Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

At first, Merlin had been in on the jokes. He'd shared in the wide-eyed looks behind backs, chimed in with sharp sarcasm and witty retorts. He'd parried snide comments with Arthur, laughed with the other servants amid hallway gossip sessions.

But as time goes on the jokes start to feel a little less funny, a little less light hearted. Instead of his own bemused teasing, Merlin recognises the sting of hatred in other people's barbs, the jealousy and the annoyance and the resentfulness, the dismissal of someone already distinctly othered.

It doesn't feel good, that realisation. All of a sudden it doesn't feel like harmless gossip anymore, and it doesn't feel exciting to trade stories in the hallways between tasks. Instead there's only the dark curl of shame in Merlin's stomach, whenever he's unwittingly dragged into such conversations again. 

Because George isn't that bad, all things considered.

The Steward's yelling at them. It's the end of a long day, and he and George are collecting their tools to continue on with an even longer evening. Merlin lets the berating voice wash over him, studying a chip in the flagstones beneath his feet as he pretends to bow his head in submission. It's nothing out of the ordinary, just the consequences of being in the wrong place at the wrong time, a Steward with his nerves already frayed unleashing misdirected anger on undeserving targets.

When mention of reporting to Arthur is made, Merlin fights back a scoff: a simple telling-off about daily assignments isn't particularly high on the Prince's list of priorities, even on a slow day. But Merlin schools his face as he nods gravely, risking a look to George, trying to engage him in subtle comradery. 

Beside him however, George’s head stays resolutely bowed, his hands clasped firmly behind his back in formal, fearful deference. At the mention of Arthur's name he visibly cowers, blinking as he stumbles over a fresh stream of apologies he can't help but babble. Merlin grimaces at it, forgetting the fact that Arthur's name is normally something that does inspire a significant amount of fear for other staff. He returns his eyes to the floor. 

And so it goes until the Steward finally runs out of steam, and blessedly they're let on their way to continue to the armoury.  

“Go on,” he dismisses, waving his hand harshly in the wrong direction, "away with you. I’ve had enough of my evening tainted by imbeciles.” 

It sends George bowing, scrambling off to follow his orders, wrong direction and all. Merlin's slower on the uptake, levelling a final look of unreadable disdain at the Steward before following.

Merlin catches up, and on they go towards the armoury for their planned lesson, taking the extra long route now. He tries a few times to make conversation, to lighten the lingering tension from the scolding, but he only manages short, shaking replies from George, and soon they settle into uncomfortable silence.  

When the lesson starts there’s a distinct lack of George’s usual curt energy, a weak imitation filling its place instead. More than once Merlin watches his demonstrations and sees his hands shaking, his chest fluttering as he tries to calm his breathing.

It makes Merlin's heart twinge in sympathy a little. He supposes the Steward could be intimidating, if you weren't used to that sort of thing, as was the threat of being reported to the Prince. Especially to someone like George.

For the rest of the lesson Merlin stays quiet, listening to George's instructions and following them dutifully. He makes sure to keep himself polite and attentive, unobtrusive in a way that gives room for George to find his control again, for the anxiety of the event settle out.

The next time that flutter of sympathy makes itself known it's in the corner of the kitchens as he's fetching Arthur's lunch a few days later. He's picking at the vine of ripe tomatoes on the side, nipping off a few from the base so no one's any the wiser. He overhears the two servants beside him without meaning to, when George's name catches in the air.

"I mean, he's clearly desperate for the notoriety," the first one declares. "It all comes off so smug, don't you think?"

The second servant rolls his eyes, adjusting the plate of food in his hands.

"Gods, it's embarrassing to see," he says, shaking his head with a scoff, "reeling off every little errand he's accomplished. I'd fetch him lying about half of it, just for the praise."

They move off then, both carrying equal spreads of untouched food for whoever they're assigned to, and Merlin feels the conversation lodge uncomfortably in his head. George might very well be smug, he supposes, but Merlin thinks he rather ought to be - he is an excellent servant, after all. But the second servant's statements had been entirely unfair: if there’s one thing George isn't doing, it's lying about his work.

He thinks about it for the rest of the day, moving from one inane and exhausting duty to another.   

