I know that it was-“ he broke off as Merlin thrust the sword into Arthur’s hands, almost slicing his arm on its tip in his haste to get away.
“Done,” he managed, and fled from the room, leaving Arthur staring after him, open mouthed, hurt plastered faintly across his face.
***
That night, Merlin tried to think of everything but Arthur. He had noticed that, only a couple of weeks after becoming Arthur’s manservant, he began to make more frequent appearances in Merlin’s dreams. At first it was subtle, just the glimpse of golden hair when Merlin was fighting a sorcerer, or the vague scent of Arthur, a soft mix of grass and sweat and metal that seeped through Merlin’s dreams of Ealdor. As time passed, however, the dreams stopped including Arthur as an indistinct background character, and started focusing solely on him. Arthur as a king, his crown dull gold against the brilliant shine of his hair, Arthur hunting, his eyes glowing sapphire-blue as he tensed his body for the strike, sweat running in clear, salty lines down his beautiful face. The prince was in every single one of Merlin’s dreams, and as much as he would have liked to dismiss it as a sign of how close they had become, how friendly they were with each other, Merlin’s sweaty, hard awakenings each morning suggested something quite different. Arthur’s presence did things to Merlin’s body that Merlin couldn’t control, the mere sound of his voice igniting a hot coil of heat within his stomach.
But tonight, Merlin wouldn’t allow his mind to focus on Arthur, wouldn’t allow the prince to flood his mind. He would forget the way Arthur had looked as he parried sword blows that afternoon, or the way that he had squinted through the darkness, suspicious, when Merlin had been a second too slow in ducking behind a pillar to avoid him that evening. He would not think of Arthur, even if it killed him. Merlin blew out the candle and sank back onto his bed in the darkness, his head swarming with thoughts. He tried to focus on other people, other sights - Gwen’s tight brown curls, the horses he had seen running through the field that morning, the sunlight on Morgana’s creamy skin when she sat alongside Uther in court...
***
The magic woke him this time. It was harsh, almost painful, as though it was angry with him. Merlin looked around, and bit off a cry of surprise. The wide, flower-scented room on whose floor he was currently lying was not Arthur’s, but it was not his own, either. He looked at the bed, which had a figure lying curled within it, a figure with far too many curves. Morgana. Merlin scrambled to his feet, suddenly terrified. This was worse than Arthur. If Morgana woke, if Uther found out... Merlin knew that it was not just sorcery that could get you beheaded in Camelot, and sneaking around in the King’s ward’s room would certainly earn him a place on the block. He shuffled as quickly as he could towards the door, and pulled it open gently. Morgana turned in her bed, muttering, her dark hair strewn across the pillow, but she did not wake. Merlin tiptoed out into the passageway and breathed a sigh of relief.
“Idiot,” he berated himself, leaning back against the wall.
“My thoughts exactly,” said a soft voice, and Merlin jumped as he saw Arthur standing beside him, before remembering that it had been his turn for the night patrol. His eyes were hooped in shadows, and he had one hand at his hip, grasping the hilt of the sword he had been about to unsheathe. Merlin eyed it nervously, biting his lip. Arthur’s eyes flicked down to his mouth, and Merlin saw an unfamiliar expression flit quickly across Arthur’s face before he looked reluctantly away, taking in Merlin’s semi-clothed body with a weary acceptance. “I don’t want to know,” he said, his head moving from Merlin to Morgana’s closed door and back again. He turned away, his shoulders tight, and began to trudge back towards his chambers. Merlin took one step towards him, wanting to explain, to comfort him, to tell him that it wasn’t what it looked like. But he stopped as he realised that there was no way to explain, that there would never be a way to explain, not while Uther sat on the throne. Instead, he simply stood still, watching sadly as Arthur made his way down the passage alone. When he reached the corner, he turned back to Merlin, his eyes hard.
“You will attend me in my chambers in the morning,” he said coldly, his royal manner firmly in place once again. “Or you will be dismissed from service.” Merlin opened his mouth to speak, but Arthur had already turned away.
