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Arthur had just finished a surprisingly decent meal cooked by Percival, when Merlin woke with a sudden gasp.
“Easy, easy, you’re alright,” soothed Arthur, gently pressing him back into the bedroll. They’d made camp shortly before nightfall, none of them eager to wander through darkness despite the fact that the Dorocha would have vanished with the veil.
“A-Arthur,” Merlin managed between uneven, agitated breaths. “What—“
“Everything is fine, Merlin, just breathe.”
It took a moment for Merlin to relax. Finally, his heartbeat slowed beneath Arthur’s palm, and Arthur offered him a wry smile.
“That’s better. How are you feeling?”
Merlin moved to sit upright once more, and this time Arthur let him, moving his hand to his shoulder to steady him as he pushed himself up. The look he chanced at the knights was unsure, visible confusion creasing his forehead. His tongue darted out to wet his lips the way he always did when he was nervous.
Arthur swallowed another reassurance, giving Merlin time to process and realise that he was in no danger from them. Of course, that was easy for Arthur to know, but much harder for Merlin to believe. Still, it stung a little to see the fear in Merlin’s eyes when they finally returned to look at Arthur.
“Fine? I think?” Merlin replied hesitantly. A flicker of guilt shadowed his features, and his tone took a pleading note when he began to say, “Sire, I—”
“Not now, Merlin,” Arthur cut him off. “You should eat. I want to travel fast tomorrow, you need your strength.”
Without waiting for a response, he got to his feet, ladled a generous portion of stew and held the plate out to Merlin, who took it in utter bewilderment.
“Eat,” repeated Arthur, sitting back down on a tree stump beside him.
“But—”
“Eat, Merlin.” Lancelot’s tone was gentle, yet insistent. He sat across the fire, fingers firmly laced with Gwaine’s as they had been ever since they’d finished setting up camp.
For some miraculous reason, Merlin listened to Lancelot where he ignored Arthur. Or perhaps it wasn’t miraculous at all, given that Lancelot had known Merlin’s secret. As soon as Merlin began to eat, the knights relaxed, resuming their conversations in an obvious attempt to give the two of them a bit of space.
The plate was barely half empty when Merlin put down the spoon.
Absolutely not.
“Arthur, about the m—”
“Which part of ‘you need your strength tomorrow’ is so difficult to understand, Merlin? Finish your stew.” Arthur pushed the stew-loaded spoon back into Merlin’s hand. “You can tell me all about your magic when we’re back in Camelot.”
Merlin gaped at him, dumbstruck, and Arthur took the chance to guide Merlin’s hand to his mouth. He didn’t manage it quite quickly enough before Merlin resisted, spluttering as he evaded the spoon.
“Arthur, what the hell! I can feed myself!”
“Great, then do so!”
Merlin glared, but he did eat another bite. Once he’d swallowed, his expression faltered a little.
“Aren’t you angry?”
The question was so quiet, Arthur barely heard it over the crackling fire. He sighed.
“I am,” he admitted, “but not in the way you probably expect. We have a lot to discuss when we return home.”
Merlin grimaced, shrinking into himself. Well that wouldn’t do at all. Without thinking twice, Arthur reached for Merlin’s shoulder, turning him so they were face to face.
“I don’t care about the magic, Merlin, other than that I am grateful for it. You have nothing to fear from me. Or from them. Now would you please finish your supper? Whatever you did back on the Isle of the Blessed, it took a lot out of you, and I won’t watch you keel over as soon as you stand up.”
“He’s right, Merlin,” came Gwaine’s voice from across the camp. The knights had dropped their conversations once more, watching the two of them with a mixture of curiosity and concern.
For a moment, Merlin looked like he wanted to protest. Then he sighed, and shoved another spoonful of stew into his mouth in a gesture of defeat.
“Happy?”
“Very much,” said Lancelot cheerfully, which promptly earned him a glare from Merlin, and a spoon pointed at him.
“Don’t think I’ve forgotten what you tried to do. Why would you—”
“It’s alright, Merlin, he already got the whole speech from me,” Gwaine cut in, grinning widely.
Lancelot ducked his head in a futile attempt to hide the blush spreading over his cheeks. Merlin’s eyes widened as he finally took in their joined hands.
“About time,” he said, a broad grin stretching his lips, driving the lingering fear from his face at last.
The tight knot in Arthur’s chest loosened at the sight. Gwaine made some quip in response, and Merlin laughed — truly laughed, bright and warm and real — and tension Arthur had grown so used to he hardly noticed it anymore bled away, drained like water from a pierced skin. He exhaled in a rush, the sound of it swallowed by the knights’ laughter.
Where the atmosphere had been tense before, comfortable familiarity took over now. Merlin needling Lancelot and Gwaine, Gwaine defending himself with boisterous proclamations that he’d been waiting for Lancelot to get his head out of his arse. And as the fresh couple began to bicker, Merlin watched them with a smile, relaxing against the pack of Arthur’s clothes sitting next to the bedroll.
In all honesty, Arthur didn’t mean to bother Merlin, but by the time he realised that he was reaching out, Merlin had already noticed him.
“Could you not— Arthur! Stop fussing!”
“I am not fussing,” Arthur retorted.
It was a blatant lie; he was absolutely fussing, but he’d be damned if he ever admitted as much. With a stubborn pout, he poked the plate of stew, before grabbing his own blanket to settle it around Merlin’s shoulders.
“Right.” Merlin rolled his eyes. Still, he didn’t shrug the blanket off, so Arthur considered the gesture appreciated.
They didn’t speak for a while, simply observing the knights — Lancelot and Gwaine looking nauseatingly in love, Percival and Elyan mocking them while simultaneously sneaking horribly obvious glances at each other, and Leon shaking his head in exasperation at all four of them.
“Thank you.”
Arthur looked at Merlin in surprise.
“What for?”
Merlin shrugged. “Not executing me, I suppose.”
He said it so nonchalantly, Arthur’s gut twisted, and he sucked in a sharp breath. In the blink of an eye he’d slipped from the stump and onto the bedroll, coming to kneel at Merlin’s side.
“I would never hurt you, Merlin. Do you understand?” His fingers burned where they framed Merlin’s face. “Never.”
Merlin’s eyes shone like stars even in the warm light of the fire. The tiniest smile tugged on his lips, and suddenly he was leaning closer, resting his forehead against Arthur’s as he closed his eyes with a small nod. His shoulders sagged, exhaustion written all over him.
Fierce protectiveness rose in Arthur like a flood. He pulled Merlin closer for a moment, breathed him in. Reluctantly, he drew away, then, giving Merlin a gentle push.
“Get some rest. Tomorrow we’ll be home. All of us, thanks to you.”
“Yes, sire,” drawled Merlin, rolling his eyes. It didn’t hide his relief at lying down, blankets wrapped tightly around him.
“Are you cold?”
Merlin glanced back at him and shrugged. “Only a little, it’s fine.”
“You are impossible,” scoffed Arthur. “Move over.”
He ignored Merlin’s startled squawk, stretching out on the narrow bedroll and tugging the blankets to cover both of them. He slung an arm over Merlin’s waist, pulling him closer until he could feel Merlin’s spine pressed to his chest.
“Alright?” he whispered.
A long moment passed, slower than it should have, and Arthur hardly dared to breathe. Then a shiver ran through Merlin, entirely different from the shivers that had wracked him after the Dorocha’s attack, and he melted against Arthur with a sigh. Covered Arthur’s hand with his own, lacing their fingers together.
“Yeah.”