Chapter Text
Arthur Pendragon, King of Great Britain, Head of State, Defender of the Realm, and—currently—victim of an egregious human rights violation, glared at the sock draped over his crown.
It was striped. Neon green and purple. It clashed with *everything*.
“Merlin,” Arthur said, very calmly, through clenched teeth, “why is there laundry on my head?”
Merlin, sprawled upside-down across a velvet sofa like gravity was a suggestion rather than a law, didn’t even look up from his phone. “Oh good, you’re awake. I was wondering how long that would take.”
Arthur reached up, removed the sock with the dignity of a man who had been trained since birth never to scream in public, and dropped it onto his desk. “This is Buckingham Palace.”
“And?” Merlin finally glanced over, eyes bright with mischief. “You said I could make myself at home.”
“I did not mean *this*.”
“You said—” Merlin began, adopting a painfully accurate impression of Arthur’s formal voice, “‘Merlin, you don’t need to knock. You’re always welcome.’”
Arthur pointed at him. “That was *sentimental*. That does not include sock-based crimes against the Crown.”
From the corner of the room, the Prime Minister pretended very hard to be fascinated by a portrait of Queen Victoria.
Merlin rolled upright and grinned. “Relax, Your Majesty. Stress wrinkles are unbecoming.”
Arthur stared at him. “I am twenty-six.”
“Yes,” Merlin said solemnly. “Exactly. Tragic.”
Everyone else treated Arthur Pendragon like he was made of glass.
Courtiers bowed. Advisors spoke in careful tones. Foreign dignitaries smiled like they were terrified of doing something wrong. Even the guards—six-foot walls of professionalism—looked vaguely nervous around him.
Merlin, meanwhile, stole Arthur’s pens, drank tea straight from the royal china, and once answered the King’s phone with, *“Yeah, he’s busy ruling. What do you want?”*
No one knew why Merlin was allowed to do this.
Arthur knew.
Merlin had been there long before the crown ever touched his head—before the speeches, before the cameras, before the weight of an entire country settled into his spine. Merlin had been there when Arthur was just a lonely heir sneaking out of lessons, complaining about etiquette, and wondering quietly if he was going to be any good at this at all.
So when Arthur became king and said, “Merlin’s staying,” no one dared argue.
“Why are you still here?” Arthur asked later that evening, loosening his tie as Merlin wandered into his private sitting room like he owned the place.
Merlin flopped into a chair. “I live here.”
“You do not.”
“I emotionally live here.”
Arthur snorted despite himself. “You have your own flat.”
“Yes, but your palace has better snacks and a distressed monarch to annoy.”
Arthur poured himself a drink. “I am not distressed.”
Merlin raised an eyebrow.
Arthur sighed. “…I am *moderately burdened*.”
“There it is,” Merlin said softly, leaning forward. “That’s my cue.”
“For what?”
Merlin reached out and straightened Arthur’s crooked cuff, fingers warm and familiar. “For this.”
Arthur didn’t pull away.
The silence settled comfortably between them, broken only by the distant hum of palace life. Merlin always knew when to joke—and when not to.
“You did well today,” Merlin said. “The speech.”
Arthur shrugged. “Didn’t trip. That’s a win.”
“You also didn’t accidentally declare war,” Merlin added. “Personal growth.”
Arthur laughed, real and unguarded. “You’re impossible.”
“And yet,” Merlin said lightly, “you keep me around.”
Arthur looked at him, really looked—messy hair, too-big jumper, eyes that saw him far too clearly. “You’re the only one who treats me like I’m still… me.”
Merlin’s smile softened. “That’s because you are.”
Arthur cleared his throat. “Still doesn’t explain the sock.”
Merlin grinned again, full chaos restored. “Yes it does. Kings need humility.”
“I hate you.”
“You love me.”
Arthur didn’t argue.
Later, as Arthur prepared for bed, he found Merlin already sprawled across his sofa again, half-asleep.
“Are you leaving?” Arthur asked.
Merlin cracked one eye open. “Nah. I’ll crash here.”
“You have a perfectly good room.”
“Yes, but this one has you pacing dramatically like a stressed Victorian ghost.”
Arthur paused. “Am I pacing?”
“Very regally.”
Arthur sighed and sank into a chair. “Stay, then.”
Merlin smiled, soft and fond. “Always do. Always will.”
And somewhere in Buckingham Palace, the King of Great Britain finally rested—safe in the knowledge that no matter how heavy the crown felt, Merlin would always be there to knock it crooked.