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There's a little purple mark peering out just above the line of Merlin’s neckerchief.
Arthur is staring at it.
He’s not staring staring, of course. He's actually sitting at his desk reading a rather dull report on weather trends. Well, he’s holding the parchment, anyway.
It's just that it’s obviously meant to be hidden. The blue scarf is settled particularly high on Merlin’s throat today and Arthur can see how the knot is fastened extra securely. Which means the mark is something Merlin is embarrassed by. Something of a personal nature.
Now, Arthur is not in the habit of caring about his servant’s personal life– no matter what Morgana says, or Gwaine, or Gwen, or– whatever, they’re all grossly mistaken. It’s not caring, he doesn’t care, he’s just… curious. That’s all. And eager for opportunities to give Merlin a hard time, of which this is one.
It’s not that he's jealous. Because he’s not. Whatever the opposite of jealousy is, that’s what he’s feeling.
He's not at all thinking of who may have taken liberties with his servant. Who might have pressed him into the shadows of a corridor and stripped him of that ridiculous swath of fabric and tasted the flesh there. He’s not thinking of who latched on and sucked the blood forth until it pooled into ownership, nor of the sounds Merlin might have made as they had done so. And he is not– he is not– thinking of whether those carnal acts had stopped there, or if this unknown lech had been bequeathed any other of Merlin’s hidden parts.
See? Very much not jealous. And he’ll prove it.
‘You know,’ he begins in his most prattish of voices (according to Merin), ‘if you have time for getting into… trouble… in the middle of the day, I can always give you more chores.’
‘Hm?’ Merlin glances up from where he’s sitting cross-legged in front of the fire mending one of Arthur’s tunics, a confused furrow between his brows.
Arthur gestures vaguely to the offending neck and cocks a resolvedly aloof eyebrow.
Merlin’s hand darts up to his scarf so fast he accidentally jabs himself in the chin with the sewing needle and drops it with a curse. He presses his palm to the bead of blood and winces even as a flush rises in his cheeks.
‘How do you know it was me who did the getting-into?’ Merlin asks, voice a little rough. ‘I’d say it's more often that trouble gets into me.’
Arthur chokes on his own spit and fights the heat in his own cheeks.
‘I really–’ he clears his throat– ‘really don't need to know the details, Merlin.’
‘Oh.’ Merlin looks oddly crestfallen, which just baffles Arthur. Does Merlin want him to know the details? Or does he want him to want to know the details?
‘I mean,’ he flounders. ‘It’s not exactly any of my business what you get up to as long your work gets done. I was only poking fun, that’s all.’
For some reason, that makes it worse, and Arthur finds himself increasingly bewildered watching Merlin’s face shutter into something uncomfortably like hurt.
‘Alright then.’ Merlin’s voice is small in a way that Merlin should never be. Diminutive has never been a word that Arthur would use to describe him, and to start now would be an impossible shift in Arthur's perception of the world.
He’s about to say something– he has no idea what– to try and remedy the situation, when Merlin pulls at his neckerchief, loosening it just enough to wipe at the blood on his chin.
Arthur goes cold.
‘What the fuck.’
He must be seeing things. There's no way he just saw what he thinks he saw.
‘Take that off,’ he demands, and it’s Merlin’s turn for bewilderment.
‘What? Why?’
Arthur doesn't know when he moved, but he's suddenly standing over Merlin, tense.
‘Just do it, Merlin.’
‘I thought you said it was none of your business,’ Merlin argues, a tinge of bitterness clinging to the edges.
‘Never mind what I said. Show me.’
After a moment wherein Merlin simply stares at him like a cornered woodland creature and Arthur stares right back, immovable, Merlin obeys.
What Arthur had taken to be a mark of an amorous nature is revealed to be only one of a pattern of bruises blooming stark and ugly against the pale skin of Merlin’s neck.
Bruises in the shape of fingers.
Jealousy (not that it was jealously, mind you), is replaced by cold fury so fast that Arthur’s head spins.
‘Who did this to you.’ He doesn't even recognize his own voice. It's too obscured by the pulse pounding in his ears.
‘So you want the details after all, then.’ It's a pale attempt at humour, and the tiniest waver in Merlin's voice betrays him. Arthur’s stomach twists sharply.
‘Merlin,’ he says helplessly, both an apology and an entreaty. Merlin's shoulders sag.
‘It really wasn't my fault, Arthur, I promise!’ Arthur can hear the strain in Merlin's voice now, rasping as he tries to speak with more emphasis. ‘It's just that Sir Roland was picking on the new stable boy, Errol, and I couldn't not say anything. He’s only fourteen summers, Errol, and less than half the size of Roland. So I stepped in, and I may have gotten a bit– well, mouthy. You know me. Only, it turns out not everyone is as amenable as you are when it comes to my particular charm.’ Merlin smiles weakly, and Arthur has to close his eyes as his heart gives a little jolt.
