Merlin: You Can Pick Your Friends... (PG)
Title: You Can Pick Your Friends...
Author:
mad_maudlin
Fandom: Merlin
Rating: PG
Characters: Arthur, Merlin
Spoilers: None
Warnings: AU
Summary: On his first day in Camelot, Merlin makes a new friend.
A/N: This is a slightly expanded version of a fic I wrote for
kinkme_merlin a while back. The prompt: Servant!Arthur AU in which Arthur is believed to be a bastard.
You Can Pick Your Friends...
by Mad Maudlin
The dungeon was dark and damp and dreary and other things that start with d, and Merlin couldn't help but think his first full day in Camelot was not going well. He collapsed on the dirty straw (another d, ugh) and tried to shake the ache out of his arm from where Sir Owain had just about twisted it off.
The blond bloke didn't seem to mind the alliterating accommodations; he was on his feet again almost before the door closed and started pacing, occasionally kicking at the walls and growling under his breath--not words, just sharp expressive sounds. He didn't seem to notice that he was even more battered and bruised than Merlin was, but then again, he hadn't seemed to notice earlier that the knights he was facing had maces and swords and armor, and he, Blondie, had naught but a blunt shovel.
"Are you doing to sit down, you know, ever?" Merlin finally asked. "'Cause I don't think the wall's moving."
The other boy snarled at him. "Shut up. It's your fault we're in here."
"My fault--?" Merlin blurted. "Sorry, guess I should've left you to the knights, then."
That seemed to sap the blond's manic energy; he flopped down onto the straw next to Merlin. "They wouldn't have hurt me," he said with a shocking depth of bitterness. "Much, anyway."
"Oh, yeah, 'cause they weren't about to skewer you with those swords or anything," Merlin pointed out.
Blodnie tilted his head back a bit and gave Merlin a squinty look. "What are you, new?" When Merlin didn't answer, he snorted. "You are, or I'd have seen you before. And you'd know better than to be seen with me."
"What's that supposed to mean?" Merlin asked, not sure if he was more indignant or curious.
He got a twisty sort of smile in return. "I'm Arthur," he said, as if that answered anything.
After a moment, Merlin offered his hand. "I'm Merlin, nice to meet you."
Arthur stared at him like he's grown an extra head. "I'm the Queen's bastard," he added.
Merlin almost said that there wasn't any queen, there was just King Uther and his adopted heir, Princess Morgana, because... "Oh."
"Yes," Arthur said, and settled back on the straw with a grunt. "Feel free to run away any time."
Merlin studied his pinched face, the hollows under his cheeks and the bruises, old and new, that were visible through his torn shirt. All the other servants he'd seen in Camelot have been well-fed and well-dressed and healthy as any yeoman farmer, and it suddenly occurred to him that when those knights had circled around Arthur in the market, nobody else had said a word to stop them. "Reckon it's a bit late for that," he pointed out. "Since we're already arrested and all."
Arthur shrugged and can't completely suppress another grunt. "It was an honest mistake on your part. People would understand. You could even beat me about the head a bit--it'll endear you to the guards."
He said it with sarcasm sharp enough to cut and Merlin suddenly thought of Will, who lost his father and part of his heart on the same day, who made himself an armor out of bitter humor, but who was all right if you could manage to get past all the prickles. Arthur was like Will multiplied by a hundred, a thousand, and while he wouldn't recognize the significance of it until much later, that insight changed the course of the rest of Merlin's life.
It more immediate terms, it caused him to shift over a bit, so his shoulder just met Arthur's. "Nah," he said. "I'm fine like this, thanks."
Arthur blinked stupidly and leaned away slightly from the contact. "Are you simple?" he asked.
"'Course not," Merlin saids. "I just know how to pick my friends."
"And you'd pick a bastard?" Arthur asked, brows knit.
Merlin grinned at him. "I pick the idiot who fights knights with a shovel over the arseholes who'd let him try it alone."
Arthur looked deeply suspicious, like maybe he thought Merlin was having him on, but he also relaxed until their shoulders were touching again. They started talking then, about Camelot and Ealdor, castles and cowherds, about what made Camelot different from the rest of Albion (other than King Uther's penchant for decapitating suspected enchanters), about the differences between taking on a knight when armed with a shovel versus taking one on empty-handed.