George was a lot, there's no denying it. But he wasn’t cruel like the Steward, nor was he lazy like some of the junior servants. Merlin knew he wasn't bad mouthing anyone behind their backs, either. He kept to himself, trying his very hardest, all the time, and he was desperate to be rewarded for it with nothing but praise and notice. He might be odd, and very intense, but Merlin knows what it's like to want a modicum of recognition for the work you did.

The flutter of sympathy takes root in his chest after that, solidifying into something firm and sure.

Chapter Text

It's lesson number four today.

They’re gathering supplies again, this time in the kitchen, Merlin blearily facing an early morning masterclass in preparing breakfasts in a dignified and lordly manner, suitable for the eyes of royalty. Merlin, who's seen Arthur scoop mint sauce into his mouth with his hands, doesn't see much point in this.

Nevertheless, he piles a serving basket with odd handfuls of fruit and bread, unaware of his surroundings until there’s a touch on his shoulder.

“Don't normally see you around this early," Alys tells him brightly, a scullery maid he sees fairly often as she delivers linens around the castle. "Finally decided to start being a real servant have you?"

Merlin scoffs, shaking his head.

“Gods, no,” he says, gesturing back to George on the other side of the kitchen, carefully folding napkins over his arm. “I’m being trained,” he says with a grin. "Meal presentation for his royal highness."

Alys laughs, sharp and melodic, and the sound draws George's attention from across the room. Merlin continues grabbing fruit as he comes over, oblivious until Alys tugs at his jacket, nodding her head.

“Well, let me know if you need saving,” she tells him in a faux whisper, loud enough to be heard by the both of them, a conspicuous smile on her face.

Merlin turns with it, disorientated, catching George’s expression fall, just for a second. Then the mask of formal neutrality slips back into place as if nothing had been said, Alys leaving with a wave. Uselessly Merlin looks between the two, trying to grasp how quickly he'd put his foot in it. 

“George-" he says in a quiet rush, "I’m-”

“We should leave,” George cuts over him however, seemingly impervious as Merlin struggles to apologise. “It won’t do to be tardy.”

With that he's off, Merlin scrambling to fill the basket with whatever he can get his hands on to follow, the brief look of hurt on George's face stinging awfully.

He tries his best at breakfast arranging. Really, he does. He pays attention to which grape bunches he chooses and how he arranges them around the pastries, careful to not let them touch too much, lest the bread be moistened by the freshly washed fruit. He plans out where the drinking goblets will be set, where the cheeses will lay beside the dried meats, garnishing everything with carefully chosen sprigs of fresh herbs.

Two hours later and he's looking at a surprisingly satisfactory spread, almost akin to the decadent, crafted ones used at feasts, if a little less expertly stylised. Merlin appraises it, pleased with his work, appreciating a little more now how hard it is to colour match berries.

At the end of the session the sun is shining stronger through the windows, and the usual sounds of the castle are starting up in the courtyard below. Merlin stands to the side as George inspects his spread, adjusting sprigs of mint and turning pieces of fruit, considering the best angles in the morning light.

“Well, you’ve made remarkable improvement in our time together,” he tells him, nodding slightly at the table, finally satisfied with it. “Much better than your usual work."

Merlin smirks at that, thinking about how many garnishes of Arthur's have gone missing at his fingertips, but he appreciates it all the same. Even after overhearing a barb aimed at him, George had remained a detailed and patient teacher; Merlin can't help but feel undeserving of that kindness, in the face of his actions.

“Thank you," he tells George neatly.

He can tell George doesn’t assign any gravity to the phrase though. He just sniffs, closing off again, turning to collect the unused dishes.

Again, guilt flutters in Merlin's chest.

"And I'm sorry, about earlier," he tries quickly, moving back into George's eyeline, watching as George stiffens in discomfort. "What Alys said- that wasn't on. I'll talk to her about it."

With that, George's discomfort turns to outright confusion. He stares at Merlin, his brow furrowing, hands paused in their collection of spare crockery.

As the silence stretches and it becomes clear George has no reply for him, Merlin decides to nod an awkward farewell, leaving the room at a slow enough pace so as to not look like he's fleeing.

The next time they see each other, it's just happenstance. Merlin’s volunteering to help a friend with some kitchen duties, and when he retreats to the kitchen work rooms it’s to find George sat on the dusty floor, already surrounded by the cutlery he’s meant to be polishing. He looks up at Merlin's entrance, startled.