***
Something had changed between them, Merlin noticed. Their usual banter was non-existent, traded for harsh orders and muted, servile replies, and every time Merlin moved close to Arthur throughout the day, to take off his boots and collect his breakfast bowl and fasten his armour, Arthur would flinch, or freeze, or stare fixedly at the far wall until Merlin had moved away again. Merlin assumed that it was something to do with the bed incident, and sent dozens of angry curses at his magic for acting without his permission and getting him into this mess. By the end of the day, he found himself longing for Arthur’s eyes to light up, for him to cuff Merlin about the head and call him idiot in that tone that suggested that, to Arthur, Merlin wasn’t stupid, but rather the most precious thing in the world. He wanted Arthur to shake his head, and insult him, and show him that he saw Merlin as a real person, rather than just another servant, just another expendable body to be ordered about. He found himself biting back harsh replies to Arthur’s commands, replies that would have earned him a whipping, or a day in the stocks, but would have provoked Arthur into breaking through his detachment, and flying at Merlin in beautiful, passionate anger.
He went to bed later than usual, having had to clean out the entire armoury after Arthur caught him staring off into space instead of polishing the swords. He stuffed his head under his pillow, his arms wrapped around himself to ward off the cold, and spared one miserable thought for the warm cocoon of Arthur’s bed before he channelled his mind onto a safer train of thinking. He was tired, so tired, and wanted to let his thoughts roam freely, rather than reining them in. But he couldn’t. So he forced himself to concentrate, and avoided thinking of Arthur and Morgana. Instead he focused on Ealdor, and Will, and Hunith, and the way that he had lived there, openly, and with less fear, because Uther had not yet invaded the village in search of sorcerers. Merlin hummed softly as he slid into an uneasy sleep.
***
There was a roar in his ears as he opened his eyes. A face swirled into focus before him, grey and lined and grotesque with anger. He gasped, shocked, as he realised that he knew that face, though he had never seen it at that angle, and never as close to his eyes as it was now hovering. It was Uther’s face.
“Explain yourself,” barked Uther fiercely, glaring down at Merlin. Merlin gulped, and looked around the room. He was in Uther’s chambers, propped up against the wall, and the only reason he was not dead right now was because he was leaning next to the open door that joined Uther’s room to the passage, and not lying across Uther’s bed. He stared back into Uther’s face, and realised that Uther had never seemed so fearsome, never so utterly alien as he did in that moment, with his anger focused solely on Merlin.
“Uhmm...” Merlin said, panicked. “I came to warn you of... um... a magical animal.”
Uther’s eyes narrowed.
“To the north,” he spluttered, inventing wildly. “Coming for Camelot. I thought you should be told. It’s as big as a dragon!”
Merlin almost kicked himself. He shouldn’t know how big a dragon was, because in Uther’s eyes, he was a simple, uneducated manservant from Ealdor. Uther did not seem to notice, however.
“A magical animal. More sorcery,” he said to himself, his eyes alight with intent. “Very well.” He turned to Merlin. “You will go and alert the prince immediately. He should be ready to ride at first light. And do not ever enter my chambers again.” Merlin nodded meekly.
“And after you have assisted the prince, you shall spend a week in the dungeons.” he added. Merlin’s eyes widened. “Be grateful it isn’t longer,” Uther said, before striding purposefully from the room.
***
Arthur was not pleased to be woken. He looked pointedly away while Merlin described Uther’s orders, although a nasty smirk did cross his face when Merlin admitted that he would be spending the next few nights in a cell. It was at that point that Merlin decided that he really, really hated his magic.
Arthur spared a few minutes from his preparations to watch with a delighted smile as the guards collected Merlin at dawn and escorted him down towards the dungeons. It was the first time Merlin had seen him grin in days, although he was admittedly rather unhappy as to the circumstances that brought it about.
“I really don’t think the spears are necessary,” Merlin said, eyeing the pointed metal shafts aimed at his sides. “No, really, I’m perfectly willing to come.” The guards just stared at him impassively, and Merlin heaved a sigh. This week was not going well at all. The guards seized his arms and dragged him backwards down the stairs, his feet thudding against the steps and his long legs almost scraping against the floor. Merlin gave a small, helpless wave at Arthur’s receding figure. He could almost have sworn that Arthur smiled in return, but he vanished around the corner before Merlin could tell for sure.
