Merlin fic: Leave
Jun. 22nd, 2009 05:04 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
adelagiaTitle: Leave
Summary: As far as decisions went, this either ranked as the stupidest thing he'd ever done, or the most inspired.
Characters/Pairing: Merlin/Arthur
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: ~1,400
Notes: A giant heap of thanks to the fabulous nbaeker for all her help and advice.
As far as decisions went, this either ranked as the stupidest thing he'd ever done, or the most inspired.
There had been some wine involved, which was most likely a bad idea in itself -- though aside from trying to cover up a long series of yawns, there had been little else to do but drink. In fact, Arthur had encouraged it. At least, that's what Merlin had inferred several times when, from across the Great Hall earlier that night, Arthur had caught his eye and his hand stealthily lifting a goblet to his lips, and had only smirked at him with a cocked eyebrow and downed his own wine.
Merlin had taken it as a show of solidarity (and possibly latent affection, as half the things Arthur let him do were horribly frowned upon otherwise); the last time Lord Earm had visited and lulled everyone into desperate boredom with one of his interminable speeches, Arthur had made Merlin dump the sixth course in his lap so they could both leave early (much to the envy of Morgana, who had looked as though she wished she had thought of it herself or had a convincingly clumsy servant, but Gwen, as ever, was pure competence). They couldn't very well run the same trick again this evening, though, so Arthur had resigned himself to copious amounts of drink as a suitable distraction, and, by all appearances, thought Merlin should do the same.
So, in all fairness, this was Arthur's fault, really.
There was really no telling what had spurred Arthur to push Merlin up against the wardrobe, warm hands cradling his hips close, warm breath ghosting across his cheeks. Things had gone much the same as usual prior to that; after managing to survive the banquet, Merlin had followed Arthur up to his rooms and gone about completing his nightly tasks -- turning down the bed, banking the fire, filling the basin for Arthur to wash, undressing Arthur.
Perhaps it should have struck him as unusual that, aside from Arthur heaving a sigh of relief at having been able to emerge from the feast alive, he'd remained suspiciously quiet while pensively watching Merlin finish his chores. Usually by the point when Merlin was almost done, Arthur would be complaining about something Merlin hadn't done right, like insufficiently covering the fire and putting everyone in mortal danger of the whole castle burning to the ground in the middle of the night, and wouldn't that just be so humiliating for Arthur if his personal manservant managed to accidentally extirpate an entire kingdom in one fell blow.
Merlin had only thought that perhaps Arthur was just tired from all the polite listening he'd had to do (all the while shooting Merlin looks that plainly said, 'kill me now', or, perhaps, in retrospect, one or two looks that had also said, 'my bed is very comfortable yet sturdy, and I should like you to try it out'), but apparently there had been something entirely different than the awful speech going through his mind, which became all the more evident when Arthur had gestured for Merlin to undress him.
At the time, Merlin didn't think he'd had enough wine to push him much farther than feeling pleasantly warm and tingly (and he could handle his drink occasionally, whatever smart remarks Gaius made), so by all rights, he could have kept himself in check, as he did every night when faced with this task, which was simultaneously the best and most torturous part of his day, getting to see and not touch, and to love but not be loved. But when Merlin had gently dragged the tunic over Arthur's head, fingertips perhaps deliberately gliding along his skin, and Arthur had stared at Merlin through hooded eyes and reached for him, Merlin couldn't see any point at all to checking himself. Besides, it had been Arthur who'd kissed him first and pulled their bodies close.
Then, what with the tendency, when strong drink was involved, of one thing to lead to another with all the delicacy and elegance of a boulder careening downhill, it probably shouldn't have come as too much of a surprise when Merlin found himself in Arthur's bed, and Arthur in him, stripped to the bone in agonising pleasure. There hadn't been time for deliberation or finesse, not when every exquisite touch burned like a brand, not when each kiss came with the frenetic urgency of it being the last, and not when each staccato word, every yes and want you and Merlin, ignited a wild, deeply hidden need that came roaring out of him in bliss and sweat, with Arthur's name crowning his lips.
They had both quickly drifted off to sleep after that, with Merlin having only a very groggy presence of mind to lift one corner of Arthur's blanket to clean them off before letting sleep and Arthur's warmth claim him.