“What are you doing here?” he says bluntly, his usual neat cadence absent.

George doesn't seem to notice the sharpness of his voice though, and now that Merlin looks at him, he does seem a little frazzled. He looks distinctly tired, drained in a way Merlin recognises all too well; this is supposed to be a two person job, one that needs to be completed before the evening's meals were served. With a shrug Merlin shoulders off his jacket, dropping it to the floor to sit down opposite George.

“I said I'd help Annette with some duties,” he provides easily, reaching for a rag and scanning over George's piles to assess his system.

George looks on, bewildered, as Merlin commandeers a stack of butter knives.

“But you’re not assigned in the kitchens."

Merlin makes a face, shrugging again, something in his casualness short-circuiting George's brain.

“I have some free time,” he offers, which isn't exactly the truth - often it was better to find a task to busy himself with, so that he had a good excuse for not having finished organising Arthur's chambers later. “And Annette seemed stressed.”

Still, George stares, his eyes flicking down as Merlin places finished knives in the correct pile, a separate one from the ordinary table knives.

“But- the Prince-”

“I’m sure Arthur can cope for an hour or two,” Merlin dismisses, finally looking up as he cottons on to George's spluttered confusion. “He's faced worse."

And just like that, they settle into silence as the both of them get to work, Merlin not thinking of much but the monotony of polishing, George wondering how Merlin could possibly pass up working for the Prince for the lowly task of kitchen work.

“So how come you’re stuck down here then?”

Merlin’s sitting back against the cold cellar walls now, resting his aching muscles, watching George work on diligently. George replies primly, his voice disguising a thin undercurrent of displeasure.

“The Steward assigned me."

Merlin makes a sympathetic noise in his throat, and George glances up. He doesn't usually take breaks.

“Well, you have my sympathies,” Merlin says, meaning it. “He can be a right arse when he wants to be, can’t he?”

It’s testing, and it’s teasing. George eyes him again, entirely unsure.

“He can be quite the difficult man,” he says diplomatically, choosing his words carefully. 

Merlin laughs, to which George pauses in his polishing. He stares as Merlin shuffles forward then, half heartedly picking up more silverware, this time lounging on his side, giving his back a break from hunching over sitting. After a few minutes of silent work in such a state, Merlin notices George shift a leg, dropping his own posture into something a notch more comfortable.

Merlin grins.

“Were you born in Camelot then?”

George looks up properly at that, instantly prickling with distrust. No one ever made conversation like this with him. But Merlin doesn't seem to notice, and George doesn't think he's the type of person to be fishing for any sort of untoward reason. He takes a risk, and answers truthfully.

“Uh- yes. I was.”

With a hum Merlin nods, trying to think about what that must have been like. 

“How did you become a servant?"

George has all but abandoned the task at hand now. Merlin's talking to him with an air of curiosity, as if he's genuinely interested in his answers. He doesn't exactly trust it, but Merlin was someone who seemed to exude friendliness, even when he wasn't trying to. It was hard to avoid replying in the same fashion, when faced with such a tone. Besides, George seldom got to talk to people like this, and he finds himself unexpectedly open to answering.

At that moment, Merlin's quiet, hurried apology at the end of their ornamental food lesson sticks out starkly in his mind. Suppose he really wants to know? 

“My mother," George finally admits, as Merlin also pauses in his polishing. "She was the lady-in-waiting to Lady Heledd. A very good one," he finds himself adding, trying not to sound too boastful in the fact, "she made a good name for herself."

Merlin listens, considering the admission. George's voice has softened into something both proud and sad as he says it. It's a tone Merlin recognises.

“She’s passed, then?” he asks quietly.

George looks back down, his cloth moving once more over the watermarked cutlery. His voice dims a little.

“Yes," he says shortly. "A few years ago now.”

The room sinks into quiet, after that, just dust swirling and cold air shifting. Merlin swallows against the sincerity of it.

“I’m sorry," he says, really meaning it. George just nods at it, and the two of them continue on in silence for a while. When Merlin speaks again, his voice rings heavily in the gloom. “She’d be proud you've worked for the Prince, no?”

George's hands still. His focus drifts, and when he looks up he meets Merlin's eye for the first time that afternoon.

