Fic post: from kinkme_merlin, Hit Them With a Shoe
Because I'd been sitting on it and finally took time out of dissertation madness to tidy it up (oh, my typos, they are a bit legion), fix a few tense issues (I still jump back and forth sometimes for stylistic reasons) and post it in one chunk as opposed to ten comments.
Title: Hit Them With a Shoe
Author: themegaloo, originally posted anon
Rating: PG-13, and only for the very end, if you stop reading at the time-skip, it's practically G, I was so disgusted with myself you have no idea.
Spoilers: None for Series 2, teeny one for 1.13. Alludes to things brought up in 2.01, but not in any way that is actually connected like... at all.
Word Count: 6,092 with edits.
Summary: For the prompt: Arthur/Merlin, Merlin loses (some) control of his magic, and to his dismay, his magic happily starts doing his chores for him. Bonus points for Arthur walking in to find Merlin frantically shouting at Arthur's armour to stop cleaning itself (or some other task) and he is horribly appalled, but then starts to like all the little things Merlin's magic does for him (e.g. tucking him in at night, cutting his meat for him, etc.). Basically, Merlin's magic is as in love with Arthur as Merlin himself, while Merlin remains furious and in denial.
Note on the title: Because it might be nice of me to explain, this is related to the whole 'tucking in' of the prompt and the phrase 'Good night, sleep tight, don't let the bedbugs bite.' I found that the follow up I know is an uncommon variation- it goes 'if they do, hit them with a shoe, I'll see you in the morning light.'
Originally posted here
Ever since that day on the Isle of the Blessed, Merlin’s magic had been a bit, well. Strange was about the best word for it. Because “over powered” and “out of control” were words that made him nervous and he didn’t like to think about the consequences of lacking control in a court ruled by Uther Pendragon, because really, that just led to thoughts of his head, disconnected from his body and really, those were not pleasant thoughts. More like nightmares. With a terrifying possibility of reality. And he really was a crap liar.
But life went on in Camelot and Arthur was recovered (well, recovering, but the official stance was recovered because both Arthur and his father were stubborn arses who refused to admit weakness of any sort and it meant that Arthur was back to training with the knights as he always did, except he tended to get a bit more dinged up, which no one was also admitting, even the knights, because it was bad form and the people really did like him and they didn’t like to admit that maybe, maybe he wasn’t infallible and indestructible, despite evidence that maybe, maybe he could die, only he hadn’t and really Merlin only had himself to blame for… well, a lot of those sorts of situations and really, he had to get ‘round to convincing people that just because Arthur had a strange habit of escaping actual harm that lasted forever and into the ground didn’t mean he didn’t, you know, take it, and he could, in fact, die, so could they please stop making his life harder than it already was?)
And, alright, that mental sentence might have gotten away from him a bit, but the point. The point was that he had a pile of armor just sat there in his room and he needed to mend, clean and polish it before tomorrow in addition to tending to the stables, Arthur’s room, the laundry, preparing a bath, fetching dinner, and all the other ridiculous things that came along with being a manservant to the prince. He had a fleeting thought of, oh, wouldn’t it be nice if it would just tend to itself so he could get on with everything else he had to be getting on with. He’d find time. When the rest of the castle (and world) was sleeping. For now, there were more immediate things to tend to. He closed the door and went to get dinner for Arthur before it was cold and gave the prat more excuses to be… prattish.
And if the armor was surprisingly spotless and perfect when he stumbled back to his room in the wee hours of the morning, well, he wasn’t really about to complain.
--
Of course, that was only the beginning of things. Some things. Things with his magic taking on a life, well, mind, of its own. Merlin had been doing bits and pieces of his chores with magic (when Gaius wasn’t looking) for ages, but he’d always been there when it happened. It was, frankly, a bit unsettling that he was coming to things he’d planned to do and been thinking about doing as he’d been doing something else to find them mysteriously already done. He would have thought that Arthur was getting fed up with his (admittedly often sub-par) service in such areas and hired someone else to tend to them, but, really, really. They were often things that no one but Merlin had access to. Like the armor in his room. Or things within Arthur’s private chambers and he was reasonably certain that no one else had been granted keys to these sorts of places, it had been a good month before he’d gotten his key and that had only been after proving he wasn’t, well. A lunatic sorcerer hell-bent on revenge and killing the prince. Or something. Well, three out of four wasn’t bad.
And Arthur would never assign someone else to empty his chamber pot. The complaining Merlin did about it amused him too much.
But really, when Arthur listed off his assignments the next day and Merlin sighed, wondering which would have done themselves by the time he got there just in order to give him a heart attack, and then, oh so cleverly at Merlin’s very, very brief hesitation stated “Really Merlin, these things won’t do themselves,” well. It was a bit much for anyone with nightmares involving his head separated from his body could take.
So, he did what any self-respecting manservant to the prince would do and… glared. And had the surreal moment of hoping that there was at least one pile of manure left for him to remove by the time he got to the stables. He quickly took that thought back because it was sounding far too much like he liked this whole servant lark and when he got to the stables, well, they were immaculate.
--
Arthur was a very… understanding master for the most part, he liked to think, and he had put up with a lot of ineptitude from his servant over the time they’d been acquainted. And it was good to see Merlin taking his duties more seriously and finishing his tasks in a timely manner, but honestly. Enough was enough. His chambers were perfect, his horses never had the slightest wet spot in their stables, his armor looked like new every time he went to train and his chamber pot had a faint aroma of lemons. Not that he had smelt it or anything, it was just a bit obvious when there was a faint aroma of lemons rather than the one that he had grown up accustomed to. He was the last person to complain about good service, but he’d been adding on extra tasks, things that should by no means possible to complete in a day by the most hard-working and talented of servants. And his, the most inept manservant to ever walk the halls of Camelot? Was managing them all in record time.
Something, somewhere, just didn’t add up.
--
Winter was fast approaching by the time anything changed from the rather strange and terrifying status quo. Merlin had learned not to turn whiter than the sheets left out to dry fresh after they’d been washed in that awful smelling stuff that took out the stains (he wasn’t considering where the stains came from, because that would just be disturbing, but Arthur’s sheets were rarely stained unless he had gotten himself knocked about and bloody over the course of training or hunting or some other ill-advised something that involved bloodshed or bloodshedding which Merlin entirely did not approve of).
That wasn’t to say that the abject terror he experienced every time something happened had lessened, because it hadn’t, it was just best for all internal organs involved that he didn’t die because of that when the executioner’s block would be so much faster.
But with the end of summer there was even more to do, what with re-hanging the tapestries to warm the stone walls, stoking fires, freshening the furs on Arthur’s bed, making sure drafts didn’t make their way in through the windows while the prince was in his royal bath basin, keeping everything hot on the way up from the kitchen… Really, it was an unfair amount of work and his toes were cold.
Arthur’s toes were never cold. His magic made sure the wool of Arthur’s socks was extra thick and warm and soft every time they washed themselves. It wasn’t fair. He was very tempted to steal a pair for himself. Only he had a sneaking suspicion that they wouldn’t stay nearly so well darned if they were adorning his own feet.
His magic liked Arthur better.
And that was just really, extraordinarily, incredibly unfair.
--
There came a day when Merlin forgot that Arthur’s armor has this tendency of cleaning itself and left it alone in Arthur’s room for five minutes. Well, it’s not so much that he forgot, but he’s cold and the fire had stoked itself so well that he was out of wood for it in the room and had to go get more before Arthur got back, and really, really, he was only gone for like, a minute, but when he came back not only was the armor cleaning and polishing itself, but he knows for a fact, a fact that he heard Arthur just behind him on the stairs up to his chambers and his armor is hanging in mid-air. Doing things! To itself!
