Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Merlin has a sword in his hand. This isn't a completely unusual occurrence, seeing as he frequently handled swords while working around knights, but he’s not usually the one wielding them. Amidst the mayhem, Merlin’s not quite sure how he ended up in this position - he certainly didn’t carry one around like Arthur did - but he thinks he might’ve swiped it off the floor from one of the many dead bandits surrounding them. 

Arthur is fighting three bandits simultaneously, but there’s one heading straight for Merlin. He looks confident, cocky and brash, but also knowing. Merlin fears that it might be more obvious than he would like that he has no idea how to fight with a sword. His feet travel backwards defensively and he curses himself for showing a sign of weakness and fear. He can’t just back away forever, that's not how you fight with a sword. Though, for a moment, he does consider turning and running in the opposite direction - just until Arthur can finish up with his lot and then make quick work of Merlin's attacker. It would undoubtedly get him a scolding of being a girl's petticoat and a coward, but Merlin would argue that if he didn’t play that role and get such a scolding then something must be horribly wrong, like the moon has shifted weirdly or the universe has been knocked off balance.

Arthur is pretty busy however, and it’s too risky to bank on him coming to the rescue soon enough. So, Merlin forces himself to stand his ground, raise his sword properly and prepare to attack or counter or block, or whatever it was Merlin watched Arthur do in training. 

A glint of metal flashes across his vision and something hits his hand hard . His sword goes flying out of his grip and lands uselessly on the forest floor. Merlin yelps unwillingly, jumps in surprise and shakes the jarring pain out of his hand before clutching it protectively against his body. The bandit sneers at him with smug amusement and advances forward. Merlin wants to make a biting comment about picking on people your own size but he’s too busy scrambling backwards, trying to get as far away from the quick-moving sword as possible. 

The heel of his boot catches on something and his back hits the ground. He only briefly considers the irony of it - inevitably playing his role despite his attempt to avoid it for once. Merlin can’t see any conveniently placed branches to drop on the bandit, especially not with the large man blocking so much of his view. He’s standing over him now, sword raised, ready for the killing blow. Merlin can’t risk throwing him back with magic because Arthur is liable to see. 

His mind is in a panic, he can’t think of anything helpful, the bandit is swinging down, Merlin squeezes his eyes shut and curls his knees up.

The hit doesn’t come. Instead, he hears a weird squelch, an odd grunt and then a dull thud. Merlin tentatively pries his eyes open. The bandit lays dead nearby, Arthur standing victorious and sweaty over him. Another role fulfilled. It wouldn’t be them if it wasn’t a close call. 

Arthur meets his eyes, breathing heavily and with an expression ready to chide Merlin for his affinity for laying around during battles, but his eyes flick down in a double take. Arthur’s expression drops, along with his sword, and then his knees, all in dramatic succession.

“Merlin-” 

Merlin frowns at his strange behaviour, worried he’d hit his head or something while Merlin wasn’t looking. Arthur is kneeling next to him, hands hovering like he doesn’t quite know what to do with them. Merlin follows his gaze, wondering what on earth has him so alarmed. What he finds is not what he was expecting.

His tunic is covered in blood. The usual blue has been stained dark red, pooled and smeared around his hands on his abdomen. He doesn’t remember being struck. His stomach doesn’t hurt, is it blood from the bandit? Merlin supposes Arthur is reasonably alarmed because he suddenly is too. There is a lot of blood, but he really doesn’t remember it getting there. 

“You’re alright. You’re alright, Merlin.”

Merlin lifts his hands away from his shirt, trying to peek under them to find the mystery wound. It’s hard to see in the shadow from his hands and the dark red coating. It shines sickeningly and Merlin distantly dreads trying to scrub all this blood out. He lifts his hands further and hisses at a sudden pain. 

His hand. The bandit must’ve nicked his hand as he disarmed him. The adrenaline made it feel like a sharp knock at the time, but Merlin can feel it now - a slice stretching across the heel of his palm towards his thumb. It’s wide and probably deep, but not life threatening. Merlin quickly presses his hands back down, putting pressure on it and trying to use the fabric of his shirt to staunch the bleeding.

“Let me see it,” Arthur says, still slightly out of breath. He reaches down towards Merlin’s tunic. Merlin can’t imagine how bad it looks from Arthur’s view.

“No, Arthur-”

“Don’t fight me on this, Merlin. Let me see it,” he scolds, trying to tug up the bottom of Merlin’s tunic.

“Arthur, wait-”

Arthur does not wait, which is quite reasonable considering what he thinks the situation is. He grasps Merlin’s hands and shoves them out of the way, unknowingly scraping the wound. Merlin lets out a surprised cry. The pain flares up, his skin pulls horribly and it’s all he can do to not curl his hand into a fist and make it worse. Despite his desire for things to stop touching his injury, the physician part of his brain forces him to press his hand back into his tunic, this time against his chest where Arthur had pushed it.