“She would," he agrees gently.

It only takes them another hour to finish everything. Despite the repetition, Merlin quite likes polishing cutlery: it was easy and quiet, and it gave him a break from racing around the castle, carrying heavy things and running into people who might ask him to do more tasks. 

He says as much to George, as they're carting the baskets of gleaming cutlery back up to the main kitchens. With a cautious grin George agrees, for once quite sure that he's not being mocked in the matter. 

With the last of the baskets in their hands, Merlin stops them in the hallway leading to the kitchen. He wants to apologise again, for his role in the servant's gossip, but as he opens his mouth to say so, George cuts him off. 

"It's okay, you know," he tells him, already recognising look on Merlin's face right now. "I know the other servants don't care for me much. They're free to voice those feelings however they wish."

It comes out so flat, so accepting in its hopelessness, and it brings a sudden surge of anger to Merlin, that this has been going on long enough to cause such a tone.

"Well they shouldn't," he argues, hoping the firmness in his voice is felt. "And I shouldn't have joined in. It's cruel, and it's unnecessary."

Silence greets the statement; George appreciates Merlin saying it, even if he doesn't quite know why he's doing so. It works to solidify Merlin as a cautious ally, at least, if not a friend to be entirely trusted. Even if the sloppiness of his work irks George sometimes, he supposes Merlin really is the good sort of servant.

“I just want to do a good job,” he admits quietly then, his gaze falling to the floor as he speaks words he never really considered saying out loud. “I love Camelot, and I want to serve it well, as I know I can. And as my mother did before me.”

Merlin looks on, his heart beating a little too quick with the unexpected power of the moment. In George's voice he recognises the same love he himself feels, the strange reverence and dedication in serving the kingdom, no matter how small the task might be. He recognises the deference to Arthur, to the king he'll be, to the kingdom they're working towards building. Even if it was by polishing cutlery. 

“Me too,” Merlin replies, just as serious. George looks up though, nearly scoffing but catching himself before he can. Merlin sees it anyway, and smiles for the cheek of it. “I mean it,” he carries on, earnest. “I do. It’s just that to me, there are more ways to do that than following the rules of royalty.”

He watches the words land, George's eyes going wide with them. Then, still grinning, Merlin leaves him to it, heading off to return the cutlery and to find Arthur.

He has a favour to ask.

George thinks about Merlin's words that night, long after he should have fallen asleep.

He'd been guilty of considering Merlin an unworthy servant, before all this. He'd been jealous of Merlin's sudden promotion serving under the Prince, a role he seemingly squandered with inefficient work ethic and unacceptable breaches of protocol.

Now though, in the span of a few brief discussions, his thoughts had been entirely shaken up. For the first time since Merlin had been thrown into the royal household, George considers the fact that Merlin might have strengths beyond the expected, something other than strict deference to royal protocol.

The thought sparks something small and tenuous, something golden and frail. It ticks strangely in his head, and when he finally does fall asleep, it's with the cascading of unknown reactions starting in his periphery.

Chapter Text

“C'mon Arthur, he’s not that bad.” 

Merlin grimaces at the resulting sound of disbelief from behind him, tossing the rest of his handful of shirts into Arthur's closet. He turns to see a matching look of derision on Arthur's face, his quill paused over the reports scattered across his desk. 

“I think he quite literally might be the most boring man alive," Arthur says flatly.

Merlin sags; it's a hard statement to argue. 

“There are worse qualities to have,” he tries anyway, thinking of the snide looks of the other servants, of his own careless comments. “He’s just a bit uptight, that's all."

But he can tell Arthur isn't taking this seriously, and he just laughs, turning back to the papers, shaking his head in amusement. Still determined, Merlin takes a few steps in his direction.

“Arthur,” he says. “Please.” 

It’s enough to make Arthur pause again, to look up at Merlin properly. There's something in the sincerity of him, a desperation in his eyes that makes no sense to be there. He puts down his quill.

“Why is this so important to you?”

Merlin shifts. Arthur's eyes have narrowed, turned searching in a way he doesn't particularly like the look of. He turns back to the laundry pile, just for something to do with his hands.  

“The other servants don’t like him,” he starts, half-heartedly folding a shirt into a messy pile sure to crease. Arthur watches him do so, scowling at the action.  