Gaius was waiting when Merlin reached the cell. He stood patiently until the guards had thrown Merlin inside - rather roughly, he thought - and then shuffled over to the bars.
“What is going on, Merlin?” he asked, frowning. His eyebrows were almost vertical at this point, so Merlin knew he was genuinely concerned. Merlin kept his mouth shut. He could figure this out on his own, and he really didn’t need a long lecture about the dangers of magic. He had spotted Gaius assembling what looked suspiciously like diagrams after the last one. He had just resolved to stay quiet when Gaius leaned closer, staring intently at Merlin. His eyes seemed almost understanding.
Merlin told him everything.
Well... perhaps not everything. Arthur’s gold, freckled-splattered chest, for example, was not mentioned even once, though it had played a considerable part in Merlin’s life over the past few days. And Merlin left out the part where he appeared in Arthur’s bed. That was private. But Gaius got the general idea of the thing, and he was not in the least bit impressed.
“You sleep-magicked yourself into the king’s chambers? The chambers of the biggest magic-hater in the kingdom?” Gaius asked incredulously. “I think perhaps that the dungeon is the safest place for you, boy.”
“Well... yeah, when you put it like that, it sounds terrible,” Merlin admitted. “But I was asleep, Gaius! I couldn’t help it!”
Gaius only looked at him, shaking his head. He handed Merlin a sack of plants through the bars, telling him to sort them into piles while he went back upstairs to ‘look for a solution to this mess.’ He had a feeling that Gaius would be returning soon, because he wouldn’t be able to resist rolling out the diagrams while he had a captive audience. Merlin sat down on the floor, his back propped against the rough rock wall, and closed his eyes. It was as though his magic was trying to punish him for avoiding Arthur, by throwing him into dangerous situations. Unless it had simply turned suicidal, because magically appearing in Uther’s chambers was probably as close to death as Merlin had ever come. He thunked his head against the wall, wishing desperately that he could just control it. It had never seemed like such a curse as it did at this moment. But, he reasoned, there was little that he could do until Gaius came back with an answer. Opening his eyes, he reached for Gaius’ sack of plants, then drew his hand back with a yelp. It had nettles in it. Wonderful.
***
It was only once Merlin had extricated his fingers painfully from the final bunch of herbs that he realised. Arthur was not in his bed tonight - he was somewhere out on the northern trail looking for a giant magical animal Merlin knew for sure that he would not find. And if Arthur wasn’t in his own bed, then it would not matter in the slightest if Merlin appeared in it. He grinned, and settled down against the hard stone floor of the cell, letting his mind - and his magic - wander freely. It seemed only seconds before he was asleep.
***
Merlin woke as the magic crawled through his veins, pulling him from his curled up position on the floor of the dungeon and sending him soaring through space, his head whipping wildly upright and his limbs flailing as he felt his body cease to exist in one place, and then, a second later, burst wildly into existence in another. He widened his eyes, finally understanding exactly how the spell worked, the precise rhythm in which the magic had flowed though his veins. He rejoiced for a second, his face glowing triumphantly with the joy of new knowledge, before he looked around himself and realised - yet again - that he was not in any place that he wanted to be. He was not in his own bed, which would have been safe, or in Arthur’s, which would have been less so (but certainly a pleasant alternative). Instead, he was lying beside a fire, with the trees crowding dark and tall around him, and a very solid mass beneath his body. A very solid living mass. The mass moved, and its eyes opened a fraction. “Mmmrggg?” It said.
Then those same eyes focused on his face, and opened a lot wider.
“Merlin?” The voice was soft, incredulous, and Merlin realised that he had to move. Right now. Because nothing but magic could explain how he had managed to escaped the dungeon, travel for miles and miles without a horse and land squarely on top of Prince Arthur as he lay on his bedroll beside the glowing fire. Merlin rolled to his feet, panicking, and raced behind the nearest tree, the leaves hanging dark and green about him as he sheltered in its shadow. He reached inside himself for his magic, and channelled it towards the lump in his chest, willing it to flow in the same way that he had felt it flow seconds before. The magic stuttered, but then grew stronger, flooding through his veins, engulfing him, and he barely had time to recognise that the voice he heard - “Merlin, wait!” - was far, far too close to his head, and that the pressure clasped tightly on his arm felt suspiciously like a hand, before the magic flowed through him and he was gone.