But behind his eyelids, the image is waiting for him. Merlin stepping forward in defence of a hapless servant, all daring and righteous defiance, just like the day they met. Only this time, he's confronted by worse than an arrogant bully. Someone who isn't reluctantly won over by a peasant’s bravery but is instead enraged by it.
Unforgiving hands wrapped around Merlin's throat, squeezing until blood vessels burst, until no air passes through his lungs, choking him–
Had Merlin’s eyes watered? Had he struggled? Of course he had, it’s Merlin. He would have fought with every scrap he had until his limbs went numb from lack of oxygen.
Had he wished for someone to come help him?
Had he wished for Arthur?
Arthur is moving before he's even reopened his eyes, standing to grab his sword from atop his desk.
‘Wait, where are you going?’
‘To run Roland through.’
‘What?!’ Merlin’s voice cracks, whether from the injury or from panic. ‘Arthur, no!’
Arthur pauses. Sets his sword down again.
‘You’re right. I’d much rather beat him to death with my bare hands.
Merlin’s hand on his chest stops him mid-stride on his way to the door, half-mended tunic abandoned on the rug . ‘Arthur, you can’t!’
‘The hell I can't. Step aside, Merlin.’
‘No.’ Merlin’s jaw is set with that unparalleled stubbornness with which Arthur is all too familiar– a stubbornness rivalled only by his own.
‘Merlin. Sir Roland– excuse me, the former Sir Roland– needs to be dealt with. What he did is beyond unacceptable, it’s– it’s– he hurt you. I cannot– I will not– stand for that. He cannot get away with this.’
‘He didn't.’
‘He– what?’
Merlin shuffles his feet a bit, but lifts his chin and straightens his spine defiantly. ‘Let's just say Sir Roland met with the business end of a very angry horseshoe and is currently sleeping off a mild to moderate concussion in his chambers.’
Arthur blinks. Opens his mouth several times as though the action will produce words like a lever pumping water from a well. Eventually, it does.
‘Were there any witnesses?’
‘Just Errol, but he ran off as soon as Roland turned his attention to me.’
‘Good. So it’ll be our word against his ‘
‘Ours?’
‘Well, the piss-poor excuse for a knight is sure to call for your head when he wakes, and I’m certainly not leaving you to face my father’s inquisition alone.’ The very idea is ludicrous.
‘I– thank you.’ Merlin looks both touched and unsettled.
Arthur shrugs, adopting his very best unaffected air. ‘You’re mine.’
Merlin gapes like a fish, going pink.
Shit, Arthur didn't mean to say that. At least, not so bluntly.
‘My responsibility, I mean,’ he hurries to clarify, his face heating. ‘To care for. T-to take care of, that is. In a strictly professional sense. It’s a matter of honour, that's all.’
Merlin is looking very much like he's trying to swallow a grin, insufferably soft yet somehow smug. ‘Your honour or mine?’
The question sits pregnant between them. Arthur takes a slow breath. Lets it out.
‘Both,’ he admits.
Merlin nods, and the smile emerges, definitely softer than it is smug.
‘Both is good.’ He doesn't push for more, bless him, and Arthur's shoulders relinquish tension he hadn't been aware they were holding.
‘We should go to my father now, though. Together. So that Roland doesn't have time to spin this in his favour.’
Merlin looks apprehensive, but agrees with a sigh.
‘Hold on,’ he says confusedly as they leave Arthur’s chambers together and head down the corridor. ‘What did you think the bruises were from, if not an altercation?
The tapestry on the left wall of the corridor is truly fascinating, so Arthur feels no need to tear his gaze from it. ‘Nothing.’
‘No no, you thought something, what… oh. Oh.’ Merlin promptly bursts out laughing, which Arthur thinks is a bit much, and also far too strenuous for his bruised larynx.
‘You actually thought– what, that I let somebody pull me into an alcove in broad daylight and have their way with me?’
Oh, lovely, that image is back.
‘As if I’d have the time with all you and Gaius have me running around doing.’
Alright, Arthur supposes that's a fair point. Merlin’s schedule does seem spread rather thin most days.
‘As if there's anyone else I’d let pull me into any alcoves, let alone mark me up like a trollop.’
Arthur stops in his tracks. Merlin carries on obliviously for a few feet before he notices, and then he turns round, looking back at his master with a raised brow.
‘Anyone… “else”?’ Arthur questions stiffly. So there is someone. Someone Merlin would let suck marks into his skin as a public claiming. Someone who perhaps has already seen those aforementioned hidden parts.
Arthur’s pulse is loud in his ears again.
Fine. He is, maybe, a bit jealous. Just a bit.
Something of it must show on his face despite his best efforts, because Merlin rolls his eyes and huffs an exasperated breath that sounds suspiciously like, ‘clotpole,’ before striding back towards him.
He casts a wary look down both ends of the hallway; apparently, he determines the coast clear, because the next thing Arthur knows, he's being gripped by the sleeve and dragged stumbling into the nearest alcove.
He avoids Merlin’s neck, for obvious reasons; his own, however, he offers up freely.
Thankfully, no one comments when Arthur arrives at his father's study wearing Merlin’s scarf.