Chapter Text
“All I’m saying,” Gwaine persists, as though Arthur is being deliberately obtuse, “is that Merlin has done far too much for all of us to stay stuck as your manservant for another ten years. He already had, and now after all of this,” he waves his hands around his head, indicating the whole of Camelot. It tugs the knight’s healing injuries, and he pulls back in with a cringe.
Arthur would have more sympathy had he not been subjected to some rendition of this speech daily since their limping home after Camlann. He’s not really sure how Gwaine finds the time; certainly Arthur has hardly been left alone or had any time to spare since they’ve returned. Far too much to do; either his injury being treated or hearing petitions for aid, or holding services for the fallen.
Yet there Gwaine is each day, lying in wait.
“Mhm,” Arthur blinks from behind his desk, which seems to be where he lives now.
“Maybe I’m misremembering. Things did get kind of fuzzy after a while. Isn’t he the—what was it?” Gwaine snaps his fingers, pretending to think. Or maybe this was just how Gwaine looked when he thought, Arthur considers. It’s not like he’d ever seen it before, so he had nothing to compare it to. “Ah! Most powerful sorcerer in the, oh hell—in the where?”
“The world,” Arthur fills in helpfully, twirling his quill between two fingers.
“Oh, right! The most powerful sorcerer in the world, that’s what he was!”
“Certainly.”
“Well I’m glad you clarified things, I was afraid for a moment that I had lost my gods-be-damned mind. I see now I’m the only sane one in Camelot.” Gwaine leans theatrically against the corner of Arthur’s desk. It was a shame the fuller beard that was growing in suited him; it lent him an air of authority that Gwaine was usually lacking. What it didn’t do was make Merlin and Arthur’s relationship any more his business.
Perhaps Arthur should grow a beard. He stroked one smooth cheek in contemplation.
It was also a shame Gwaine was still healing, as that meant Arthur was not allowed to shove him off the desk and out the door; or possibly out a window. Arthur was still healing as well, of course, but he’s determined enough that he would make due.
Instead he stacked parchment as obnoxiously as one could manage to stack parchment; a weapon far more potent. One grain report. Two grain reports.
“Three grain reports,” Arthur says out loud, coloring his voice with as bland of a tone as he can muster. The grain reports themselves were perhaps the blandest things of all, and he tried to keep that in mind as he spoke. Oats. Porridge. Gruel.
“Oh, come on,” Gwaine sighs. “I can’t be the only one who has questions.”
“The only one so bold as to question their King-”
“Psh,” Gwaine waves a negligent hand. His hip shifts as he resettles into an even more languorous pose, tipping over a stack of paperwork.
“Oh no,” Arthur says flatly. “I shall have to start over. This might take all night.”
Gwaine taps his foot. He was a stubborn man, Arthur thought; yet not so stubborn as Arthur.
“This isn’t over,” the knight threatens, impatience winning out. “He’s wasted where he is!”
“Of course it isn’t,” Arthur sighs as the door slams shut. He leans back in his chair, his eyes taking a moment to refocus on the ceiling. Perhaps he’d been at his desk too long; he could still see the grain reports swimming in front of him. Taxes. Guild requests. He rubs his hands down his face. Still smooth—how long did it take to grow a beard?
Because this day was endless.
The soft light of the evening sets a shadow drifting across the vaulted arches above him and he watches it for a time. He would have thought the war bit of a war was the hardest part. The aftermath was making itself a real contender, though.
It was all well and good to learn, on your deathbed, that your best friend was a secret-keeping sorcerer who you owed your kingdom to.
It turns out it’s slightly awkward for you both when you fall through on your end of the bargain and don’t die.
Arthur had meant it all, is the thing; and he still means it. He owes Merlin… everything. Everything good that still stands in Camelot is because Merlin was there to defend it. More stalwart than any knight. The scope of his heart humbles Arthur to think of for too long, so he tries not to, lest he get nothing else done. And there is so much needing to be done.
So they don’t really talk about it. Merlin still shows up in the morning, still wakes him with a sunny greeting—still makes fun of his bed head as he combs it out, still tends to his healing wound with gentle hands. It’s a shame and a loss for Camelot that Gaius has taken on two new apprentices to replace him.
It’s not, he reminds himself.
It is a gain. The old man needs more permanent help. Especially now. Merlin had a choice on where to commit his time, is all, and Arthur shouldn’t feel guilty—or delight in traitorous, unbecoming possessiveness—that Merlin chose Arthur.
The door swings back open and Arthur comes back to himself with a wince.
“Are you hurting?” Merlin’s face changes from a bright smile to a worried frown even as he sets the tray down. “Let me see.”
“I’ve been sitting too long is all,” Arthur waves him off, knowing full well it won’t deter any of the oncoming fussing. “I’m not sure if too much paperwork is healthy for the body, really.”
“Maybe someone else should do it,” Merlin plays along.
