Work Text:
Fandom: Merlin (BBC)
Prompt: “You…you never had a problem with it before.”
Merlin blushes.
The tips of his ears go bright red first, standing out from his head and it’s very visible from the back. Then his cheeks flush and if Arthur’s standing close enough he can feel the heat on his own face. Depending on what he’s blushing over his mouth will get all tight or he’s left spluttering.
“Honestly, Merlin,” Arthur says when Merlin’s jaw hangs open, face and ears as red as the curtains around Arthur’s bed, “you’re going to catch flies like that.”
He hears Merlin fumble behind him, probably trying to bury himself in straightening the bedcovers again. He hides a smile.
“I’ve got a meeting today,” he calls instead, “so I expect everything to be done by the time I return.”
Silence. Ah, yes, this is the other part of it. When Merlin really gets flustered, he stops talking. It’s a fantastic way to make him stop his worried ramblings long enough to help him calm down or to win those random arguments they end up bickering over.
When Arthur turns back, he smiles at the bright red ears, coming up behind his servant to run a hand over his arm.
“Come on, love,” he murmurs, smile broadening when he flushes again, “don’t pout.”
“I’m not,” is the sharp retort.
“You’re feeling better. Good.” Arthur claps Merlin on the arm and leaves, keeping the gorgeous image of his blushing servant for his mind to wander to during lulls in the meeting.
The knights know Merlin blushes too.
Elyan and Percival just watch, for the most part, snickering when a casual remark from the others sends Merlin’s face into the sun. Merlin doesn’t ride up in front all the time, next to Arthur, instead, he rides just behind. Which makes him just the right distance away from Gwaine.
To no one’s surprise, Gwaine flirts with Merlin as often as he can, saying things that would make most tavern goers blush and hide their face. Arthur would be lying if he hadn’t gone a bit pink at a few of the knight’s more creative compliments. Strangely enough, Merlin doesn’t seem to react as strongly to Gwaine’s loud, brash flirting. He laughs it off, tells Gwaine he’d have better luck looking for another conquest. Gwaine just takes it in stride.
Leon’s more strategic with it. As one of Camelot’s longest-serving knights and the only one who’s been around since Merlin arrived aside from Arthur, he knows about pretty much all the chaos that’s happened in their lives. So he knows how to wait, bide his time, lie still until Merlin’s coming over to him for some little thing to lay a hand on Merlin’s shoulder, to look at him and speak with a certain voice that makes the bright red come out in an instant. Arthur marvels at it sometimes, how just a small tilt of Leon’s head can make Merlin blush so hard. It happens rarely but the results are spectacular.
Lancelot hides it but Arthur knows it happens. If he didn’t know any better, he’d say Lancelot was trying to court his servant, what with the way the two of them go off to ‘collect firewood’ or ‘find dinner’ every time they stop to make camp. He’s caught them a few times, not that they knew he was there, sitting on some log, Lancelot turned towards Merlin, lifting a hand to stroke over his cheek. It makes the lion in Arthur’s chest growl to see someone else touch his servant like that, but he can’t deny it’s effective. Privately he wonders how Lancelot can stand touching Merlin’s face when it’s that warm. Lancelot is soft with Merlin in the way none of the others are—bar Sir Leon on occasion—and the blushes he gets are hidden away. Perhaps Lancelot prefers to play the game in secret.
No one gets Merlin to blush more than Arthur.
In fairness to Merlin, having the Prince of Camelot call you pet names and speak to you like some precious thing was unexpected, especially for a servant. Arthur knows that if anyone else ever found out about it, especially Morgana or his father, they’d find some way to send Merlin away. The mere thought of Merlin leaving is enough to make him sick. But Merlin, sweet, adorable, blushy little Merlin, turning bright red, spilling jugs of wine and dropping platters in shock, never tells anyone else.
‘Love’ is his favorite. It never fails to render Merlin speechless, letting Arthur sneak in to steal a few more touches that Merlin normally lets him have, squeezing around his waist, reassuring himself that Merlin is here, safe, burning cheek against his. He uses ‘darling’ to put an end to nagging arguments, taking the few precious seconds it affords him to duck around Merlin and get on with it, knowing in a few seconds he’ll hear Merlin trotting behind him. He calls him ‘sweetheart’ when he’s upset, standing next to him to brush the backs of their hands together or letting him rest his head on Arthur’s shoulder, feeling the warmth of Merlin’s face seep through his tunic.
Sometimes Arthur wishes he could call Merlin all these things in front of his father, to care for his servant properly, that Merlin would say them back. But he can’t. He knows he can’t. So he settles for using them whenever he can, smiling at Merlin’s wonderful blush, burying the wish that it could ever be more than a game.
He’s been so fucking cruel.
It’s late. Arthur’s stalking around his chambers, trying to find something to relieve the frustration building in his chest. His father just spent about half an hour talking with him—well, talking at him—about the importance of marrying well for the good of the kingdom.
For ‘the love of Camelot.’
He could feel Merlin’s presence just by the door, the only thing keeping Arthur tethered to the room and not spinning wildly out of control, head buried in the stern words of ‘duty,’ ‘responsibility,’ and ‘inevitability.’