‘Stop!’ he hissed. To no effect. Mind of its bloody own indeed. As the door cracked open, he darted forward and grabbed the rag, hoping his arm wasn’t about to be pulled out of joint as he just let his hand follow the movement. He did his best to get some part of his anatomy to appear as though it had perfect control of everything that may or may not be actually floating, and just hoped for the best.
Which was, of course, Arthur staring at him and asking “Merlin, are you juggling my armor?”
Merlin hiccuped. Because oh god, he is going to die. Right after his arm takes leave of the rest of his body because really, that’s the only outcome here, and he might have been getting a bit hysterical but it was warranted, damnit, normal people do not have to deal with this sort of…of nonsense! It wasn’t fair and he gave the armor one last despairing look, begging it (internally, he thinks, and is wrong about) to stop, just stop, he doesn’t want to die so please just stop.
Arthur quickly closed the door just as the armor clattered to the floor.
The look he gives Merlin scream ‘You idiot’ in every language Merlin can possibly imagine (and then some). Which really isn’t that many but that is not the point.
“Merlin,” said Arthur, very slowly, as though he were speaking to a very small child, and oh, Merlin wishes he were a very small, ordinary, non-magic child rather that Arthur’s somewhat hapless secret warlock manservant because life would be so, so much easier if only he were. “Merlin, I do not know why you decided to juggle,” the look on his face implies very much that he knows that there was absolutely no juggling actually involved in the whole thing, “but I don’t want to see it again. I don’t want it to happen again. Or anything like it. Have you got that, Merlin?”
Merlin nodded, hiccupping again and not really trusting himself to say anything beyond “I’m sorry, you’re quite right sire, I’ll not be juggling any of your things, sire, thank you sire,” and other such babblings as he gathered the armor and fled to the privacy of his own rooms.
It was quite possible the most servile he had ever been throughout the entirety of his employment.
--
When Merlin returned to his room it was to drop the armor on the floor, glare at it, and then sigh a very loud sigh of relief. Which lasted for about a minute before he had the panicked thought of ‘Arthur knows, oh my god he knows and I’m not dead, my head is still attached to my body, what.’ And he thinks, for a brief moment, that maybe it’s all going to be alright. So long as no one else catches him… juggling.
Of course that’s when it all gets enormously worse.
--
Winter brings with it feasts and performers and the like because no one much wants to go out in the absolutely awful weather that the season brings and the days are shorter and colder and really, there’s not much for it but to eat a lot and wait it out. So, Merlin finds himself regularly standing behind Arthur, and things are still alright, no mention of the juggling and he’s fairly certain he’s happy with that, though it would be nice, just once, to be able to talk about it. He’d tried to tell Gaius once before the paralyzing fear that something of Arthur’s was doing something of its own accord off somewhere else in the castle and he needed to be there right that moment. But despite that, he was feeling a bit of goodwill towards the prince and that meat looked a bit tough, he wondered, idly, if he should cut it for him, was that in his duties? Remembering these things was always difficult and he never had before, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t meant to… And then the meat started separating itself right before his, and Arthur’s, eyes.
Arthur, who turned to him and waved for his goblet to be refilled in order to hiss in his ear that “you are even more of an idiot than I thought you were,” watching out the corner of his eye while Merlin gulped and tried to will the meat to behave itself, which was ridiculous as it was dead, but it was done now, nothing to be done about it.
Arthur, good soul that he was (and oh how it pained Merlin to think of that, but he was, and he was a bit of a friend when he wasn’t elbowing Merlin in the spleen for something he couldn’t help), carried on eating as though nothing had happened. After the elbowing, of course.
And if that had been all, maybe it would have been alright, maybe nothing would have come of it and they could have gone on like normal, or as close to normal as they ever were, which wasn’t very, but it was all relative, Merlin figured, and it never had to be spoken of provided that… that, well. Provided something. He wasn’t sure. But for once, he was very, very willing to go with Arthur’s ‘I decide when we talk’ thing because he very, very much did not want to. Talk, that is. About this.
And really, Merlin should have figured out that thoughts of good will were going to get him in trouble here. Or could do. Should. Something like that.
--
Arthur had figured out a long time ago what was going on. By which he meant that he wasn’t entirely surprised when he’d walked into his chambers to find all his armor cleaning itself in midair and his manservant trying his best to disguise that fact. That wasn’t to say he’d had any sort of plan going into that conversation, one-sided as it was, but he thought he’d managed alright and impressed upon Merlin the necessity of being careful and not doing anything idiotic where he might be caught. He was reasonably certain that he had made this clear, but apparently Merlin was entirely thick, despite apparently being a bit less thick than he appeared for having somehow become a sorcerer.
Which was, actually, not something he was thinking about because if he thought about it too much then he might have to actually do something.
He had honestly believed that one near-heart failure would have been enough to coerce Merlin to do his treasonous things somewhere private, if at all, but apparently not, apparently Merlin had absolutely no notion of how to protect himself at all, as at banquets? Arthur was seated next to the king. And he didn’t want to know how Merlin had accomplished that little trick without the use of incantations or anything as sorcery was generally described as requiring, but it had been stupid, idiotic, and had he been caught, Arthur wouldn’t have been able to do anything about it.
And he found himself rather loathe to replace Merlin. Despite his enormous failings. And the magic. And the treason. And a lot of things, really, but there was something about him, and by now Arthur had decided that if he had the mental capacity to debate as to whether or not he had been bewitched, he probably hadn’t been, which meant Merlin was a bit touched in the head because he’d have certainly bewitched anyone who regularly forced him to empty a chamber pot.
And perhaps that last goblet of wine had been a bit too much, but he was fairly certain that his blankets tucked him in of their own accord when he laid down that night.
Which was… Rather nice, when he thought about it. Which he decidedly was not.
--
Things went on in that way through midwinter, then Yule, then the new year came in and as the cold persisted, Arthur found himself carefully tucked into bed each night as his pillows fluffed themselves, his toughest meat fell apart as he cut into it, his room was warm and his baths scalding, the food brought to his chambers was always at the perfect temperature and his manservant looked on the verge not of collapse, but of a heart attack.
So, it was one morning at breakfast that he finally said what hadn’t been said, and actually hadn’t occurred to him until he noticed Merlin’s constant state of fear.
“It’s not on purpose, is it.” It couldn’t be, not even Merlin was that thick, and that was saying something. Merlin, who looked ready to run for the window and leap and so Arthur waved his hand at the other chair. “Sit down,” he added, pushing the overflowing plate of strangely fresh fruit towards him. “Even you can’t be that thick as to be doing all this on purpose.”
“You’re not going to have me beheaded, are you?” is the first thing out of Merlin’s mouth and he wishes to all the gods of both new and old religions that he could take it back at the glower Arthur gives him for that.
“Obviously I was wrong, you could be that thick,” was Arthur’s grumbled response as he rips into a chunk of bread. Still hot.
Merlin deflated at that and picked at a grape. Another aspect of his magic just liking Arthur. He mentioned missing the fruits of summer, there they were. Nice and ripe. As though it were July itself as opposed to the cold depths of winter. “It’s not on purpose,” he replies, finally, glancing up at Arthur. “It just happens! I leave things alone for just a minute to go do something else and by the time I’ve come back they have done themselves and nothing I try has made it stop and I’m not an idiot, I just. Can’t control it.” He wanted to glare or laugh hysterically or bolt or jump out the window or anything, anything really, but instead, he eats the grape.
