Chapter Text
“Is he going to need a room added to that bill?”
The bartender asks, glaring at Merlin. He towers over the manservant, practically engulfing Merlin in his shadow. It’s intimidating, especially given he’s about twice Merlin’s size and could toss him out on his arse. But it pales in comparison to Gaius’s own disapproving brow, and Merlin stands his ground.
He considers the question a moment, looking from the bill over to Gwaine, laid on the floor and still trying to catch the eye of a pretty barmaid. Merlin cringes, imagining adding even more to the extensive bill written for Arthur’s accounts.
…Gwaine can stay in his bed for another night.
“No, I’ve got this,” he assures the bartender, giving him a sheepish grin to try and placate his sour mood.
Merlin offers his hand to Gwaine. Instead of getting up, the man stays limp, allowing his head to roll back and laughing as Merlin only succeeds in lifting Gwaine’s shoulder. He gives up his effort, the rogue giving a soft “oof” as he bumps his head on the worn wood of the tavern floor. Said floor is sticky with decades of ale spilled by drunk patrons, which Merlin can only take as a testament to how well and truly drunk the other man must be that he doesn’t care.
Sighing, Merlin moves to support under Gwaine’s left shoulder to pick him up. He strains, internally cursing his inability to use magic, but with the rogue acting as a deadweight, he doesn’t accomplish much.
Gwen, having watched the scene unfold, sighs and takes pity on the manservant, her pretty, lilac dress having to drag on the floor as she supports Gwaine on his free side.
Once they haul Gwaine to his feet, the rogue lets himself fall to Merlin’s shoulder, mumbling incoherently about princesses. Merlin shoots Gwen a puzzled look, having no idea what he’s talking about, but Gwen doesn’t notice his glance, instead smiling sweetly to herself. Then, sensing the shift in weight, the lady-in-waiting detached herself from the rogue, allowing Merlin to snake his arm around his waist to better hold him upright.
Gwaine’s arm is draped around Merlin’s shoulders in this position, making him have to slouch a little awkwardly to accommodate his height, and his hair tickles Merlin’s neck, distracting him. He’s heavy and very warm and Gwaine’s proximity makes it so when Merlin inhales, he breathes in his scent; leather and beeswax and something warm and indescribable, the sharp scent of ale attempting to drown out all the other smells.
It’s… a lot, but nothing Merlin can’t handle. If his double life has given him anything, it’s at least that.
Gwaine in tow, Merlin achieves the rogue’s stumbling cooperation, making it about three strides towards the door, before… ah.
He forgot to take the bill before peeling Gwaine from the floor. He attempts to pivot when Gwaine, realising they are once again moving, staggers forwards, overcorrecting. It takes a few seconds of their uncoordinated dance as some sort of two headed beast when Merlin notices Gwen, mouth covered in a bashful attempt to allow Merlin his dignity. She takes the bill from the table, tucking it into her pocket.
The servant begins to thank her, but chestnut-brown hair tickles his neck once more. He uses his fractionally less occupied hand to try and tuck it away, behind Gwaine’s ear.
It’s as soft as it looks.
It’s also a pain in his backside, slipping from behind the rogue’s ear to its original position. Captivated by his efforts, Gwaine begins trying to assist Merlin- he thinks- trying to touch Merlin’s hand as it moves in front of his face with a delighted smile.
The display is halted, Merlin realising Gwen is watching the duo with a calculating look on her face. Catching Merlin’s eye, her expression smooths into an amused smile, mirth glittering in her eyes as she tucks the hair away herself.
Of course, it works then she does it, Merlin thinks to himself. He glares at the offending bit of hair. He’d heard all about Gwaine trying to flirt with her in the square, no wonder it’d listened to her.
Merlin gives Gwen a thankful smile, then assures her that so long as she doesn’t mind handling the bill, he can get the drunk rogue into a bed. He makes sure to apologise for keeping her awake past when she’d usually retire for the night, then steels himself.
Now, the trek home with a drunken fool.
Passing the tavern’s threshold is sweet relief. Breathing in the cool night air as opposed to the stuffy interior has Merlin nearly crying out in relief. Celebrating his first victory, Merlin stops the pair and takes his first breath of non-alcohol soaked air since Gwen dragged him over to help.
He savours the fresh air, taking a deep breath into his lungs and takes advantage of the precarious balance he and Gwaine have struck to look out into the night. The night sky is clear and calm, stars on display and barely a cloud in sight. Despite the lack of sun, it’s still a pleasant enough temperature and a gentle breeze passes through, dancing in the long grass far away.
With the noise of the tavern muffling behind the closed door and an empty street ahead, Merlin can almost forget why he's there. Gwaine’s weight fading into the background, he admires the night. Lovingly embraced by the moonlight, there is a serenity like magic itself.
He could probably stay in this moment forever.