Merlin woke in the middle of the night, one of Arthur's arms draped loosely over his middle, and wondered. Now would not be the best time to ask, and Merlin wasn't sure if he'd be able to build up the courage later to do so, but he did want to know what had changed and what had made Arthur decide, mostly because Merlin wanted to be able to do it again. He'd sit through a thousand of Lord Earm's wretched talks stone cold sober if it meant Arthur would touch him like that again, to look at him as though there was nothing else in the world worth seeing.
The moon, resplendent in the night sky, lit Arthur with a dreamy glow. As though he needed the help. Merlin grazed his fingertips along the fine ridge of Arthur's cheekbone and smiled softly at the prince, strong and bright and beautiful. It would be so easy to fall in love with him.
Too late, a sardonic voice in his head supplied helpfully.
Merlin wasn't stupid. A little slow, sometimes; too trusting, maybe, but not stupid. This wasn't supposed to happen, not between them. He was a servant and Arthur was the prince, and maybe they were friends, but they weren't equals; to even hope for some measure of his feelings in reciprocation was just asking for a world of hurt and trouble. There would be blame placed later, because that was just how these things went -- Merlin had heard it enough times passing through the servants' quarters; it might be the fault of the wine, of poor judgment, of a temporary leaving of senses, of everything that would point to this being a complete and utter mistake, or worse, something that didn't mean anything at all, and Merlin didn't want to deal with that just now.
Perhaps for other servants getting this sort of favour bestowed upon them was all right, was enough. But Merlin was different -- the story of his life, really. He wanted more than that. And he couldn't just lie here and wait for Arthur to awaken and kick him out, or let things turn so awkward he wouldn't be able to look Arthur in the face, or listen to whatever excuses there might be to sweep it all away.
Later, when he had the memory of Arthur's hands on his skin and endearments in his ears tucked safely away, he could come back in the morning and go about his usual business, and let Arthur's temper or silence or indifference fall where it may. But for now, he had to go.
Merlin carefully extricated himself from Arthur's loose embrace, keenly feeling the loss of warmth as he slid silently out of bed. Then, unable to resist, Merlin pressed a kiss to Arthur's temple, searing the sight of the peace on Arthur's face into his memory. His clothes, in sad, rumpled heaps scattered about the floor, came to him in a whisper and flick of his wrist, and he dressed quietly and quickly, and pushed himself towards the door, before he could lose his conviction and invent a million foolish reasons to --
"Stay," said Arthur.
Or perhaps one reason was all he needed.
Summary: As far as decisions went, this either ranked as the stupidest thing he'd ever done, or the most inspired.
Characters/Pairing: Merlin/Arthur
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: ~1,400
Notes: A giant heap of thanks to the fabulous nbaeker for all her help and advice.
As far as decisions went, this either ranked as the stupidest thing he'd ever done, or the most inspired.
There had been some wine involved, which was most likely a bad idea in itself -- though aside from trying to cover up a long series of yawns, there had been little else to do but drink. In fact, Arthur had encouraged it. At least, that's what Merlin had inferred several times when, from across the Great Hall earlier that night, Arthur had caught his eye and his hand stealthily lifting a goblet to his lips, and had only smirked at him with a cocked eyebrow and downed his own wine.
Merlin had taken it as a show of solidarity (and possibly latent affection, as half the things Arthur let him do were horribly frowned upon otherwise); the last time Lord Earm had visited and lulled everyone into desperate boredom with one of his interminable speeches, Arthur had made Merlin dump the sixth course in his lap so they could both leave early (much to the envy of Morgana, who had looked as though she wished she had thought of it herself or had a convincingly clumsy servant, but Gwen, as ever, was pure competence). They couldn't very well run the same trick again this evening, though, so Arthur had resigned himself to copious amounts of drink as a suitable distraction, and, by all appearances, thought Merlin should do the same.
So, in all fairness, this was Arthur's fault, really.
There was really no telling what had spurred Arthur to push Merlin up against the wardrobe, warm hands cradling his hips close, warm breath ghosting across his cheeks. Things had gone much the same as usual prior to that; after managing to survive the banquet, Merlin had followed Arthur up to his rooms and gone about completing his nightly tasks -- turning down the bed, banking the fire, filling the basin for Arthur to wash, undressing Arthur.
Perhaps it should have struck him as unusual that, aside from Arthur heaving a sigh of relief at having been able to emerge from the feast alive, he'd remained suspiciously quiet while pensively watching Merlin finish his chores. Usually by the point when Merlin was almost done, Arthur would be complaining about something Merlin hadn't done right, like insufficiently covering the fire and putting everyone in mortal danger of the whole castle burning to the ground in the middle of the night, and wouldn't that just be so humiliating for Arthur if his personal manservant managed to accidentally extirpate an entire kingdom in one fell blow.