“You’re a bit of a girl, you know,” Arthur says with a smirk. It’s a bit funny when it’s not nerve-wrenchingly terrifying for his own neck and that of his manservant. Mostly Merlin’s. But still.
Merlin does glare then, outraged. “I am not!”
“You tuck me into bed every night, did you know?”
Merlin splutters and glares and Arthur smiles because really, this is what they’re meant to be like, not the careful dancing about the subject they’d been doing for months now, ever since the armor-juggling incident, and he’d missed this, the complete impropriety. “I’d almost get the impression that you might actually like me,” he adds, just to make it worse.
And Arthur laughs because Merlin looks like he’s turning into one of the tomatoes the children are all so fond of throwing at him, he’s that red, from a combination of anger, months of nerves and embarrassment because he is not, not a girl and everything just felt right.
“You giant prat, I am not a girl, I do not like you and just because my... my… that has decided you need tucking in for gods know what reason does not mean any different!” And he glared, because he was furious with everything, the world, and Arthur’s laughing and shoved another grape into his mouth before standing to leave. “I’ll be attempting to muck your stables if you need me. Sire.”
And he’s gone in a vibrantly cursing inappropriate whirlwind of manservant and Arthur’s happy.
Until that night when Merlin is still irritated and he doesn’t find himself being tucked in for the first time since the winter really started and realizes that he almost misses it.
--
Merlin’s irritation doesn’t last that long, and it was a nice break from the whole mantra of ‘I’m going to die a horrible death in the middle of the square and no one will forgive me ever,’ but ‘I’m not an idiot, I’m not thick, I am not a girl and I do not like him at all in any way’ wasn’t much better, really. Just less terrifying. And it didn’t mean that he had any better control over his magic either. It was still leaping at his slightest thought, wanting to be used. It was like the very earth wanted him to use it and if he didn’t choose to, it was going to do it for him.
But he was absolutely not tucking Arthur in at night because that was just ridiculous.
By the end of the week when Merlin had (mostly) stopped glaring, Arthur had clearly decided to try again. Merlin had been minding his own business, setting down the breakfast tray in the antechamber of Arthur’s rooms as he wandered out in his trousers and a loose shift.
“Most people like me, you know,” he commented, sitting down to his breakfast. “There’s nothing wrong with that, I am your prince after all.”
“You’re a prat, is what you are, royal one or not.”
“You still can’t speak to me that way, Merlin, how many times do we have to go over this?”
“Not like there’s anyone else here to hear it, is there? Does you good, hearing you’re a prat. Might make you less of one.”
Arthur sighed and reached for the bread, though it was better, really, than it had been. Him and Merlin. Not that he cared.
Merlin, for his part, was studiously ignoring the prince and trying to get the fireplace cleaned before anything untoward could happen and it burst into flames. The silence carried on for a while, Merlin going about his duties, Arthur eating his breakfast.
“I didn’t mind it.”
Merlin looked up from the fireplace, a bit confused, he was fairly certain he’d been listening but still wasn’t quite sure what was going on. “Mind what?”
“The tucking in. No one ever really did that for me.”
Merlin just gave him a long look before lighting the fire and going to the laundry. Arthur didn’t stop him when he left.
--
And wasn’t that a thing to blurt out like that? Merlin had to wonder, why did Arthur say that, what was the purpose? Did he mean to say that? Of course he meant to say that, Arthur never did things like say the wrong thing or get nervous or any of those other things lowly humans did because he was Prince Arthur Pendragon and he wasn’t allowed to be human, except the fact that he could die and hadn’t known his mum and no one had ever tucked him in and Merlin, well, he felt a bit guilty.
And wasn’t that, you know, a bit intimate to be telling your manservant? Yeah, alright, he liked knowing Arthur, he was a friend but still, they were blokes, men don’t talk about feelings and that sort of thing so it was weird.
But Arthur… he knew that Merlin was a sorcerer and was still telling him things, trusting him, and they hadn’t talked about it, not really, not the issues of trust and all that because that would just be far too much and they didn’t have to, it wasn’t necessary, and Arthur liked being tucked in.
Merlin was willing to concede that maybe, maybe he liked him a little.
But that was all. He settled down to sleep and hoped Arthur had gotten the message.
--
Winter did eventually come to an end, and with it the frequent banquets as the harvests came in and food moved on to plainer fare. As far as he knew, his magic still tucked Arthur in each night, but he’d gotten a bit better grasp on the other things. They mostly didn’t leap to his every passing thought now, he was a bit more in control, and that could only be a good thing.
The weather was much improved and Arthur was back to training regularly and Merlin was back to minding his armor as a full-time job. Of course, the increased exertion of the new season made Arthur hungrier than he had been in the quiet lull of winter, not to say that he’d let himself get lazy over the cold months, anything but, yet now the days were longer and there was the whole outdoors to train in.
So, it came to be that one evening after his bath to wash away the stench of overexertion that he was sitting, eating dinner in his chambers as Merlin attended him. “Do you know what would be excellent?”
“A lighter workload?” Merlin was mopping up the spilt water from the bath.
“No, Merlin, you hardly do any of the work itself as it is, don’t think I hadn’t noticed, though I’m glad there’s been no repeat of the juggling incident.” He paused to sip his ale. “No, what would be excellent right now is one of those pastries the cooks do at Yule, with the candied fruits.”
Halfway through the statement Merlin had tried to interrupt, tried to tell him not to say it, but before a word could escape him, there was a pie sitting on the table in front of Arthur. Merlin glared at it. “You just had to say it, didn’t you,” he muttered, mopping with a bit more force than necessary.
“Does this always happen or am I just special?” Arthur raised an eyebrow at the pie before cutting into and sampling it. It was perfect.
“Just you,” Merlin ground out after a moment. “It likes you, don’t ask me why, I really don’t know, never just materializes a pie for me, I’ll have you know. Won’t even tidy up my room for me, right annoying, it is.”
‘Magic’ was the one word they never said. They could talk about it so long as they never used the word. It was foolish, but it felt safer.
Arthur chuckled to himself and cut out a piece for Merlin. “Then I suppose I’d best share, wouldn’t do to eat it all myself, after all, I have a princely figure to keep, I’ll have you know. Can’t have you spoiling me.” It was easy, this camaraderie, and Merlin gave a half-grin as he left the rest of the floor to dry on its own. It would, after all.
“So maybe you’re a bit less of a prat than first impressions would say.” Merlin sat down across from Arthur and picked up the spare fork he’d taken to secreting away on the tray somewhere. It wasn’t entirely uncommon for Arthur to share a bit of his mean every now and again, after all.
“Shut up and eat your pie, Merlin, and tell me about how much you like me.” Arthur’s face was one of smug confidence, and it even worked with the smear of pie filling across his chin.
Merlin glared and made as though to jab at him with the fork. “I said no such thing! It likes you! Not me. You’re still an enormous prat at least 360 days of the year.”
“So I’m alright on the other four?”
“You spend at least that much time unconscious.”
Arthur mimed an injury to his heart and flicked a crumb at Merlin. “You wound me. But honestly, Merlin, it’s part of you, right? You’ve got to like me at least a little.”
“Nope, not a bit.”
“Liar.”
“Prat.”
“Idiot.”