“How odd, that’s precisely what I’ve been thinking,” Arthur bites down a smile, his mood improving already. Merlin bullies him into standing and tugs up his tunic to carefully check his bandages with cold fingers. Arthur does not take them in his own hands even though he has warmth to share, always running hot. “See,” Arthur nudges him, seeing the wrappings still clean. “I was just sitting wrong, nothing to fret over, you nanny goat.”
“You’d think after all the practice you’d have it figured out by now,” Merlin says sadly, turning those big blue eyes up at him. “Someday, sire, you too will manage to sit.”
“Your faith in me is-” he cuts himself off, suddenly feeling stripped naked. Merlin’s faith in him is absolute, and terrifying, and the most wonderful, comforting blessing that has ever been visited on him. “-noted,” he finishes. At Merlin’s confused look he scrambles to fill the silence he’s created. “How’s your new room?”
“Oh, I hate it,” Merlin begins complaining immediately. “I know Gaius needs the space for the new interlopers, but I miss my bed divot.”
“The bed divot?”
“I worked hard on that divot. It was exactly Merlin-sized,” Merlin continues to rant, finally pulling Arthur’s shirt back down now that he’s been satisfied Arthur hasn’t managed to maim himself for the half hour he’s been out of Merlin’s sight.
“And ‘interlopers’?” Arthur raises an eyebrow. “I believe you were offered first refusal-”
“Interlopers,” Merlin raises a quelling eyebrow right back. “Especially Oren.”
“Gwen says Oren is sweet. If you want to be physician-”
“Gwen says everyone is sweet, and I don’t have the temperament,” Merlin says dryly, pulling a basket of laundry over to the table to fold as Arthur settles down to eat. This lasts for approximately one minute before his patience snaps and he wanders back over to Arthur’s desk, throwing a wrinkled tunic down in a ball and abandoning it. “Which reports?”
“All of them?” Arthur asks hopefully, just to hear Merlin laugh. He begins eating again, the scratching of the quill making him smile like a fool.
“The drovers must be joking,” Merlin scoffs.
“I know!” Arthur exclaims around a bite of chicken, turning back to look and then regretting it as his side pulls. Merlin’s dark head is bowed over Arthur’s desk, sat confidently in Arthur’s chair like he belongs there. In Arthur’s chair divot, his mind fruitlessly supplies. Arthur turns away. “The roads, of course-”
“Yes, but even so,” Merlin scratches the quill more aggressively.
Gwaine’s words come back to haunt him, just as the knight had intended. Merlin was wasted on laundry. Fetching meals and waking Arthur. Being the first person Arthur saw in the morning, and the last one he saw at night. For ten years. “So, you don’t want to be the court physician?”
“I’ve said as much,” Merlin’s voice drifts over from the desk, not really paying attention.
“Do you want-”
“Are you looking to be rid of me?” And, oh, Arthur has misread the situation. Twisting to look again despite the pain in his side it’s clear that Merlin is paying plenty of attention. His face is a careful study in blankness, blue eyes giving nothing away. “You can try,” he threatens into the awful silence in the room.
“Never,” Arthur rasps.
“Good,” Merlin smiles tightly, looking back at the paperwork. The renewed quiet that falls back over them is a tense one, and Arthur has lost his appetite. He’s walking on fragile ground with Merlin now. Always. Back at war again, only in a strange sort of way between just the two of them. Arthur wants to keep him so badly; yet he wants Merlin to thrive and be given the advancement he deserves. Incompatible goals. One side must win.
A braver, better man would surrender to the inevitable.
“I’m thinking of growing a beard,” he says, instead of anything that might actually help anyone.
“Oh?” Merlin accepts this as the peace offering it is. “I can’t imagine you with a beard.”
“Gwaine’s growing one–more than stubble, I mean,” Arthur says. “I can’t tell if it suits him or not, but it got me thinking.”
“Gwaine’s trying to seduce the other new interloper,” Merlin gossips. Fione, Arthur knows, a sweet girl from the lower town. According to Gwen, anyway; and maybe Merlin had a point, before. Gwaine both could, and has, done worse. “She said that Ser Oswic was distinguished-” Here Merlin makes a gesture in front of his face where a beard would grow, arms stretching fully to encompass Ser Oswic’s truly prodigious beard.
“And Ser Gwaine heard-” Arthur nods, mirroring the beard gesture back at him like an idiot. It all makes sense, now.
“And now here we are!” Merlin set his arms back down with a grin that Arthur can’t help but return.
“Here we are,” Arthur agrees.
“So, no shave?” Merlin asks, once the dinner is finished and the quill set down for the night and the more sedate nighttime routine has begun.
“Hm, no,” Arthur decides, following the impulse. He’s never grown a beard before; it’ll be new. He could do with a bit of new. The empty bath behind the changing divide fills with water from nowhere, and he doesn’t flinch. Merlin doesn’t look at him to see him not flinch, of course, afraid that Arthur will. Sometimes Arthur wished he understood Merlin slightly less. “Where does it come from? The water, I mean?”
“It’s safe,” Merlin promises, throwing a bath sheet over the room divider, “and clean, for your injury.”