“Gosh, couldn’t guess why," he mutters back.

“Arthur,” Merlin scolds, shooting him a half-pleading look before sighing, abandoning the laundry again. “That’s what I mean," he presses, earnest in a way that makes Arthur feel a small flick of guilt for his sarcasm. “So he’s a little boring, so what? He shouldn’t be ostracised for it. All he wants is to do a good job," Merlin adds then, thinking back to their conversation in the hallway earlier that day. "Which he does do, you have to admit.” 

Sighing, Arthur concedes: he does have to admit that. Truly, along with being the most boring man he’s ever met, George might also be the most skilled and efficient servant he’s ever worked with. He finds himself folding then, submitting to this unknown favour of Merlin's - if not for George than for Merlin himself, with his kind heart and his inability to withstand a modicum of injustice.

“Okay, I’ll bite,” he acquiesces, as Merlin looks up hopefully. “What would I have to do?”

And now Merlin’s smiling, his eyes too bright for his face, mischief creeping back to him in a way that almost makes Arthur regret his decision. 

“Invite him personally, the next time there’s an event," Merlin says quickly, as if Arthur might change his mind at any moment. "Say you need someone responsible or something, and that you thought of him. Then just let him do his job, and when it’s done, tell him how well he did.” 

Arthur’s eyebrows raise. That's what Merlin calls a favour?

“That’s it?”

Merlin keeps grinning, pleased with his plan.

“That’s it.” 

George sighs, standing up properly for the first time in what feels like hours. A long row of gleaming boots lines the far wall, the final pair stood finished below him. He rolls out his wrists, the muscles of his forearm aching and twinging from the work.

The boots belonged to the members of the court, polished in preparation for the upcoming Hocktide celebrations this week. The weather's been looking well enough the last few days that there’s a good chance the sun will be shining when they’re worn to welcome the coming guests; the hours of work won't change much, but George knows it'll put a brighter shine on Camelot’s image amongst the festivities.

He packs away his tools quickly, his stomach growling in protest of a missed lunchtime long since passed. It’s evening now, he’s sure, and he’ll have to rush to find anything left by the time he can make it to the kitchens.

He’s returning the final pair, completing the line, looking back in satisfaction of a job well done when footsteps sound in the hallway. They're sharp and smart and confident, but they're not the heavy boots of a knight or a guard.  

The Steward.

George scrambles, quickly knocking a few boots out of place to give him something to be doing when the Steward enters. Sure enough, he’s stacking them back in line when- 

“Ah, George, there you are,” the Steward says in a puff, making George stand to attention. The Steward's eyes don’t even skim over the boots, too frazzled by the news he has to deliver. “I’ve received a summons for you.” 

Lying in his bed that night, George stares at the ceiling. 

A summons, from the Prince himself - the second of such in almost as many months. A thrill runs through his chest at the thought, a flash of excitement too powerful to contain. This time it was to act as personal aide to the Prince amongst the celebrations, to facilitate the political opportunities such an event held. Sure, the role still involved serving meals and topping up glasses, but under the title of aide fell the admin of such a gathering, the organising of meetings, the provision of necessary stationery. It was more than usual servant work. It was a step up. 

George can feel his cheeks pulling into a smile again, and quickly he schools his face back into something relaxed. He's supposed to be sleeping. Exciting things were happening, and he needed to be on top form. 

The Prince had asked for him specifically. 

Chapter Text

Surprisingly, it’s not too bad having George around.  

Sure, Arthur's rendered speechless by some of the things he says, and there are a few moments of awkward embarrassment when jokes fall flat to a face of confusion, but overall things run exceptionally smoothly the entire day. Every possible problem Arthur might have had he'd found the answer ready and waiting, George already having thought of it and prepared a solution.

And besides, Merlin had still been buzzing around as usual, making up for the missing humour and the selective avoidance of rules that was sometimes required in social proceedings like this one.

But still. An efficient servant was a useful tool to a busy Prince.  

So when the day ends and it comes to fulfilling the final part of his promise to Merlin, he finds he doesn’t even have to make up things to say. 

Merlin had volunteered to help the kitchen staff clean up from the feast, leaving George to be the one tending to Arthur that night. He bustles around the room with sharp movements despite the exhaustion he must be feeling, setting the fire and tidying clothes away, the room looking smarter than Arthur's seen it in a long while.  