***
When Merlin opened his eyes, he realised that he had landed on Arthur for the second time that night. Which, in any other circumstances, would have been somewhat pleasant to say the least (and if Merlin was truly honest about it, it was a lot closer to bloody brilliant than somewhat pleasant). However, one look about him confirmed his fears - he had managed to transport both Arthur and himself back into Camelot’s dungeons. Arthur was currently lying on the floor beneath him, his eyes closed, his breath coming slowly. He was unnaturally still, and it occurred to Merlin that perhaps he had left some vital part of Arthur behind when he transported them. He scrambled backwards off Arthur, panicked, running both his eyes and his hands across Arthur’s chest and head and limbs, grazing his fingers across Arthur’s belly, looking for any parts that were not where they ought to be. Arthur moaned, and Merlin lifted his hands away, knowing that any second he would wake up, and Merlin had nowhere to run to and no way to hide his magic this time. He backed up against the bars of the cell and sat down, feeling fear course swiftly through his body as Arthur opened his eyes.
Arthur looked around the room, his eyes widening as he took in the straw-littered stone floor and the metal bars of the dungeon. His gaze scoured the cell until he saw Merlin, sitting in the corner with his head upon his knees, trying to curl himself as small as he could possibly go without resorting to his magic and simply disappearing. He could do that, he knew, but Arthur would know it was him. Arthur would hunt him as he had hunted all the other sorcerers and magicians and warlocks, and Merlin had to face this, had to show Arthur that he was of their kind, but he wasn’t them, and never would be. He was Merlin, Arthur’s Merlin, and he wouldn’t let his magic take that from him. Arthur stared at him for a long moment, and he stared defiantly back. Arthur’s eyes raked over his skin, as though he was trying to memorise the curves of his face, before he lifted his gaze to Merlin’s.
“You,” he said, raising a hand to point at Merlin, and Merlin flinched. Arthur saw him draw back against the bars, and for a split second he looked almost unsure. It vanished quickly, however, and Arthur squared his jaw and continued on. “You,” he said again, “are an idiot.”
Merlin blinked. He had been expecting a barrage of anger, or a sword to the chest, or pure, cold hatred - anything but this. It was too familiar, as though Arthur had suddenly moved past the events of the past couple of days, moved past the situation that was staring him right in the face and screaming magic, and had instead focused simply on Merlin - silly, idiotic Merlin, who had shared both his bed and his meals, who was brave enough and selfless enough to stand between Arthur and the world, and who had always been the closest thing Arthur had had to a friend. Merlin stayed quiet, afraid to speak out and break through the familiarity, crush the tiny sense of comfort that he felt at Arthur’s words.
Arthur stood to his feet with a powerful, regal grace, and walked slowly towards Merlin. “An idiot,” he repeated, his eyes narrowed, staring down at Merlin’s face. Merlin tried not to notice the way the shadows played along the length of his jaw, how his eyes seemed too dark, tiny circles of blue swallowed by the huge blackness of his pupils, and how the delicate bridge of his nose was dappled with flickering light. Arthur had reached the spot where he sat, and stood over him, staring down with an intense expression on his face.
Merlin couldn’t stay quiet any longer. “I know.” He said quietly. “I’m sorry, sire.” He said the title sincerely, looking up into Arthur’s face and recognising the difference between them, and the power that Arthur now held over Merlin’s life and over his heart. He understood that Arthur could break them both in that moment, and so he tried to put into his look all of the things he couldn’t find it in himself to say - I can’t help it, I was born like this, I love you, please let me live. Arthur must have understood, because he turned slowly and sat down beside him, his arm warm where it brushed against Merlin’s. “You could have told me,” he said softly. But deep down, they both knew that Merlin couldn’t have, not in any ordinary situation, not on any normal day. After a long while, Merlin looked over at him, running his eyes over Arthur’s weary eyes and his relaxed expression.
“You... you don’t seem all that surprised,” he ventured.