Merlin had only thought that perhaps Arthur was just tired from all the polite listening he'd had to do (all the while shooting Merlin looks that plainly said, 'kill me now', or, perhaps, in retrospect, one or two looks that had also said, 'my bed is very comfortable yet sturdy, and I should like you to try it out'), but apparently there had been something entirely different than the awful speech going through his mind, which became all the more evident when Arthur had gestured for Merlin to undress him.
At the time, Merlin didn't think he'd had enough wine to push him much farther than feeling pleasantly warm and tingly (and he could handle his drink occasionally, whatever smart remarks Gaius made), so by all rights, he could have kept himself in check, as he did every night when faced with this task, which was simultaneously the best and most torturous part of his day, getting to see and not touch, and to love but not be loved. But when Merlin had gently dragged the tunic over Arthur's head, fingertips perhaps deliberately gliding along his skin, and Arthur had stared at Merlin through hooded eyes and reached for him, Merlin couldn't see any point at all to checking himself. Besides, it had been Arthur who'd kissed him first and pulled their bodies close.
Then, what with the tendency, when strong drink was involved, of one thing to lead to another with all the delicacy and elegance of a boulder careening downhill, it probably shouldn't have come as too much of a surprise when Merlin found himself in Arthur's bed, and Arthur in him, stripped to the bone in agonising pleasure. There hadn't been time for deliberation or finesse, not when every exquisite touch burned like a brand, not when each kiss came with the frenetic urgency of it being the last, and not when each staccato word, every yes and want you and Merlin, ignited a wild, deeply hidden need that came roaring out of him in bliss and sweat, with Arthur's name crowning his lips.
They had both quickly drifted off to sleep after that, with Merlin having only a very groggy presence of mind to lift one corner of Arthur's blanket to clean them off before letting sleep and Arthur's warmth claim him.
Merlin woke in the middle of the night, one of Arthur's arms draped loosely over his middle, and wondered. Now would not be the best time to ask, and Merlin wasn't sure if he'd be able to build up the courage later to do so, but he did want to know what had changed and what had made Arthur decide, mostly because Merlin wanted to be able to do it again. He'd sit through a thousand of Lord Earm's wretched talks stone cold sober if it meant Arthur would touch him like that again, to look at him as though there was nothing else in the world worth seeing.
The moon, resplendent in the night sky, lit Arthur with a dreamy glow. As though he needed the help. Merlin grazed his fingertips along the fine ridge of Arthur's cheekbone and smiled softly at the prince, strong and bright and beautiful. It would be so easy to fall in love with him.
Too late, a sardonic voice in his head supplied helpfully.
Merlin wasn't stupid. A little slow, sometimes; too trusting, maybe, but not stupid. This wasn't supposed to happen, not between them. He was a servant and Arthur was the prince, and maybe they were friends, but they weren't equals; to even hope for some measure of his feelings in reciprocation was just asking for a world of hurt and trouble. There would be blame placed later, because that was just how these things went -- Merlin had heard it enough times passing through the servants' quarters; it might be the fault of the wine, of poor judgment, of a temporary leaving of senses, of everything that would point to this being a complete and utter mistake, or worse, something that didn't mean anything at all, and Merlin didn't want to deal with that just now.
Perhaps for other servants getting this sort of favour bestowed upon them was all right, was enough. But Merlin was different -- the story of his life, really. He wanted more than that. And he couldn't just lie here and wait for Arthur to awaken and kick him out, or let things turn so awkward he wouldn't be able to look Arthur in the face, or listen to whatever excuses there might be to sweep it all away.
Later, when he had the memory of Arthur's hands on his skin and endearments in his ears tucked safely away, he could come back in the morning and go about his usual business, and let Arthur's temper or silence or indifference fall where it may. But for now, he had to go.
Merlin carefully extricated himself from Arthur's loose embrace, keenly feeling the loss of warmth as he slid silently out of bed. Then, unable to resist, Merlin pressed a kiss to Arthur's temple, searing the sight of the peace on Arthur's face into his memory. His clothes, in sad, rumpled heaps scattered about the floor, came to him in a whisper and flick of his wrist, and he dressed quietly and quickly, and pushed himself towards the door, before he could lose his conviction and invent a million foolish reasons to --
"Stay," said Arthur.
Or perhaps one reason was all he needed.
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no subject
on 2009-06-23 07:08 am (UTC)