Gods, what he wouldn’t give to have Morgana there as well, to help him talk to his father, explain that they could rule together, not worry about trying to find another Queen. They’ve discussed it privately, saying that Morgana should be Queen, as Uther’s ward and one of their family, leaving both of them on the throne and free to pursue their own loves aside from the crown. They would marry if needed and have their own companions by their sides, rule the kingdom as equals. Uther was always more willing to listen to her than he was to Arthur.
But Morgana wasn’t there so Arthur took the brunt of it, Merlin the only witness.
Merlin’s still with him now, in the safety of his chambers, bustling about the room to distract Arthur with noise, with idle chat, with something. Arthur’s heart swells at how hard Merlin’s trying. Especially in the wake of what just happened, he wants nothing more than to swoop in and hold Merlin tight, whisper how he doesn’t want another companion, he just wants Merlin. But he can’t do that.
So he tries the next best thing.
He has to wait, though, knowing they’re both still far too wound up from the uncomfortable meeting. So he lets Merlin guide him into his chair, a pile of monotonous paperwork in front of him, placing a quill carefully into his hand and settling down on another chair to polish the prince’s armor. In the flickering candlelight, they finally slow down, Arthur breathing for the first time since they left the council chambers, Merlin’s jolly facade lapsing, replaced by a furrowed brow and a hard line for a mouth.
Arthur knows what Merlin’s concentrated face looks like. This isn’t it.
“Merlin,” he calls, “Merlin?”
His servant looks up at him briefly, then away again. Arthur frowns. Merlin only avoids his gaze when something’s wrong.
“Merlin,” he tries again, “talk to me, you’re upset.”
“I’m fine.”
“Not with that tone of voice, you’re not,” Arthur corrects gently, standing up and coming to stand beside Merlin, “come on, now.”
“It’s nothing.”
“We both know that’s not true.”
Merlin only scrubs harder at the armor, even though it’s gleaming already and even from this far away, the strong smell of the polish makes Arthur’s eyes water.
“I think it’s clean enough, Merlin,” Arthur says, hoping Merlin will huff out a little laugh and they can get to the bottom of the problem.
What happens instead is Merlin throws down the rag and stands up so quickly Arthur stumbles backward. He catches himself on the table as Merlin rushes to the other side of the room, putting away the armor with a determination that makes Arthur’s frown deepen. Merlin’s not just upset, he’s angry.
“If that will be all,” Merlin says and Arthur just manages to hide his wince at how cold Merlin sounds, “I think Gaius needs my help tonight.”
Arthur can’t let Merlin leave like this, not when he looks like he’s about three seconds from crying.
“Merlin,” he says instead, no longer holding back the authority in his voice, “tell me what’s wrong.”
“It’s nothing for you to be concerned about.”
“It concerns you, of course, it’s something for me to be concerned about.”
Merlin’s mouth tightens and his fists clench. “I really don’t think that’s true.”
“Doesn’t matter. You’re upset. Tell me.”
“If it doesn’t matter, then—“
“Merlin!”
This isn’t how this is supposed to go. He’s supposed to be careful, get Merlin to relax, call him sweetheart, watch that blush fade slowly as Merlin tells him what’s wrong.
So he takes a deep breath and holds his hand out.
“Come here,” he asks, “please, just…come here.”
Merlin’s mouth twists and for a moment Arthur’s sure he’s just going to leave. But then he doesn’t, walking a little closer. When he stops out of Arthur’s reach, Arthur raises an eyebrow.
“I said come here.”
Merlin takes one tiny step forward.
“Don’t make me come and get you.”
The plead underlies Arthur’s playful tone, hoping desperately that Merlin will come. He does, stopping within Arthur’s reach, but he doesn’t take his hand. That’s alright.
Taking hold of Merlin’s tunic, Arthur tugs him close. “Was it the meeting?”
Merlin nods sharply.
“Well, I wouldn’t worry about it,” Arthur says, “it’s not like we can do anything about it right now.”
“But one day we—you won’t be able to avoid it.”
“Is that it?” Arthur lets go of Merlin’s tunic. “That one day I’ll have to marry someone for the kingdom?”
Merlin looks him in the eye. “Won’t you?”
“Why does it bother you so,” Arthur murmurs, “what’s the matter?”
Merlin struggles with his words for a moment, finally settling on: “you should marry someone you love.”
Arthur tells him about the plan with Morgana, expecting that he’ll relax, reassured that Arthur will have a queen, and have room to fall in love. He speaks about having Morgana sitting by his side, his sister, his queen, and the love he desires on his other side. It doesn’t work.
“That’s not it,” he murmurs, watching Merlin’s expression twist, “at least not all of it, is it?”
Merlin clams up again.
“Come on, sweetheart, tell—“
“Don’t call me that.”
Arthur blinks. Maybe he should try the big one. “I’ll call you however I like, love, I’m your prince, remember?”
He expects it to work. He expects that lovely blush to cut the tension, to let him swoop in and hold his servant, murmurs reassurances as Merlin lets him in.