“Am not, shut up.” He shoveled a bit more of the pie into his mouth and glared. Arthur was just leaning back and grinning, the smug bastard.
“Only if you admit it.”
“Fine!” Merlin spluttered, crumbs flying out of his mouth. He’d have to clean those up later. He swallowed quickly all the while still glaring (a bit half-heartedly, if he were truthful). “There are occasions, some of them, when you’re not… that bad. And I might like you. Just a little.”
Arthur crowed in victory and slammed his fist down on the table in glee. “See! I knew it. It comes from you, it had to be you.” He grinned for a long moment before going back to his pie. “It makes a good pie, by the way.” And Merlin was forced to grin a bit and nod in agreement.
--
It was another week before Arthur brought it up again, and Merlin was beginning to feel like he got a perverse sort of pleasure from mentioning it.
“So you’re basically like my wish-granter,” he said that morning. Breakfast was his favorite time to bring it up. Probably because not many people wandered in at breakfast, but Merlin didn’t really want to ask.
“I suppose. Not on purpose though. And I could probably stop it if it was something entirely inappropriate like a pony or something.” He paused. “Probably.”
He got a glare for that one. “Seriously though, Merlin. What can’t you do with this?”
The first thing Merlin thought of was ‘convince your father not to behead me if he found out,’ but that really didn’t seem appropriate for this early in the morning. “Don’t think I can actually make people do things, haven’t tried, but I’m fairly certain that it has to be something physical and without an actual will of its own.” He shrugged a bit and went to make Arthur’s bed.
Which had already half-made itself so it wasn’t long before he re-entered the front room.
“What if I wanted you to do something?”
Merlin gave him a long look. “You are not putting me in the stocks again, my other shirt still has stains from that last bath of tomatoes, I swear they really have started putting dye in them!” But apparently that wasn’t it as Arthur choked back a laugh, shaking his head. “Otherwise,” Merlin said slowly, “you could just ask. I’d probably end up doing it eventually anyhow.” And oh, how he hoped Arthur wouldn’t abuse that knowledge. “So long as you ask.”
“Something that doesn’t fall exactly in line with your duties, I meant.”
Merlin gave him a look that clearly said that he was not the idiot in this relationship, Arthur was. “And all this,” he waved his hand about in a way that was clearly (well, not so clearly) meant to mean ‘MAGIC THINGS OF A DUBIOUS NATURE,’ “is in line with my duties?”
“Well, no, not as such.” Merlin raised an eyebrow. “Shut up, Merlin, I’m trying to say something here.”
“Which is?”
“That I like you a bit too. Sometimes.”
“Er, thanks,” Merlin replied, and wondered how the two were connected.
--
True to form, the topic wasn’t broached again for several days. But Merlin had been thinking about it, almost constantly. Arthur did not get nervous trying to say things, especially to him. So why was that such a big deal to say and what did it have to do with things beyond his duties and really, Merlin had an overactive imagination and that was just unfair. He’d come up with at least fifteen scenarios of what Arthur had wanted to ask him to do there, ranging from a simple task to the absolutely ludicrous.
On that end of the scale was the vague idea that Arthur might have wanted to kiss him or something. It was an idea he’d thought of, briefly, just after, and immediately discarded as ridiculous, but it wasn’t leaving him alone and really, after a while, it didn’t sound like it would be so bad.
Not that he was ever admitting that it anyone, even upon pain of death. Except maybe Arthur. If he asked.
There was a feast about a month later, celebrating some treaty with a neighboring kingdom, Merlin didn’t much care for the politics, but he had liked the ale they’d brought with them. Even the servants had been given a share and it was really brilliant ale. Fantastic, even. But he’d had his share (and a bit of Gwen’s, who hadn’t much liked the taste) and now he had to attend to Arthur and get him settled for bed despite the slight staggering that was going on in walking up the staircases. And he wasn’t really wanting to fall down them, falling down the Camelot stairs hurt. He’d done it once and wasn’t keen to repeat the experience.
And as he closed the door to Arthur’s chambers, them both inside now and leaning (only slightly!) against a wall as Arthur collapsed into his chair, it just… fell out of his mouth.
“What did you want to ask me to do? That morning after the pie,” he clarified when Arthur looked a bit confused. “When we were talking about,” the hand wave again, “it.”
And it’s practically visible when the conversation clicks into Arthur’s inebriated mind, and the response so instant he can’t have thought long about it. “I wanted to know if you’d…” and his brain caught up with his mouth then, causing him to do something Merlin had never thought he’d see. Ever. He blushed. It was just a light one, but it was there and Merlin was seeing it and it was like every strangely-intimate moment all over again and he grinned.
“If I’d what?”
Arthur huffed and pulled himself back to his feet moving towards his bedchamber. “It was nothing, Merlin. I won’t ask for it. It isn’t my place.”
Merlin guffawed at that. “Seriously, seriously Arthur. What did you want? Did you want me to… to kiss you or something?” And it was just the first thing he thought of out of the fifteen ridiculous ideas because it was, well. He’d thought about it more. But the look on Arthur’s face pulled him up short.
“Seriously? I mean. Really?” And his mum had always told him that if he left his jaw hanging out like that, insects would fly down his throat, but right now it was warranted and there was nothing wrong with a few insects anyhow.
“Shut up,” was Arthur’s only response, trying to flee the room but for once, for once Merlin’s magic decided to do what he wanted and the connecting door slammed closed.
And he grinned, because maybe, okay maybe this was how it was supposed to be. And he did like the prat because he was human and real and cocked up sometimes but was really brilliant a lot of other times and because he got to see this, these moments where he was just Arthur, who liked being tucked in and thought his magic was interesting and liked the idea of a wish-granter and actually sort of knew him a bit better than almost anyone else except maybe his mother. So with that in mind, he crossed the room and stopped just that side of comfortable away from Arthur and said two, simple words.
“Say it.”
--
”It would be nice if you kissed me.”
And he did.
--
SIX MONTHS LATER (AKA THE EPILOGUE BECAUSE I FAIL AT SHORT FIC APPARENTLY)
“It would be nice if we were naked,” Arthur panted, pressing Merlin against the door they’d just slammed closed.
And Merlin, well. He just had given up on the glaring when Arthur was clearly better at this wishing thing than he was.
Because naked? Was definitely a good idea. He just hoped he could find their clothing later.
“And the door were locked.”
Merlin did pull back and glare a bit at that. “Picky.”
“Careful. Unlike others I could name.” And somehow, somehow even in moments like this, Arthur could be a bit of a prat.
“You know what would actually be nice? If we were in bed, so less talking, more moving.” Merlin shoved at Arthur’s shoulders making a move for the bed where things were horizontal and there were furs to keep out the autumn chill that was beginning to set in.
“And a fire?”
Merlin fought back the urge to smother him with a pillow and kissed him to make him stop asking for things.
“As you wish, you prat.”
.fin. (for real)
AFTER-NOTES: These are just the amusing things I stuck in and people on my flist, in particular, might find amusing.
1. Arthur elbowing Merlin in the spleen. This comes from the Merlin I RP and another character who frequently threatens his spleen with poking if he keeps on being so idiotic about his magic.
2. Falling down Camelot stairs. Really does hurt. I did it when I was at Pierrefonds and it was quite painful, plus those spiral staircases are a bit terrifying to fall down when you don't know when you'll stop. (I did catch myself after only about 3 but I did get a bit banged up doing it!)