Arthur startled Merlin by laughing, the sound loud and unfamiliar in the quiet of the room. “Surprised about what, Merlin? That you’ve apparently dragged me halfway across Albion by mistake? That you appeared in my bed yet again? That you’re magic?” Merlin flinched at the last word, but Arthur continued on. “I’m not really surprised about the first two, Merlin, because I would be a fool to believe that your incompetency was limited solely to your duties as a manservant,” - he gave Merlin a friendly nudge with his shoulder - “and as for the latter, well I should probably have noticed it earlier than I did, but when you managed to enter my bed for the second time, despite the fact that both the door and windows were bolted shut from the inside, I was fairly sure that magic had something to do with it.” He gave a wry smile. “I know that half the castle wants to bed me, Merlin, but don’t you think that it was a rather risky way to satisfy your urges?”
Merlin flushed, embarrassed at just how close Arthur’s offhand comment had ventured to the truth. “It was an accident!” he said indignantly. “Just the same as the nights I ended up in Morgana’s room, and in your father’s.” Not entirely true, but Merlin didn’t think Arthur needed to know just how badly he wanted Arthur.
The smile slid off Arthur’s face. “Well. That clarifies things,” he said bluntly, his face shuttered. He stood abruptly, and Merlin, unprepared, almost overbalanced onto his side.
Arthur didn’t seem to notice. “I don’t suppose you can take me back to the forest now?” he asked quietly. “I have a beast to hunt.”
Merlin swallowed, realising that Arthur hadn’t quite worked out everything. “Ah. Yes. About that.”
***
After cursing at Merlin for a good half an hour, and then stumbling around in the bushes for a long while after that (Merlin had been flustered, and hadn’t quite guessed the position of the camp as accurately as Arthur would have liked), Arthur made Merlin conjure up a horned skull for the hunting party to carry back to Camelot, which took the rest of the night and left Merlin’s nerves as frayed as his shirt was after he extricated it from the trees. Not only had Arthur reverted to ordering him coldly about, but he insisted on being present when Merlin cast the spell. He fumbled over the words more times than he could count, casting furtive looks at Arthur, worried that he would snap at the sight of magic and run screaming back to his father. After the eighth time, when Merlin managed to strip Arthur of his shirt with magic (entirely unintentionally, he maintained, although he had been distracted by the tiny patch of golden flesh at the base of Arthur’s neck at a particularly crucial moment in the spell) and it ended up caught in the fork of a tree, Arthur gave an exasperated groan, and stormed towards Merlin, his stride as menacing as a lion about to strike.
“Gods, Merlin, I’m not about to run off to my father, so would you stop looking at me like I’m about to eat you?” Merlin jumped guiltily, and shoved the carnivorous cat analogies from his mind. Arthur glared at him.
“Couldn’t you wait over there?” Merlin asked, gesturing at the stand of trees at the end of the clearing. Arthur rolled his eyes, but obliged, walking away with a mutter that sounded suspiciously like stupid, idiotic sorcerers. Merlin sighed in relief, and conjured a skull almost immediately.
“Too small,” came Arthur’s cry from the edge of the clearing. Merlin tried again. And again. And again. Finally, with dawn streaking bright across the sky, he managed to conjure a skull that was not too small, nor too large, and had just the right number of horns and teeth. It was bleached a perfect white, and had just the right amount of hair (‘Its a skull, Arthur, it isn’t supposed to have hair!”) to satisfy Arthur’s suddenly picky tastes, and Merlin could think of nothing else but the warm comfort of his bed. He handed the skull to Arthur, and was just about to leave when Arthur stopped him.
“Merlin,” he said, looking up into his face. Merlin forced his eyes to stay open as Arthur moved closer, his body a shock of warmth against Merlin’s. “Ye-esss?” he yawned.
Arthur stared at him for a long moment, then seemed to change his mind. “Don’t forget to go back to the dungeons,” he said, stepping backwards.
Merlin made a face at him, released his magic and vanished. The sun had fully breached the horizon when Arthur moved again, bending stiffly down to collect the skull before trudging off in the direction of the camp.
***
Arthur did not come and visit Merlin when he returned to Camelot. Merlin stayed in the dungeon all day, dozing fitfully against the wall, listening for the sound of the knights galloping victoriously into the castle. He worried - worried that Arthur wouldn’t come, worried that he would, worried that Uther had somehow found out about his magic and that the next time he would see daylight would be when he was taken up to die.
