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Merlin is late.
Of course, Merlin's abysmal time-keeping is business as usual, so actually he's late again.
Arthur’s grown used to getting himself out of bed, shouting for a passing servant to fetch water for his morning wash. He's accustomed to selecting his own clothing when Merlin is particularly unpunctual, and on occasion he’s even been required to dress himself.
Breakfast, though. Merlin is always here before breakfast, if only so he can help himself to Arthur's meal.
Where is his manservant, and where the hell is his breakfast?
Arthur loathes having to look for the idiot.
He starts by heading to the kitchens, on the off chance Merlin was distracted by something shiny between there and Arthur's rooms. Cook plates up his breakfast and swears she hasn't seen Merlin, so Arthur backtracks through Merlin's morning routine, checking the laundry, the kennels, the stables, anywhere he thinks Merlin might possibly have gone between getting up and getting to Arthur.
When he still finds no trace of his manservant, Arthur has no choice but to accept an infuriating conclusion: despite the hour, Merlin is still abed.
“He isn’t here,” Gaius says, when Arthur enters already mid-rant. “He didn't come home last night.”
“The tavern again?” Arthur asks, barely waiting for Gaius to nod before storming off.
It's Gwaine's fault, Arthur is certain. Merlin would never have dared spend the whole night carousing before he got here.
Usually, Arthur avoids the knights’ barracks. His men spend so much time under his supervision that it seems excessively invasive to visit them in their personal quarters unless absolutely necessary. However, waking up his manservant and the incorrigible rogue who insists on leading him astray before their hangovers wear off seems to fit nicely into the category of ‘absolutely necessary’.
“Where is he?” he demands of the first person to cross his path.
To his credit, Sir Roderick neither flinches nor pretends not to know who Arthur means. Instead, he points wordlessly at a nearby door.
Arthur nods his gratitude, then proceeds to make his presence known.
“Merlin!” he shouts between knocks. “I know you're in there! Open the door before I break it down!”
He stops hammering abruptly when Merlin opens the door. Usually, Arthur would carry on with reduced force, rapping his knuckles gently against Merlin’s face a time or two, but he's distracted by two unexpected facts.
First: Merlin’s got one hell of a shiner.
Second: this definitely isn't Gwaine's room.
“My apologies, sire,” Lancelot says from behind Merlin. “I am afraid I kept him out far too late last night.”
Arthur looks at Merlin’s flushed cheeks and sheepish smile, Lancelot's bare torso (a bruise on his ribs the same shade as Merlin’s black eye, another mark on his throat that Arthur tries not to look at too closely for fear he’ll have to accept that it's a love bite), the rumpled sheets on the bed behind them.
Well, Arthur thinks, turning to leave without another word. At least it's not Gwaine.