They got bread and water at dinner, and Arthur stole the bigger portion and Merlin let him. And when the night's air began to seep through the windows, they both looked at the ragged square of sacking that provided limited protection from the itch of the straw.
"Fight you for it," Arthur said immediately.
"You think you'd win?" Merlin asked.
Arthur stuck his chin in the air, and the faint torchlight made the old bruise around his eye seem darker. "I do have a bit of practical experience."
That soured Merlin on the teasing. "We could just share," he pointed out, and when Arthur looked faintly appalled, he added. "Be warmer that way, yeah?"
"You think we can both fit on that?" Arthur asked, one eyebrow raised dubiously.
The sheet was at least as wide as his mother's bed in Ealdor, the one they used to share during the winter until Merlin got too tall for it, and it was now Merlin's turn to roll his eyes. "What, you never shared a bed before, city boy?" he asked.
In the dim light of the cell, Arthur's face went positively scarlet. "Course I have!" he screeched. "Just not…I mean…I don't…"
It took a minute or two for Merlin to catch on to what he was nattering about. "I mean to sleep in!" he quickly amended. "Just to sleep! What else are we going to do in a bloody dungeon?"
"Shut up," Arthur said, still blushing. He threw himself down on the sacking-he didn't seem to move at all but he was throwing himself forward, leaping after everything in reach-and squeezed down on his side to occupy as narrow a strip of cloth as he could. "Here, see, happy? Go on, now, go to sleep."
And yet when Merlin woke up in the morning, it was to moldy straw in his nose and a stiff arm and Arthur, snoring, with one arm thrown around Merlin's waist and his nose pressed against Merlin's neck. It was warm and about as comfortable as circumstances allowed, and it helped banished the remnants of an uneasy dream about voices from below the castle. Arthur snorted when he himself awoke, went stiff for a moment, and looked around again like he was still waiting for the punchline. And Merlin stayed where he was, pressed close and warm, until Arthur seemed to get that he wasn't going anywhere.
Author:
mad_maudlin
Fandom: Merlin
Rating: PG
Characters: Arthur, Merlin
Spoilers: None
Warnings: AU
Summary: On his first day in Camelot, Merlin makes a new friend.
A/N: This is a slightly expanded version of a fic I wrote for
kinkme_merlin a while back. The prompt: Servant!Arthur AU in which Arthur is believed to be a bastard.
You Can Pick Your Friends...
by Mad Maudlin
The dungeon was dark and damp and dreary and other things that start with d, and Merlin couldn't help but think his first full day in Camelot was not going well. He collapsed on the dirty straw (another d, ugh) and tried to shake the ache out of his arm from where Sir Owain had just about twisted it off.
The blond bloke didn't seem to mind the alliterating accommodations; he was on his feet again almost before the door closed and started pacing, occasionally kicking at the walls and growling under his breath--not words, just sharp expressive sounds. He didn't seem to notice that he was even more battered and bruised than Merlin was, but then again, he hadn't seemed to notice earlier that the knights he was facing had maces and swords and armor, and he, Blondie, had naught but a blunt shovel.
"Are you doing to sit down, you know, ever?" Merlin finally asked. "'Cause I don't think the wall's moving."
The other boy snarled at him. "Shut up. It's your fault we're in here."
"My fault--?" Merlin blurted. "Sorry, guess I should've left you to the knights, then."
That seemed to sap the blond's manic energy; he flopped down onto the straw next to Merlin. "They wouldn't have hurt me," he said with a shocking depth of bitterness. "Much, anyway."
"Oh, yeah, 'cause they weren't about to skewer you with those swords or anything," Merlin pointed out.
Blodnie tilted his head back a bit and gave Merlin a squinty look. "What are you, new?" When Merlin didn't answer, he snorted. "You are, or I'd have seen you before. And you'd know better than to be seen with me."
"What's that supposed to mean?" Merlin asked, not sure if he was more indignant or curious.
He got a twisty sort of smile in return. "I'm Arthur," he said, as if that answered anything.