“That’s not what I meant,” Arthur says, kicking himself again. How many more times this evening must he? Sometimes he wished he understood Merlin slightly more. “I just wondered. Is it from a lake? The well?”
“The clouds,” Merlin says, sounding it out. “I think. Or something like it. The air, but… far?”
“You don’t know, either, do you?” Arthur smiles, and Merlin hesitantly returns it back, too quick to forgive. “Help me with the bandages?” Merlin’s fingers remain cold, even though the room is warm from the fire. Arthur’s own hands flex at his side as he forces them to stillness. They ache, sore with longing.
“Don’t stay in too long, the water’s only good for it to a point,” Merlin reminds him, same as every night since they’ve hobbled back to the castle. He ghosts a touch down Arthur’s side as he steps away, finding something else to busy himself with as Arthur finishes undressing on his own. A shiver follows where they pass.
“Throw more wood on the fire, would you?” Arthur slides into the bath with a grimace. It would feel lovely in a moment, magic keeping the water at a perfect temperature; but the initial shock was always a pain. How long until he is healed, until he needn’t be so tender with himself? Only the snaps and flickers of new firewood answers him. It’s a poor idea for him to reach and wash his own hair, for now, so Merlin returns; and even as spoiled as Arthur is, having someone else tend to this is something he’ll never be used to.
Merlin’s pale hands finally lose their chill as they comb through Arthur’s hair, setting some unnameable feeling stirring in his chest when they do. There is just the sound of the water and the crackle of the fire before a soft humming starts up, a tune he doesn’t recognize. He’d ask where Merlin heard it—the marketplace, perhaps? Have performers started up again, now that things are settling?
If Arthur asks him it might end though, so he says nothing. Seems to be the way of it lately.
Despite the indignity of it, Merlin has to do at least half the work of getting him out of the bath, something neither of them are confident enough to tease over just yet. Death has come close enough to greet by name. His injury throbs from the heat, dizzy. He tries not to feel too much like a sullen child as he’s settled gently in front of the fire and Merlin combs through his hair, careful to not catch a single snag.
“It’s getting long,” Merlin says into the quiet, tugging on one lock, pulling it straight so it rests along Arthur’s cheekbone and he can feel the length. “It’s been so busy. Will you keep that, too?”
“Maybe,” Arthur slurs, forcing his head back upright with a tired blink.
“Should we all grow beards?” Merlin laughs, tapping the comb sharply on Arthur’s head as he stands up, drying his hands straight on the bath sheet still wrapped around the king’s shoulders.
“Except Leon,” Arthur says. “He’ll have to shave.”
“Oh, naturally,” Merlin turns down the blankets, fluffing Arthur’s pillow like an overly energetic nursemaid. “I guess we can make Gwen a fake beard. Don’t you think? Maybe out of wool?”
“I think you’ll have to take that up with Gwen,” Arthur says, smiling at Merlin’s back and feeling a bit like melting candle wax. “She could just have Leon’s, it seems most economical.”
“Glue?” Merlin theorizes.
“On second thought you might have better luck selling that idea with wool.”
“Any cloth, really,” Merlin is steady as he settles Arthur’s sleeping shirt into place over his shoulders. “Who’s to say Gwen can’t have a purple beard? Or green?”
“Oh, not green,” Arthur chides, wrinkling his nose, “it would look like moss. No, I don’t like that.”
“Well you are the king, so I guess you’re the one to say, on reflection. Ahem. On the king’s decree,” Merlin says, tucking the blankets around him so snugly that Arthur fears he’ll never rise again, “no green beards; not a single one in all of Camelot.”
“It shall be so,” Arthur answers with a regal nod—as regal as one can be, damp with bathwater and swaddled like an infant. Leaning over him, giving one last straightening of the blankets, Merlin laughs. It’s a cloudy night, and so only the firelight illuminates his familiar profile, the pull of his cheek as he grins. He steps away, of course, as he must.
He’ll go to his own room; a new one, that Arthur has not even seen. He told Merlin to pick, and hadn’t felt confident enough to invite himself along, not then, not so soon after. Not now, either. Arthur hopes vaguely that it is nice, but not so nice that Merlin stops wanting to spend time with him.
“Goodnight, Arthur,” Merlin says.
“Goodnight, Merlin,” Arthur replies. The door shuts quietly, and once more the only sound is the crackle of the fireplace, the draw of Arthur’s own breaths.
The first night in the castle—after—Arthur had wondered if Merlin would return in the morning. If he might just… go. Be free, somewhere Arthur couldn’t follow, a rotten job finally done. Unburdened. He lay in bed, aching and feverish, dreaming of hopeless death. Only realizing in the morning that Merlin had never left at all. Asleep at Arthur’s table, in case he took a turn in the night.
Arthur no longer wonders if Merlin will leave his service, but he does sometimes wonder if Merlin should.
Gwaine, for once, is not wrong.
And Arthur… Arthur shall just have to figure out some other way to show his regard.