Arthur is frantically tugging his tunic up, cursing as it gets caught on his belt, but he’s too busy biting a hole through his lip to inform him of his misinterpretation of the situation. Cool air meets his skin, the rough ground meets his back. Blood has naturally soaked through and stained his stomach, pooling in the bits that dip, but there’s no wound. There’s definitely no wound. Arthur wipes at his stomach and feels along the skin, searching.

“Where’s the-?” Arthur frowns down at where the wiped away blood reveals no injury. He starts feeling down Merlin’s sides, his hands curling around his slim waist. “Where is it?” 

Merlin pulls his teeth out of his lip. “Not my stomach. My hand.”

Blood has been smeared all up his front. He’s lost hope of ever reclaiming this shirt. 

Confusion flickers across Arthur’s face, but he reaches for his hands and says, “Show me.”

Merlin lets him turn them over, finally finding the dreaded slash. He manoeuvres them gently, handling him like porcelain. He inspects it against the light, tilting Merlin’s palm this way and that. Blood drips down into his sleeve. Arthur tuts and presses it back into his chest. He reaches for his own tunic and starts tearing strips from it before Merlin can protest. 

“Did he get you anywhere else?” Arthur asks, looking him up and down.

“No. Just my hand,”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes,”

“You idiot,” Arthur says, probably much quieter and softer than he meant it to be. It sounds like a sigh leaving him, heavy but relieved. “Don’t do that again.”

“It’s not like I- ow!” Merlin is cut off as Arthur starts wrapping up his hand. He doesn’t expect Arthur to mutter a sympathetic apology, but he does. He wraps it with several strips from his torn tunic to add padding and to make sure it’s applying firm pressure. It’s tight, but not carelessly so. The concentrated frown never leaves his face. 

When he’s done, he leans back and wipes his hands on his trousers, looking down at Merlin. He seems to deliberate for a second before picking at a clean bit of Merlin’s tunic and using it to soak up some stray blood left pooled on his stomach. Then he pulls the rest of it down, returning Merlin’s modesty, and tugs on the fabric pointedly. 

“All that for a scratch on your hand, Merlin, I swear to god…” He chastises, waving a hand at the mess all over his front. 

Merlin pushes himself up on his elbow. “I tried to tell you but you weren’t listening!”

“If I didn’t have to return you to Gaius I’d leave you out here.”

“You wouldn’t. You were so worried a second ago, your threat is completely ineffective.” 

“No I wasn’t,” Arthur lies, suddenly very interested in the trees.

“You were! You were all like,” Merlin raises a hand to his forehead, feigning a faint. “‘Oh, Merlin. Let me see your wound, Merlin. Where are you hurt, Merlin? Don’t do that again, Merlin!’” Arthur stops his teasing by jabbing him in the side, eliciting a shriek. Merlin catches the slight smirk on his lips.

“Shut up, you’ve wasted enough time already,” Arthur says. “Come on, get up.” He grasps Merlin by his upper arm and practically drags him to his feet.

Merlin steadies himself and gathers his bearings for a few seconds, in which Arthur is surprisingly patient, taking the opportunity to scan between the trees for any further threats. 

Arthur looks back at him, eyes asking if he’s ready to move, his expression so far from the crest-fallen look from minutes before. 

“Thanks, Arthur,” Merlin says.

Arthur looks at him for a second longer, then gives him a firm nod and a clap on the shoulder, pushing him forward in the process. 

Maybe he’ll sneakily replace this tunic with one of the old ones left lying around in Arthur’s wardrobe. He won’t notice. 

Chapter Text

Arthur pushes ahead in their pursuit of home, treading through the vegetation with intention and direction, even though Merlin’s sure he hasn’t got a clue where they are. He follows anyway, always. At some point his hand starts throbbing under the tight bandages but now doesn’t seem like the right time to be complaining. They’ve been walking in silence. Arthur is clearly on a mission. 

Arthur stops abruptly. Merlin sighs at the chance to catch his breath and ambles to Arthur’s side, resting his good hand on his hip and leaning his head back to look at the treetops. 

“Quiet, Merlin,” Arthur says in a low voice. All he’s doing is breathing, he’s not sure how he can be much quieter. 

Arthur moves suddenly, cutting off a retort and ducking them behind a bush, taking Merlin by surprise. He pushes him down by the shoulder, forcing him into a clumsy crouch. Merlin instinctually reaches his hands out to steady himself and is immediately regretful. Pain erupts as his hand hits the floor and he hisses loudly. Merlin loses his balance (not that he had much in the first place) and falls onto his bum, his back hitting a tree. Arthur darts forward, throwing a hand over Merlin’s mouth and silencing his noise of pain. Arthur stares at him with wide, pointed eyes. 