Arthur sits at his desk as George works, thinking over the day. There are papers in front of him, notes and reports and feedback he's meant to be summarising, but he pays them no mind now. He's staring somewhere distant as he lets his mind wander instead, thinking on the things Merlin hasn’t said about this strange favour.

“Will that be all, sire?”

Knocked from his reflections, Arthur looks up.

“Yes, thank you,” he tells George, surprised to find his own voice hoarse with tiredness. George gives a small bow, but as he turns to leave Arthur continues, clearing his throat to make sure his words come out sincerely. “And thank you for your work today," he says, stopping George in his tracks. "You’ve exceeded all expectations I could've had for an aide – and at such short notice too. I truly appreciate it.” 

George's hands return to clasp behind him, his aching back straightening. He finds his head dipping respectfully, though he has to fight to keep collected under the praise.

“It was an honour, my lord,” he replies, pleased with how steadily it comes out.

Arthur nods, watching the posture of a submissive servant fall into place. The shape's a recognisable one, the form they teach in etiquette lessons with the Steward. It's one he's not used to seeing in his own chambers.

George is still standing with his hands behind his back, all formality and deference, his gaze downcast as he waits to be dismissed again. But Arthur can see the glimmer in his eyes still, the way he’s fighting to keep his face neutral after Arthur's words.

“You can smile, you know.”

It takes George by surprise. So much so that he looks directly at Arthur, finally, his eyes wide and unsure.  

“I mean it," Arthur continues, flashing his own grin as he stands, stretching out his neck a little before shoving the papers into an unceremonious pile to be dealt with in the morning. "It’s something I appreciate in my servants,” he adds, making George's eyes go even wider. “Good humour is encouraged. Makes me feel a ghastly autocrat, to have servants that look too unhappy.” 

Arthur's still smiling, and as he comes to stand in front of him George tries to reflect the look, cautious.

“Your servants, my lord?”

With a laugh Arthur turns away, pulling his shirt over his head to swap it for a clean bedshirt. He makes the motion to toss it carelessly into the corner like he usually does, but his arm pauses at the final moment. He pivots, throwing it into the handily placed laundry basket instead.

“You and Merlin make a good team, don’t you think?” he casts back over his shoulder.

George shifts his weight between his feet. He's not good at reading unspoken contexts like this, and he tries to think through the situation.

He doesn't think it's a joke - there's no hint of mockery in the Prince's voice, and he and Merlin had functioned rather well today, in an odd sort of dichotomy. The other servant was clearly capable of doing a good job, when he put his mind to it.

A clearing of a throat across the room startles him, and George remembers he's meant to be replying.

“Yes sire,” he decides on simply, his cheeks flushing a little.

Pulling a freshly laundered shirt over his head Arthur turns again, something twigging his memory quite unexpectedly. 

“Your mother," he says, gesturing to George. "She was in the household, was she not?” 

It's a shock, one that makes George's face go tight, a lump forming in his throat. Behind his back, his fingers twist and fidget.

“She was."

“I think I remember her," Arthur carries on, his eyes narrowing now as he thinks back. "Lady Heledd always held an impeccable image. I can see where your work ethic comes from.” 

Finally, finally, it works to make George smile. A real smile, one that turns his face warm with quiet pride. Arthur's pleased by the look, even if something shifts uncomfortably in his chest; he's never been good at this.

“I look forward to working with you again,” he says by way of summary, the shape of polite dismissal forming again in his words. “I'll have a word with the Steward to reconfigure some of your duties, see that you start to take on some of the royal household responsibilities from now on."

George stands still, fighting to process this turn of events. The words don't feel real, nor does the image of Arthur tugging back the duvet he'd just lain flat, shoving the carefully arranged decorative cushions onto the floor.

“Thank you, sire," he forces himself to say, his own voice strange in his ears. "It’s- thank you.” 

Arthur doesn't reply to it, busy bashing the pillows into shape under his head. George chooses the moment to bow himself out, exiting the room quickly as all manner of emotions surge uncontained.

He's not expecting the quiet phrase from Arthur as he leaves, weak from tiredness but there all the same.

“You’re welcome."