However, that is not what fate intends. Instead, Merlin is pulled out of his stupor by the quiet clearing of a throat. The night seems to have done some immediate good for Gwaine, allowing the rogue to regain his senses. When Merlin looks back to Gwaine, his eyes are fixed on Merlin- endlessly dark and captivating with their intelligence. The warm light of the tavern seems to illuminate him from behind, adding soft highlights to the angles of his face and pretty, gold highlights to his hair. His face is slightly red from the alcohol, and despite practically dousing himself in alcohol, he mainly just smells… warm. Comforting, perhaps.
Objectively, Merlin admits to himself, he’s quite handsome.
“What?” he asks,
“You’re pretty,” Gwaine admits quietly.
So drunk Gwaine is… still a flirt, Merlin thinks to himself, face warming up. Albeit, a less verbose one.
“Mm,” Merlin hums, unimpressed.
He’s sure Gwaine would find the excuse to flirt with anyone in Merlin’s position right now- except, maybe Arthur.
The servant starts them moving again, pleasantly surprised to find the rogue much more cooperative, despite how he almost refuses to look away from Merlin’s face. It makes them a little clumsier than necessary and Merlin will admit the attention makes him blush a little. But he’s sure in his current state Gwaine would give his attention to anyone in his direct vicinity.
As they make their journey further from the tavern’s walls, bit-by-bit Gwaine’s inebriation seems to be left behind with it. First, lifting his head from where it heavily leaned on Merlin’s shoulder to inspect the cobbled streets and uneven houses, then gradually leaning less of his weight on Merlin.
In this state, away from the crowds, Gwaine is much quieter than Merlin would have suspected, almost thoughtful. Merlin almost wants to ask what he’s thinking, to indulge himself. But he holds back, torn between learning the depths of the fascinating man behind him and going to sleep to forget the mess he’s caused, of which Merlin will face in the morning.
Eventually, Gwaine is walking with Merlin, rather than being dragged along by him, instead just hanging off his arm.
The first set of stairs is a nightmare. Sod whichever of Arthur’s ancestors decided to build a kingdom on a hill. He doesn’t care about the tactical rubbish Arthur tries to explain to him whenever Merlin complains. It was a terrible idea, and he suspects Arthur knows it and the smug git just relishes lecturing Merlin while he suffers.
Even with Gwaine’s slightly-more-sober coordination, Merlin spends the climb half dragging him, half vividly aware of the pain-and-possibly-death of if they make a wrong move and fall down the stone steps.
When they reach the top- finally on castle grounds, but not within the castle yet, Merlin gently positions Gwaine onto the stone then collapses next to him on the top step for a well-earned rest.
Merlin had thought he’d grown used to all the stairs of Camelot, but supporting the extra weight? Gods, he was wrong. Mournfully, he thinks back to the flat plains of Ealdor, when-
“Do you want to dance with me?”
The rogue had gone back to leaning heavily on Merlin and when he speaks, he tries to turn his head to face the servant, instead smushing his face into the servant’s shoulder, mussing the words a little.
“...I’m alright, thanks,” Merlin replies, caught off-balance by the out-of-nowhere request. It’s late, for one, and Merlin’s damned if he’s doing more physical excursion than is absolutely necessary.
Gwaine scrunches his face slightly in the moonlight, then lifts his cheek from Merlin’s shoulder to replace it with his chin, earnest, brown eyes sizing up his face.
“Can you dance?” he puzzles, “If you can’t, I’d be happy to teach you,”
Merlin grimaces, thinking back to the last time he’d danced; as prince, Arthur was allegedly a master of all talents. However, the dance lessons Uther insist he attend said otherwise. What also said otherwise was the amount of times he stepped on Merlin’s feet when the instructor intimidated Merlin into being his partner. Terrifying woman.
“...I’m a better dancer than Arthur,” he concludes.
Gwaine snorts a laugh, “of course you are. Arthur’s a…” he trails off, making a gesture with his hand as if he’s searching for the word,
“Prat.” Merlin finishes, with a firm nod.
“That works,” Gwaine replies, affectionately bumping Merlin’s side.
The rogue suddenly rocks to his feet, giving Merlin heart palpitations as he teeters dangerously forward, before skipping backwards a few steps to catch himself from falling. He dances over to Merlin, a little clumsy but endearing, nonetheless.
The bastard probably could have made his own way up the stairs, Merlin notes, despite the smile creeping up his face.
Supporting himself on the stone wall lining the stairs, Gwaine lowers himself to Merlin’s level, a determined gleam in his eyes. Even with the subdued feelings of malice, Merlin can’t help as the smile breaks into an indulgent grin.
“So- a dance?” The rogue asks, hand outstretched and illuminated by moonlight,
“Absolutely not.”
The length of the day has begun to weigh on the servant, feet starting to ache and body growing heavy. Dreaming of his bed- or at least, the spare cot Gaius keeps around, he takes Gwaine’s hand, using the momentum to pull both of them to their feet and onwards with their quest.
“Another day, then?” Gwaine asks as they make their way through an empty courtyard.
“Sure,” Merlin responds.
It’s not like Gwaine will remember it in the morning.