Quiet. Don’t move.  

Understanding settles over him and he shifts his attention to listening for whatever Arthur might’ve heard. 

A few moments pass where nothing happens. Then he hears it. Distant voices, heavy footsteps. More bandits. Merlin curses their luck. They had all this forest to stumble about and they just happen in run into more bandits who, by the sounds of it, are headed right for them. He thinks they’ve had their fair share for a day.

Merlin casts his eyes back at Arthur. He has his eyes trained to the side, all of his attention on tracking the bandits’ position with his ears. Merlin’s attention however is hopelessly distracted once he realises what position they’ve landed in. 

To reach Merlin’s mouth, Arthur is leaning over him, kneeling between his bent legs. They’re much closer than Merlin realised and a blush creeps up his cheeks. Arthur’s hand suddenly feels hot against his face. Part of Merlin wants Arthur to realise their position and scramble away so they can maintain the dynamic they have. It’s steady, it’s familiar, it’s how they’ve always been. The other part of him wants something to happen, almost dares it. It’s scary and exciting and out of his comfort zone. He's always had a habit for diving into the unknown.

Merlin disantly hears the bandits drawing nearer, not far on the other side of their meagre hiding spot. The bush is patchy and barely tall enough to cover them. The adrenaline is back in full force and Merlin worries his heart will beat loud enough to give them away.

Arthur looks back at him and his eyes flick down, registering their position, but he doesn’t move. His eyes linger on Merlin’s tunic and then climb back up to Merlin’s own. His lips tighten and his gaze is intense.

“I meant it. What I said,” Arthur whispers, his breath ghosting over Merlin’s face. 

What on earth is he doing? Can’t he hear how close they are?

Merlin’s brow furrows, trying to communicate both his confusion and that Arthur is ignoring his own instruction of being quiet.

“Don’t do that again,” he murmurs. 

Merlin blinks up at him. Was he talking about the thing with the blood? The thing that happened almost half an hour ago and they hadn’t spoken of since?

Confusion gives way to submission. Arthur’s face is so severe and serious he almost wilts under it. He often picks and chooses when to follow instructions but this time he’s helpless against swallowing nervously and nodding in obedience.

For a moment Arthur doesn’t say any more or do anything else. His eyes flick between Merlin’s and then his expression crumbles slightly. His eyebrows loosen and a down-tick appears on the edges of his mouth. The gloved hand slides from over Merlin’s mouth to cup his jaw. Arthur leans forward, his eyes on Merlin’s lips, but stops short. Their lips are barely brushing each other. Merlin realises Arthur is presenting the moment for him to pull away. His heart is in his throat but he’s not going to take it. Instead, he tips his face up slightly, intent on closing the gap, but Arthur grasps the opportunity the second he gets Merlin’s consent. He surges forward and presses their lips together, stealing Merlin’s breath and tightening his grip. Together, they're jumping into something unknown.

It’s desperate and seeking. He feels like Arthur is taking more than Merlin is giving, like he needs this. Even though he struggles to keep up, it doesn’t make it any less wonderful. A warm shiver travels down his spine and he feels like he’s floating.

He can hear the bandits on the other side of the bush now. Neither of them are paying enough attention.

Arthur pulls back and sucks in a breath. “I thought something awful was about to happen,” he says, a hair’s breadth below a whisper. “When I looked over and saw that man standing over you.”

“But you got there in time,” Merlin breathes back, of course wanting to comfort him, but also wanting to speed along the conversation and get back to the kissing.

“And then I thought I might lose you anyway,” he says, taking another hungry kiss. He moves down, kisses his jaw and then down his neck. He presses his nose into the pulse point while his hand moves and rests on Merlin’s stomach. “It looked like you were gripping your stomach, Merlin, damn you.” His breath is hot against Merlin’s neck. “All I could see was the blood.”

Merlin isn’t quite sure how his heart hasn’t burst out of his chest. Arthur is all around him, crowding his senses. His legs between Merlin’s, his hand on his stomach, his face in his neck. The breath blanketing his skin, the lingering presses of his lips, the golden hair tickling his ear.

The grief pouring out of Arthur feels heavy over him too. It couldn’t be any clearer how distressed Arthur was.

“I’m sorry,” Merlin croaks out.

Arthur squeezes his waist and then grips his chin firmly, moving his face up. Glassy eyes meet his and Arthur kisses him again, peppering his face with them.

“Damn you,” he whispers between kisses, “damn you.”

Merlin doesn’t interrupt, apart from returning it when he can. For the most part, he lets Arthur have this, lets him do what he needs to work through the emotion and reassure himself that Merlin is okay. He could have as long as he needed, Merlin wouldn’t mind if it was all day.

The footsteps move on. They’re too distracted to care.