3. Thought sentence that got away from Merlin a bit. Doctor Who reference, sorry! Name the episode, anyone?
4. There's a Princess Bride quote there at the end too. I like quotes.
5. ...There is no 5. Hi people? Comments are adored!
Title: Hit Them With a Shoe
Author: themegaloo, originally posted anon
Rating: PG-13, and only for the very end, if you stop reading at the time-skip, it's practically G, I was so disgusted with myself you have no idea.
Spoilers: None for Series 2, teeny one for 1.13. Alludes to things brought up in 2.01, but not in any way that is actually connected like... at all.
Word Count: 6,092 with edits.
Summary: For the prompt: Arthur/Merlin, Merlin loses (some) control of his magic, and to his dismay, his magic happily starts doing his chores for him. Bonus points for Arthur walking in to find Merlin frantically shouting at Arthur's armour to stop cleaning itself (or some other task) and he is horribly appalled, but then starts to like all the little things Merlin's magic does for him (e.g. tucking him in at night, cutting his meat for him, etc.). Basically, Merlin's magic is as in love with Arthur as Merlin himself, while Merlin remains furious and in denial.
Note on the title: Because it might be nice of me to explain, this is related to the whole 'tucking in' of the prompt and the phrase 'Good night, sleep tight, don't let the bedbugs bite.' I found that the follow up I know is an uncommon variation- it goes 'if they do, hit them with a shoe, I'll see you in the morning light.'
Originally posted here
Ever since that day on the Isle of the Blessed, Merlin’s magic had been a bit, well. Strange was about the best word for it. Because “over powered” and “out of control” were words that made him nervous and he didn’t like to think about the consequences of lacking control in a court ruled by Uther Pendragon, because really, that just led to thoughts of his head, disconnected from his body and really, those were not pleasant thoughts. More like nightmares. With a terrifying possibility of reality. And he really was a crap liar.
But life went on in Camelot and Arthur was recovered (well, recovering, but the official stance was recovered because both Arthur and his father were stubborn arses who refused to admit weakness of any sort and it meant that Arthur was back to training with the knights as he always did, except he tended to get a bit more dinged up, which no one was also admitting, even the knights, because it was bad form and the people really did like him and they didn’t like to admit that maybe, maybe he wasn’t infallible and indestructible, despite evidence that maybe, maybe he could die, only he hadn’t and really Merlin only had himself to blame for… well, a lot of those sorts of situations and really, he had to get ‘round to convincing people that just because Arthur had a strange habit of escaping actual harm that lasted forever and into the ground didn’t mean he didn’t, you know, take it, and he could, in fact, die, so could they please stop making his life harder than it already was?)
And, alright, that mental sentence might have gotten away from him a bit, but the point. The point was that he had a pile of armor just sat there in his room and he needed to mend, clean and polish it before tomorrow in addition to tending to the stables, Arthur’s room, the laundry, preparing a bath, fetching dinner, and all the other ridiculous things that came along with being a manservant to the prince. He had a fleeting thought of, oh, wouldn’t it be nice if it would just tend to itself so he could get on with everything else he had to be getting on with. He’d find time. When the rest of the castle (and world) was sleeping. For now, there were more immediate things to tend to. He closed the door and went to get dinner for Arthur before it was cold and gave the prat more excuses to be… prattish.
And if the armor was surprisingly spotless and perfect when he stumbled back to his room in the wee hours of the morning, well, he wasn’t really about to complain.
--
Of course, that was only the beginning of things. Some things. Things with his magic taking on a life, well, mind, of its own. Merlin had been doing bits and pieces of his chores with magic (when Gaius wasn’t looking) for ages, but he’d always been there when it happened. It was, frankly, a bit unsettling that he was coming to things he’d planned to do and been thinking about doing as he’d been doing something else to find them mysteriously already done. He would have thought that Arthur was getting fed up with his (admittedly often sub-par) service in such areas and hired someone else to tend to them, but, really, really. They were often things that no one but Merlin had access to. Like the armor in his room. Or things within Arthur’s private chambers and he was reasonably certain that no one else had been granted keys to these sorts of places, it had been a good month before he’d gotten his key and that had only been after proving he wasn’t, well. A lunatic sorcerer hell-bent on revenge and killing the prince. Or something. Well, three out of four wasn’t bad.
And Arthur would never assign someone else to empty his chamber pot. The complaining Merlin did about it amused him too much.
But really, when Arthur listed off his assignments the next day and Merlin sighed, wondering which would have done themselves by the time he got there just in order to give him a heart attack, and then, oh so cleverly at Merlin’s very, very brief hesitation stated “Really Merlin, these things won’t do themselves,” well. It was a bit much for anyone with nightmares involving his head separated from his body could take.
So, he did what any self-respecting manservant to the prince would do and… glared. And had the surreal moment of hoping that there was at least one pile of manure left for him to remove by the time he got to the stables. He quickly took that thought back because it was sounding far too much like he liked this whole servant lark and when he got to the stables, well, they were immaculate.
--
Arthur was a very… understanding master for the most part, he liked to think, and he had put up with a lot of ineptitude from his servant over the time they’d been acquainted. And it was good to see Merlin taking his duties more seriously and finishing his tasks in a timely manner, but honestly. Enough was enough. His chambers were perfect, his horses never had the slightest wet spot in their stables, his armor looked like new every time he went to train and his chamber pot had a faint aroma of lemons. Not that he had smelt it or anything, it was just a bit obvious when there was a faint aroma of lemons rather than the one that he had grown up accustomed to. He was the last person to complain about good service, but he’d been adding on extra tasks, things that should by no means possible to complete in a day by the most hard-working and talented of servants. And his, the most inept manservant to ever walk the halls of Camelot? Was managing them all in record time.
Something, somewhere, just didn’t add up.
--
Winter was fast approaching by the time anything changed from the rather strange and terrifying status quo. Merlin had learned not to turn whiter than the sheets left out to dry fresh after they’d been washed in that awful smelling stuff that took out the stains (he wasn’t considering where the stains came from, because that would just be disturbing, but Arthur’s sheets were rarely stained unless he had gotten himself knocked about and bloody over the course of training or hunting or some other ill-advised something that involved bloodshed or bloodshedding which Merlin entirely did not approve of).
That wasn’t to say that the abject terror he experienced every time something happened had lessened, because it hadn’t, it was just best for all internal organs involved that he didn’t die because of that when the executioner’s block would be so much faster.
But with the end of summer there was even more to do, what with re-hanging the tapestries to warm the stone walls, stoking fires, freshening the furs on Arthur’s bed, making sure drafts didn’t make their way in through the windows while the prince was in his royal bath basin, keeping everything hot on the way up from the kitchen… Really, it was an unfair amount of work and his toes were cold.
Arthur’s toes were never cold. His magic made sure the wool of Arthur’s socks was extra thick and warm and soft every time they washed themselves. It wasn’t fair. He was very tempted to steal a pair for himself. Only he had a sneaking suspicion that they wouldn’t stay nearly so well darned if they were adorning his own feet.
His magic liked Arthur better.
And that was just really, extraordinarily, incredibly unfair.
--
There came a day when Merlin forgot that Arthur’s armor has this tendency of cleaning itself and left it alone in Arthur’s room for five minutes. Well, it’s not so much that he forgot, but he’s cold and the fire had stoked itself so well that he was out of wood for it in the room and had to go get more before Arthur got back, and really, really, he was only gone for like, a minute, but when he came back not only was the armor cleaning and polishing itself, but he knows for a fact, a fact that he heard Arthur just behind him on the stairs up to his chambers and his armor is hanging in mid-air. Doing things! To itself!