He doesn’t expect the flare of pain in Merlin’s eyes as he shoves them apart, knocking Arthur back into the table and send himself stumbling back.
“Merlin!”
“Shut up!” Merlin clenches his fists so tight Arthur’s sure his nails must be cutting into his palms. “Just shut up!”
Arthur can only watch, mouth agape, as Merlin squeezes his eyes shut, curling in on himself, shoulders shaking. He stands up from the table, ignoring the pain from the shove—the whole table moved—and reaches for Merlin, desperate to figure out what the hell he did wrong.
“You’re going to hurt yourself, Merlin—“
“Why do you care?”
The retort robs Arthur of his breath, only able to gape as Merlin glares at him.
“You’ve never had any problems hurting me before,” Merlin snarls, eyes brimming with tears.
How did this happen? How has Merlin gone from his happy servant to this…this pained, upset person on the verge of crying?
“What,” Arthur swallows, trying to get rid of his suddenly dry throat, “what are you talking about?”
Merlin laughs and it’s horrible, he’s not supposed to laugh like that— “You know exactly what I’m talking about. You call me all those names and you don’t care what you’re doing.”
“You’ve…you’ve never minded before.”
“Of course I have!” Merlin buries his hands in his hair, turning away from Arthur. “Of course I have, you just haven’t bothered to pull your head out of your arse to see it!”
“But,” Arthur struggles, “but the knights do it too, you’ve never—“
“That’s not the same thing.”
“Of course it’s the same thing,” Arthur retorts, his own frustration rising, “what makes me different from them?”
Merlin looks back at him and the second he does Arthur wishes he’d look away, that he could look away but he’s frozen, staring at Merlin.
He knows that look.
And he knows what it means.
Gods and they just had a half-hour long conversation about how Arthur’s going to have to marry someone else.
“Merlin,” he mumbles brokenly, “I’m so sorry.”
Merlin scoffs, turning away and Arthur can’t let him leave, he can’t, so he darts forward to wrap his arms tightly around his servant, pulling him close when Merlin squawks, overbalanced, not letting him go even when they tumble to the floor.
“I’m so sorry,” Arthur repeats, over and over, “I’m so sorry, Merlin.”
They’re both shaking now, Merlin’s tears spilling over onto Arthur’s shoulder, Arthur’s arms trembling from the tight grip he’s got on Merlin’s middle. He doesn’t care about the ache, cares for nothing other than the feel of Merlin’s heaving chest against his, not caring a single bit that his tunic is growing wet under Merlin’s face, that his own nose is getting heavier and heavier.
“I’m so sorry Merlin,” he mumbles into the crook of Merlin’s neck, rocking them back and forth, “I’m so sorry.”
Finally, finally, Merlin’s arms come up to cling to him. Arthur rubs his back encouragingly, trying in vain to get some warmth back into his shuddering servant, trying to convey just how sorry he is.
“It was never just a game,” he murmurs, “I—I never—you—Merlin—“
“It’s okay.”
“No, it’s not,” Arthur insists, “I hurt you. That’s never okay.”
“You didn’t know.”
“But I should have,” Arthur cries, burying his head into his servant now. In the blink of an eye, their roles reverse, now it’s Merlin holding him, muttering reassurances and it makes him sick.
He’s played this horrible, horrible game with Merlin’s feelings and now he’s forcing the man to comfort him? He manages to say as much only to have Merlin shake his head.
“You wouldn’t be feeling like this,” he says when they’ve both stopped crying, “unless you felt something too…right?”
Arthur nods furiously, more apologies bubbling out. “I won’t do it again, I’ll stop, I—“
“You don’t have to.”
Arthur pauses. “What?”
Merlin holds his gaze, even as his face starts to go pink. “You, er, don’t have to stop…calling me the names.”
Arthur tilts his head. “I don’t?”
“…do you mean them?”
Arthur pulls him close. “With all my heart.”
“Then you don’t have to stop,” Merlin murmurs into his ear, “I, er, I think I’d like them more now I know you…”
“That I mean them,” Arthur finishes.
“Yeah.”
They stay cuddled up on the floor a little while longer.
“Have I told you,” Arthur murmurs when they pull back a little, running his hand over Merlin’s cheek, “how much I love your blush?”
He blinks when more of it starts to spread.
“Well, if you’re going to do that—“
“That’s partly why you did it too,” Merlin rushes, “isn’t it?”
Arthur nods. “You’re lovely, Merlin,” he says, “all of you.”
“I, er, I probably won’t stop blushing.”
“Good.” Arthur leans forward until his mouth is by Merlin’s ear. “I never want you to, love.”
He presses his cheek firmly to Merlin’s, chuckling at the warmth.
“Does this mean you’re going to tell the knights to back off?”
“No.” Arthur tightens his grip. “Because they know you’re mine.”
“I am,” Merlin says, tightening his own, “and you’re mine.”
“Always.”
“Does Morgana know?”
“She knows a hell of a lot, Merlin. I’d be surprised if there was something that happens in this castle that she didn’t know.”
“Have you told her that?”
“Of course not.”
“So is that something she doesn’t know?”
“Merlin!”