He heard footsteps outside his cell towards the end of the day, and looked up hopefully, but it was only Gaius, wandering down to collect the herbs from the day before.
“I haven’t found anything yet,” he admitted, before the guards sent him back upstairs. Merlin glared at them, and spent a pleasant hour after that considering all the ways that he could trick them with magic so that they wouldn’t keep frightening away his visitors. His mind was somewhere between the ninety-ninth idea (conjure a giant cow) and the one hundredth (which definitely had something to do with porridge) when he slipped into sleep, slumping against the straw-covered floor.
When he woke up, the floor beneath him had morphed into soft feathers, and there was daylight - actual daylight - caressing his face. He opened his eyes slowly, unwilling to relinquish the warmth and the sense of absolute rightness that he felt, and turned his head apprehensively to where he knew Arthur would be lying.
“Enjoying yourself, are you?” Arthur asked lazily, one eye squinting at Merlin’s face.
“Sorry,” Merlin said sheepishly, and made to get up out of Arthur’s bed. He had almost made it upright - which took several attempts, though Lord knows why Arthur needed so many sheets - when a hand fastened on his wrist. He looked down, shocked, the brief touch setting his heart thudding rapidly inside his chest. It was just a hand, for gods’ sakes, yet it set Merlin’s body aflame with desire. Arthur was looking at his hand, too, with an expression that suggested he wasn’t entirely sure that it was attached to his own body. After a long minute, he peered up at Merlin and shrugged.
“S’okay,” he said sleepily. “You’ve saved my life often enough, it’s only fair you get a decent rest in return. We both know my bed is the best.” And with that, he rolled over and fell back asleep.
Merlin hesitated, unsure. The guards in the dungeon could check any second, and there’d be hell to pay if he wasn’t there. But on the other hand, Arthur’s bed was right there, with Arthur splayed out within it, his sheets pulled loosely across his wide chest, the soft nape of his neck exposed beneath his shock of blonde hair. Merlin sighed, and lay back down. Whatever punishment he might get, it was worth it for this.
When they woke again, it was properly daytime, and Merlin panicked, hastily saying goodbye to Arthur before vanishing down to the dungeons. The guards were asleep, and Merlin thanked the gods that they were not completely infallible in their duties. He sat back down on the stone floor, and was contemplating how noticeable it would be if he conjured a feather bed in the corner when he heard Arthur’s voice in the passage outside the cell.
“Merlin,” Arthur said, stepping into view and peering through the bars.
“Yes?” Merlin replied, then noticed - too late - that the guards were watching. “Sire,” he added belatedly, his voice thrumming with sincerity.
Arthur narrowed his eyes. Obviously, sincerity was lost on him. He turned around, and motioned for the guards to return to their posts at the end of the passage, so that he could ‘teach his servant some manners’ in peace.
“Oooh, I’m frightened,” Merlin said when the guards were out of earshot. Arthur just gave him a look, and he bit back the rest of his retort, his heart suddenly beating much too fast in his chest. They stood silently, too close, the bars between them growing warm with their mingled breath. Merlin tried to avoid Arthur’s eyes, but he was drawn to them, and it was like staring into ocean, or the sky, so bright and blue and big that Merlin felt sure he would drift off and never be able to find his body again. It was only when Arthur blinked that Merlin was drawn reluctantly back to reality. Arthur suddenly appeared to remember that he had actually come down to the dungeon for a reason, and he cleared his throat.
“Why did you appear again last night?” he asked bluntly. “Why did you appear every night? Was it really an accident?” His face was expressionless, as though he was bracing himself for an answer he didn’t want to hear.
Merlin hesitated. He had known that the questions were coming ever since that first night, and he had planned a dozen answers to them, all completely innocent, all plausible. But they were all lies, and with Arthur standing right there before him - Arthur, who knew about his magic, and yet didn’t fear him, Arthur, who protected him and guarded his secret and let him share his bed, Arthur, who was at the same time as proud and as kind and as brave as any man he had ever met, and who was (if that wasn’t enough) also his destiny - Merlin let all of his carefully concocted reasons slip from his mind, and instead offered up the truth, and with it, a part of himself.