‘Stop!’ he hissed. To no effect. Mind of its bloody own indeed. As the door cracked open, he darted forward and grabbed the rag, hoping his arm wasn’t about to be pulled out of joint as he just let his hand follow the movement. He did his best to get some part of his anatomy to appear as though it had perfect control of everything that may or may not be actually floating, and just hoped for the best.
Which was, of course, Arthur staring at him and asking “Merlin, are you juggling my armor?”
Merlin hiccuped. Because oh god, he is going to die. Right after his arm takes leave of the rest of his body because really, that’s the only outcome here, and he might have been getting a bit hysterical but it was warranted, damnit, normal people do not have to deal with this sort of…of nonsense! It wasn’t fair and he gave the armor one last despairing look, begging it (internally, he thinks, and is wrong about) to stop, just stop, he doesn’t want to die so please just stop.
Arthur quickly closed the door just as the armor clattered to the floor.
The look he gives Merlin scream ‘You idiot’ in every language Merlin can possibly imagine (and then some). Which really isn’t that many but that is not the point.
“Merlin,” said Arthur, very slowly, as though he were speaking to a very small child, and oh, Merlin wishes he were a very small, ordinary, non-magic child rather that Arthur’s somewhat hapless secret warlock manservant because life would be so, so much easier if only he were. “Merlin, I do not know why you decided to juggle,” the look on his face implies very much that he knows that there was absolutely no juggling actually involved in the whole thing, “but I don’t want to see it again. I don’t want it to happen again. Or anything like it. Have you got that, Merlin?”
Merlin nodded, hiccupping again and not really trusting himself to say anything beyond “I’m sorry, you’re quite right sire, I’ll not be juggling any of your things, sire, thank you sire,” and other such babblings as he gathered the armor and fled to the privacy of his own rooms.
It was quite possible the most servile he had ever been throughout the entirety of his employment.
--
When Merlin returned to his room it was to drop the armor on the floor, glare at it, and then sigh a very loud sigh of relief. Which lasted for about a minute before he had the panicked thought of ‘Arthur knows, oh my god he knows and I’m not dead, my head is still attached to my body, what.’ And he thinks, for a brief moment, that maybe it’s all going to be alright. So long as no one else catches him… juggling.
Of course that’s when it all gets enormously worse.
--
Winter brings with it feasts and performers and the like because no one much wants to go out in the absolutely awful weather that the season brings and the days are shorter and colder and really, there’s not much for it but to eat a lot and wait it out. So, Merlin finds himself regularly standing behind Arthur, and things are still alright, no mention of the juggling and he’s fairly certain he’s happy with that, though it would be nice, just once, to be able to talk about it. He’d tried to tell Gaius once before the paralyzing fear that something of Arthur’s was doing something of its own accord off somewhere else in the castle and he needed to be there right that moment. But despite that, he was feeling a bit of goodwill towards the prince and that meat looked a bit tough, he wondered, idly, if he should cut it for him, was that in his duties? Remembering these things was always difficult and he never had before, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t meant to… And then the meat started separating itself right before his, and Arthur’s, eyes.
Arthur, who turned to him and waved for his goblet to be refilled in order to hiss in his ear that “you are even more of an idiot than I thought you were,” watching out the corner of his eye while Merlin gulped and tried to will the meat to behave itself, which was ridiculous as it was dead, but it was done now, nothing to be done about it.
Arthur, good soul that he was (and oh how it pained Merlin to think of that, but he was, and he was a bit of a friend when he wasn’t elbowing Merlin in the spleen for something he couldn’t help), carried on eating as though nothing had happened. After the elbowing, of course.
And if that had been all, maybe it would have been alright, maybe nothing would have come of it and they could have gone on like normal, or as close to normal as they ever were, which wasn’t very, but it was all relative, Merlin figured, and it never had to be spoken of provided that… that, well. Provided something. He wasn’t sure. But for once, he was very, very willing to go with Arthur’s ‘I decide when we talk’ thing because he very, very much did not want to. Talk, that is. About this.
And really, Merlin should have figured out that thoughts of good will were going to get him in trouble here. Or could do. Should. Something like that.
--
Arthur had figured out a long time ago what was going on. By which he meant that he wasn’t entirely surprised when he’d walked into his chambers to find all his armor cleaning itself in midair and his manservant trying his best to disguise that fact. That wasn’t to say he’d had any sort of plan going into that conversation, one-sided as it was, but he thought he’d managed alright and impressed upon Merlin the necessity of being careful and not doing anything idiotic where he might be caught. He was reasonably certain that he had made this clear, but apparently Merlin was entirely thick, despite apparently being a bit less thick than he appeared for having somehow become a sorcerer.
Which was, actually, not something he was thinking about because if he thought about it too much then he might have to actually do something.
He had honestly believed that one near-heart failure would have been enough to coerce Merlin to do his treasonous things somewhere private, if at all, but apparently not, apparently Merlin had absolutely no notion of how to protect himself at all, as at banquets? Arthur was seated next to the king. And he didn’t want to know how Merlin had accomplished that little trick without the use of incantations or anything as sorcery was generally described as requiring, but it had been stupid, idiotic, and had he been caught, Arthur wouldn’t have been able to do anything about it.
And he found himself rather loathe to replace Merlin. Despite his enormous failings. And the magic. And the treason. And a lot of things, really, but there was something about him, and by now Arthur had decided that if he had the mental capacity to debate as to whether or not he had been bewitched, he probably hadn’t been, which meant Merlin was a bit touched in the head because he’d have certainly bewitched anyone who regularly forced him to empty a chamber pot.
And perhaps that last goblet of wine had been a bit too much, but he was fairly certain that his blankets tucked him in of their own accord when he laid down that night.
Which was… Rather nice, when he thought about it. Which he decidedly was not.
--
Things went on in that way through midwinter, then Yule, then the new year came in and as the cold persisted, Arthur found himself carefully tucked into bed each night as his pillows fluffed themselves, his toughest meat fell apart as he cut into it, his room was warm and his baths scalding, the food brought to his chambers was always at the perfect temperature and his manservant looked on the verge not of collapse, but of a heart attack.
So, it was one morning at breakfast that he finally said what hadn’t been said, and actually hadn’t occurred to him until he noticed Merlin’s constant state of fear.
“It’s not on purpose, is it.” It couldn’t be, not even Merlin was that thick, and that was saying something. Merlin, who looked ready to run for the window and leap and so Arthur waved his hand at the other chair. “Sit down,” he added, pushing the overflowing plate of strangely fresh fruit towards him. “Even you can’t be that thick as to be doing all this on purpose.”
“You’re not going to have me beheaded, are you?” is the first thing out of Merlin’s mouth and he wishes to all the gods of both new and old religions that he could take it back at the glower Arthur gives him for that.
“Obviously I was wrong, you could be that thick,” was Arthur’s grumbled response as he rips into a chunk of bread. Still hot.
Merlin deflated at that and picked at a grape. Another aspect of his magic just liking Arthur. He mentioned missing the fruits of summer, there they were. Nice and ripe. As though it were July itself as opposed to the cold depths of winter. “It’s not on purpose,” he replies, finally, glancing up at Arthur. “It just happens! I leave things alone for just a minute to go do something else and by the time I’ve come back they have done themselves and nothing I try has made it stop and I’m not an idiot, I just. Can’t control it.” He wanted to glare or laugh hysterically or bolt or jump out the window or anything, anything really, but instead, he eats the grape.