After a moment, Merlin offered his hand. "I'm Merlin, nice to meet you."
Arthur stared at him like he's grown an extra head. "I'm the Queen's bastard," he added.
Merlin almost said that there wasn't any queen, there was just King Uther and his adopted heir, Princess Morgana, because... "Oh."
"Yes," Arthur said, and settled back on the straw with a grunt. "Feel free to run away any time."
Merlin studied his pinched face, the hollows under his cheeks and the bruises, old and new, that were visible through his torn shirt. All the other servants he'd seen in Camelot have been well-fed and well-dressed and healthy as any yeoman farmer, and it suddenly occurred to him that when those knights had circled around Arthur in the market, nobody else had said a word to stop them. "Reckon it's a bit late for that," he pointed out. "Since we're already arrested and all."
Arthur shrugged and can't completely suppress another grunt. "It was an honest mistake on your part. People would understand. You could even beat me about the head a bit--it'll endear you to the guards."
He said it with sarcasm sharp enough to cut and Merlin suddenly thought of Will, who lost his father and part of his heart on the same day, who made himself an armor out of bitter humor, but who was all right if you could manage to get past all the prickles. Arthur was like Will multiplied by a hundred, a thousand, and while he wouldn't recognize the significance of it until much later, that insight changed the course of the rest of Merlin's life.
It more immediate terms, it caused him to shift over a bit, so his shoulder just met Arthur's. "Nah," he said. "I'm fine like this, thanks."
Arthur blinked stupidly and leaned away slightly from the contact. "Are you simple?" he asked.
"'Course not," Merlin saids. "I just know how to pick my friends."
"And you'd pick a bastard?" Arthur asked, brows knit.
Merlin grinned at him. "I pick the idiot who fights knights with a shovel over the arseholes who'd let him try it alone."
Arthur looked deeply suspicious, like maybe he thought Merlin was having him on, but he also relaxed until their shoulders were touching again. They started talking then, about Camelot and Ealdor, castles and cowherds, about what made Camelot different from the rest of Albion (other than King Uther's penchant for decapitating suspected enchanters), about the differences between taking on a knight when armed with a shovel versus taking one on empty-handed.
They got bread and water at dinner, and Arthur stole the bigger portion and Merlin let him. And when the night's air began to seep through the windows, they both looked at the ragged square of sacking that provided limited protection from the itch of the straw.
"Fight you for it," Arthur said immediately.
"You think you'd win?" Merlin asked.
Arthur stuck his chin in the air, and the faint torchlight made the old bruise around his eye seem darker. "I do have a bit of practical experience."
That soured Merlin on the teasing. "We could just share," he pointed out, and when Arthur looked faintly appalled, he added. "Be warmer that way, yeah?"
"You think we can both fit on that?" Arthur asked, one eyebrow raised dubiously.
The sheet was at least as wide as his mother's bed in Ealdor, the one they used to share during the winter until Merlin got too tall for it, and it was now Merlin's turn to roll his eyes. "What, you never shared a bed before, city boy?" he asked.
In the dim light of the cell, Arthur's face went positively scarlet. "Course I have!" he screeched. "Just not…I mean…I don't…"
It took a minute or two for Merlin to catch on to what he was nattering about. "I mean to sleep in!" he quickly amended. "Just to sleep! What else are we going to do in a bloody dungeon?"
"Shut up," Arthur said, still blushing. He threw himself down on the sacking-he didn't seem to move at all but he was throwing himself forward, leaping after everything in reach-and squeezed down on his side to occupy as narrow a strip of cloth as he could. "Here, see, happy? Go on, now, go to sleep."
And yet when Merlin woke up in the morning, it was to moldy straw in his nose and a stiff arm and Arthur, snoring, with one arm thrown around Merlin's waist and his nose pressed against Merlin's neck. It was warm and about as comfortable as circumstances allowed, and it helped banished the remnants of an uneasy dream about voices from below the castle. Arthur snorted when he himself awoke, went stiff for a moment, and looked around again like he was still waiting for the punchline. And Merlin stayed where he was, pressed close and warm, until Arthur seemed to get that he wasn't going anywhere.