“I dream about you,” he said simply. “My magic responds to that.”
Arthur looked at him, quietly, and seemed to be searching Merlin’s face for something. Merlin looked steadily back, letting his careful, calm expression drop away, until Arthur could not miss the desire, and the love, and the trust, painted clearly across his face for all the world to see. Arthur’s eyes lit up at that, and he gave a tiny smile, one that spoke of triumph and glory and pure, unfettered joy, and then his lips were pressed against Merlin’s, soft and insistent, and his strong hands were crushing Merlin to him through the bars. The kiss was not earthshaking, but it twisted deep into Merlin’s heart and shifted some tiny part of him that he hadn’t even known was out of place. It must have done the same for Arthur, because he leaned back, brushing a hand against the skin over his heart with a satisfied expression.
“Mine,” he murmured against Merlin’s lips, and for once, Merlin did not have even the slightest desire to disagree with him.
***
Arthur must have conversed with Uther, because Merlin was released from his cell by the disappointed guards before the day was out. Merlin felt sure that he had spotted the skull hanging in the hall behind Uther’s chair, and he smiled, because Arthur would remember him every time he saw it. He walked quietly back up to Gaius’ chambers, his mind calmer than it had been all week. When a maid came calling, telling him that Arthur needed him right now for dressing, he did not complain - well, not as much as usual, anyway - and instead put aside his magic book quite happily and went to Arthur’s chamber.
Merlin helped Arthur dress, their fingers touching frequently, their lips brushing each other’s even more often than that. Arthur still complained about the state of his red jacket, and Merlin still rolled his eyes and suggested that food fights were for people half Arthur’s age, and that perhaps that said something about his maturity. But their affection was evident, swimming on the surface rather than buried deep beneath carefully weighed words. And when Arthur returned from the feast, buzzing with wine, there was an easy familiarity in the way Merlin helped him out of his boots, his fingers wrapped warmly around Arthur’s calves. Merlin heaved Arthur into bed, arranging his head on the pillow so that his blonde hair spread out across it. He was just about to leave, his hand reaching for the doorknob, when he heard Arthur’s voice, low and husky with the beginnings of sleep.
“Merlin?” he asked. Merlin walked back over to the bed, gazing down at Arthur. He opened one eye and looked up into Merlin’s face. “How likely is it, do you think, that you will dream about me again tonight?”
Merlin pursed his lips, contemplating, as he swept his eyes over Arthur’s wine-reddened lips, his sun-darkened expanse of skin, and his eyes, lidded with desire and shining a clear, azure blue. He thought of how Arthur had looked in his red jacket, and how Arthur’s lips had felt, pressed firmly against his own. He thought of how Arthur knew his secret and loved him despite it, and how he never needed to hide anything in Arthur’s presence again, because Arthur knew of the two deepest, most crucial elements of his being - his magic, and his love for the prince - and he felt warmth curl through his chest.
“Very likely,” he admitted, his cheeks reddening slightly as he realised all that the admission implied.
Arthur pulled the sheets down from where they had been tucked across his chest and patted the bed beside him. “Come on, then,” he said, reaching up his arms to Merlin. “It'll save you the trouble of coming back later.”
Merlin gave a wide smile and slid into the bed, his legs curling between Arthur’s and his face cushioned against Arthur’s chest. He inhaled, allowing the scent of Arthur’s skin to fill his chest, smiling as it bumped against the tender edges of his newly-mended heart.
“Idiot,” Arthur said fondly, his arms wrapping warmly around Merlin’s thin waist.
“Prat,” Merlin whispered against Arthur’s skin. And they both knew that those two simple words had become so much more than casual insults, that they were filled with all the love for each other that they did not yet know how to express.
As he drifted off to sleep, Merlin’s last thought was that despite everything, maybe - just maybe - his magic had had the right idea all along.
***
And a few days later, beneath the castle, the dragon, who had been following Merlin’s activities with intense curiosity, gave a pleased snort. It was good to know that Merlin was taking his generous suggestions about the benefits of exercise so enthusiastically to heart. Though, thought the dragon, he certainly hadn’t had that sort of exercise in mind.
FIN