“You’re a bit of a girl, you know,” Arthur says with a smirk. It’s a bit funny when it’s not nerve-wrenchingly terrifying for his own neck and that of his manservant. Mostly Merlin’s. But still.
Merlin does glare then, outraged. “I am not!”
“You tuck me into bed every night, did you know?”
Merlin splutters and glares and Arthur smiles because really, this is what they’re meant to be like, not the careful dancing about the subject they’d been doing for months now, ever since the armor-juggling incident, and he’d missed this, the complete impropriety. “I’d almost get the impression that you might actually like me,” he adds, just to make it worse.
And Arthur laughs because Merlin looks like he’s turning into one of the tomatoes the children are all so fond of throwing at him, he’s that red, from a combination of anger, months of nerves and embarrassment because he is not, not a girl and everything just felt right.
“You giant prat, I am not a girl, I do not like you and just because my... my… that has decided you need tucking in for gods know what reason does not mean any different!” And he glared, because he was furious with everything, the world, and Arthur’s laughing and shoved another grape into his mouth before standing to leave. “I’ll be attempting to muck your stables if you need me. Sire.”
And he’s gone in a vibrantly cursing inappropriate whirlwind of manservant and Arthur’s happy.
Until that night when Merlin is still irritated and he doesn’t find himself being tucked in for the first time since the winter really started and realizes that he almost misses it.
--
Merlin’s irritation doesn’t last that long, and it was a nice break from the whole mantra of ‘I’m going to die a horrible death in the middle of the square and no one will forgive me ever,’ but ‘I’m not an idiot, I’m not thick, I am not a girl and I do not like him at all in any way’ wasn’t much better, really. Just less terrifying. And it didn’t mean that he had any better control over his magic either. It was still leaping at his slightest thought, wanting to be used. It was like the very earth wanted him to use it and if he didn’t choose to, it was going to do it for him.
But he was absolutely not tucking Arthur in at night because that was just ridiculous.
By the end of the week when Merlin had (mostly) stopped glaring, Arthur had clearly decided to try again. Merlin had been minding his own business, setting down the breakfast tray in the antechamber of Arthur’s rooms as he wandered out in his trousers and a loose shift.
“Most people like me, you know,” he commented, sitting down to his breakfast. “There’s nothing wrong with that, I am your prince after all.”
“You’re a prat, is what you are, royal one or not.”
“You still can’t speak to me that way, Merlin, how many times do we have to go over this?”
“Not like there’s anyone else here to hear it, is there? Does you good, hearing you’re a prat. Might make you less of one.”
Arthur sighed and reached for the bread, though it was better, really, than it had been. Him and Merlin. Not that he cared.
Merlin, for his part, was studiously ignoring the prince and trying to get the fireplace cleaned before anything untoward could happen and it burst into flames. The silence carried on for a while, Merlin going about his duties, Arthur eating his breakfast.
“I didn’t mind it.”
Merlin looked up from the fireplace, a bit confused, he was fairly certain he’d been listening but still wasn’t quite sure what was going on. “Mind what?”
“The tucking in. No one ever really did that for me.”
Merlin just gave him a long look before lighting the fire and going to the laundry. Arthur didn’t stop him when he left.
--
And wasn’t that a thing to blurt out like that? Merlin had to wonder, why did Arthur say that, what was the purpose? Did he mean to say that? Of course he meant to say that, Arthur never did things like say the wrong thing or get nervous or any of those other things lowly humans did because he was Prince Arthur Pendragon and he wasn’t allowed to be human, except the fact that he could die and hadn’t known his mum and no one had ever tucked him in and Merlin, well, he felt a bit guilty.
And wasn’t that, you know, a bit intimate to be telling your manservant? Yeah, alright, he liked knowing Arthur, he was a friend but still, they were blokes, men don’t talk about feelings and that sort of thing so it was weird.
But Arthur… he knew that Merlin was a sorcerer and was still telling him things, trusting him, and they hadn’t talked about it, not really, not the issues of trust and all that because that would just be far too much and they didn’t have to, it wasn’t necessary, and Arthur liked being tucked in.
Merlin was willing to concede that maybe, maybe he liked him a little.
But that was all. He settled down to sleep and hoped Arthur had gotten the message.
--
Winter did eventually come to an end, and with it the frequent banquets as the harvests came in and food moved on to plainer fare. As far as he knew, his magic still tucked Arthur in each night, but he’d gotten a bit better grasp on the other things. They mostly didn’t leap to his every passing thought now, he was a bit more in control, and that could only be a good thing.
The weather was much improved and Arthur was back to training regularly and Merlin was back to minding his armor as a full-time job. Of course, the increased exertion of the new season made Arthur hungrier than he had been in the quiet lull of winter, not to say that he’d let himself get lazy over the cold months, anything but, yet now the days were longer and there was the whole outdoors to train in.
So, it came to be that one evening after his bath to wash away the stench of overexertion that he was sitting, eating dinner in his chambers as Merlin attended him. “Do you know what would be excellent?”
“A lighter workload?” Merlin was mopping up the spilt water from the bath.
“No, Merlin, you hardly do any of the work itself as it is, don’t think I hadn’t noticed, though I’m glad there’s been no repeat of the juggling incident.” He paused to sip his ale. “No, what would be excellent right now is one of those pastries the cooks do at Yule, with the candied fruits.”
Halfway through the statement Merlin had tried to interrupt, tried to tell him not to say it, but before a word could escape him, there was a pie sitting on the table in front of Arthur. Merlin glared at it. “You just had to say it, didn’t you,” he muttered, mopping with a bit more force than necessary.
“Does this always happen or am I just special?” Arthur raised an eyebrow at the pie before cutting into and sampling it. It was perfect.
“Just you,” Merlin ground out after a moment. “It likes you, don’t ask me why, I really don’t know, never just materializes a pie for me, I’ll have you know. Won’t even tidy up my room for me, right annoying, it is.”
‘Magic’ was the one word they never said. They could talk about it so long as they never used the word. It was foolish, but it felt safer.
Arthur chuckled to himself and cut out a piece for Merlin. “Then I suppose I’d best share, wouldn’t do to eat it all myself, after all, I have a princely figure to keep, I’ll have you know. Can’t have you spoiling me.” It was easy, this camaraderie, and Merlin gave a half-grin as he left the rest of the floor to dry on its own. It would, after all.
“So maybe you’re a bit less of a prat than first impressions would say.” Merlin sat down across from Arthur and picked up the spare fork he’d taken to secreting away on the tray somewhere. It wasn’t entirely uncommon for Arthur to share a bit of his mean every now and again, after all.
“Shut up and eat your pie, Merlin, and tell me about how much you like me.” Arthur’s face was one of smug confidence, and it even worked with the smear of pie filling across his chin.
Merlin glared and made as though to jab at him with the fork. “I said no such thing! It likes you! Not me. You’re still an enormous prat at least 360 days of the year.”
“So I’m alright on the other four?”
“You spend at least that much time unconscious.”
Arthur mimed an injury to his heart and flicked a crumb at Merlin. “You wound me. But honestly, Merlin, it’s part of you, right? You’ve got to like me at least a little.”
“Nope, not a bit.”
“Liar.”
“Prat.”
“Idiot.”
“Am not, shut up.” He shoveled a bit more of the pie into his mouth and glared. Arthur was just leaning back and grinning, the smug bastard.
“Only if you admit it.”
“Fine!” Merlin spluttered, crumbs flying out of his mouth. He’d have to clean those up later. He swallowed quickly all the while still glaring (a bit half-heartedly, if he were truthful). “There are occasions, some of them, when you’re not… that bad. And I might like you. Just a little.”
Arthur crowed in victory and slammed his fist down on the table in glee. “See! I knew it. It comes from you, it had to be you.” He grinned for a long moment before going back to his pie. “It makes a good pie, by the way.” And Merlin was forced to grin a bit and nod in agreement.
--
It was another week before Arthur brought it up again, and Merlin was beginning to feel like he got a perverse sort of pleasure from mentioning it.
“So you’re basically like my wish-granter,” he said that morning. Breakfast was his favorite time to bring it up. Probably because not many people wandered in at breakfast, but Merlin didn’t really want to ask.
“I suppose. Not on purpose though. And I could probably stop it if it was something entirely inappropriate like a pony or something.” He paused. “Probably.”
He got a glare for that one. “Seriously though, Merlin. What can’t you do with this?”
The first thing Merlin thought of was ‘convince your father not to behead me if he found out,’ but that really didn’t seem appropriate for this early in the morning. “Don’t think I can actually make people do things, haven’t tried, but I’m fairly certain that it has to be something physical and without an actual will of its own.” He shrugged a bit and went to make Arthur’s bed.
Which had already half-made itself so it wasn’t long before he re-entered the front room.
“What if I wanted you to do something?”
Merlin gave him a long look. “You are not putting me in the stocks again, my other shirt still has stains from that last bath of tomatoes, I swear they really have started putting dye in them!” But apparently that wasn’t it as Arthur choked back a laugh, shaking his head. “Otherwise,” Merlin said slowly, “you could just ask. I’d probably end up doing it eventually anyhow.” And oh, how he hoped Arthur wouldn’t abuse that knowledge. “So long as you ask.”
“Something that doesn’t fall exactly in line with your duties, I meant.”
Merlin gave him a look that clearly said that he was not the idiot in this relationship, Arthur was. “And all this,” he waved his hand about in a way that was clearly (well, not so clearly) meant to mean ‘MAGIC THINGS OF A DUBIOUS NATURE,’ “is in line with my duties?”
“Well, no, not as such.” Merlin raised an eyebrow. “Shut up, Merlin, I’m trying to say something here.”
“Which is?”
“That I like you a bit too. Sometimes.”
“Er, thanks,” Merlin replied, and wondered how the two were connected.
--
True to form, the topic wasn’t broached again for several days. But Merlin had been thinking about it, almost constantly. Arthur did not get nervous trying to say things, especially to him. So why was that such a big deal to say and what did it have to do with things beyond his duties and really, Merlin had an overactive imagination and that was just unfair. He’d come up with at least fifteen scenarios of what Arthur had wanted to ask him to do there, ranging from a simple task to the absolutely ludicrous.
On that end of the scale was the vague idea that Arthur might have wanted to kiss him or something. It was an idea he’d thought of, briefly, just after, and immediately discarded as ridiculous, but it wasn’t leaving him alone and really, after a while, it didn’t sound like it would be so bad.
Not that he was ever admitting that it anyone, even upon pain of death. Except maybe Arthur. If he asked.
There was a feast about a month later, celebrating some treaty with a neighboring kingdom, Merlin didn’t much care for the politics, but he had liked the ale they’d brought with them. Even the servants had been given a share and it was really brilliant ale. Fantastic, even. But he’d had his share (and a bit of Gwen’s, who hadn’t much liked the taste) and now he had to attend to Arthur and get him settled for bed despite the slight staggering that was going on in walking up the staircases. And he wasn’t really wanting to fall down them, falling down the Camelot stairs hurt. He’d done it once and wasn’t keen to repeat the experience.
And as he closed the door to Arthur’s chambers, them both inside now and leaning (only slightly!) against a wall as Arthur collapsed into his chair, it just… fell out of his mouth.
“What did you want to ask me to do? That morning after the pie,” he clarified when Arthur looked a bit confused. “When we were talking about,” the hand wave again, “it.”
And it’s practically visible when the conversation clicks into Arthur’s inebriated mind, and the response so instant he can’t have thought long about it. “I wanted to know if you’d…” and his brain caught up with his mouth then, causing him to do something Merlin had never thought he’d see. Ever. He blushed. It was just a light one, but it was there and Merlin was seeing it and it was like every strangely-intimate moment all over again and he grinned.
“If I’d what?”
Arthur huffed and pulled himself back to his feet moving towards his bedchamber. “It was nothing, Merlin. I won’t ask for it. It isn’t my place.”
Merlin guffawed at that. “Seriously, seriously Arthur. What did you want? Did you want me to… to kiss you or something?” And it was just the first thing he thought of out of the fifteen ridiculous ideas because it was, well. He’d thought about it more. But the look on Arthur’s face pulled him up short.
“Seriously? I mean. Really?” And his mum had always told him that if he left his jaw hanging out like that, insects would fly down his throat, but right now it was warranted and there was nothing wrong with a few insects anyhow.
“Shut up,” was Arthur’s only response, trying to flee the room but for once, for once Merlin’s magic decided to do what he wanted and the connecting door slammed closed.
And he grinned, because maybe, okay maybe this was how it was supposed to be. And he did like the prat because he was human and real and cocked up sometimes but was really brilliant a lot of other times and because he got to see this, these moments where he was just Arthur, who liked being tucked in and thought his magic was interesting and liked the idea of a wish-granter and actually sort of knew him a bit better than almost anyone else except maybe his mother. So with that in mind, he crossed the room and stopped just that side of comfortable away from Arthur and said two, simple words.
“Say it.”
--
”It would be nice if you kissed me.”
And he did.
--
SIX MONTHS LATER (AKA THE EPILOGUE BECAUSE I FAIL AT SHORT FIC APPARENTLY)
“It would be nice if we were naked,” Arthur panted, pressing Merlin against the door they’d just slammed closed.
And Merlin, well. He just had given up on the glaring when Arthur was clearly better at this wishing thing than he was.
Because naked? Was definitely a good idea. He just hoped he could find their clothing later.
“And the door were locked.”
Merlin did pull back and glare a bit at that. “Picky.”
“Careful. Unlike others I could name.” And somehow, somehow even in moments like this, Arthur could be a bit of a prat.
“You know what would actually be nice? If we were in bed, so less talking, more moving.” Merlin shoved at Arthur’s shoulders making a move for the bed where things were horizontal and there were furs to keep out the autumn chill that was beginning to set in.
“And a fire?”
Merlin fought back the urge to smother him with a pillow and kissed him to make him stop asking for things.
“As you wish, you prat.”
.fin. (for real)
AFTER-NOTES: These are just the amusing things I stuck in and people on my flist, in particular, might find amusing.
1. Arthur elbowing Merlin in the spleen. This comes from the Merlin I RP and another character who frequently threatens his spleen with poking if he keeps on being so idiotic about his magic.
2. Falling down Camelot stairs. Really does hurt. I did it when I was at Pierrefonds and it was quite painful, plus those spiral staircases are a bit terrifying to fall down when you don't know when you'll stop. (I did catch myself after only about 3 but I did get a bit banged up doing it!)
3. Thought sentence that got away from Merlin a bit. Doctor Who reference, sorry! Name the episode, anyone?
4. There's a Princess Bride quote there at the end too. I like quotes.
5. ...There is no 5. Hi people? Comments are adored!