Merlin drabble: Trust Me, I'm A Physician's Apprentice
Title: Trust Me, I'm A Physician's Apprentice
Rating: PG
Summary: Arthur irritates Merlin into dispensing some sound medical advice.
Notes: Originally written for the_muppet, who is awesome.
"Ow," Arthur gritted loudly.
Merlin's hands stilled momentarily; for someone who showed no weakness in the tiltyard, who never made a peep when bested, who, for all outward appearances, could withstand hurt beyond measure, Arthur in the privacy of his own chambers was a bit of a whiner, really.
"Sorry," said Merlin, resuming his work while Arthur glowered, "but we either change the bandages or you get an infection and we have to lop your limbs off."
"I hate this," said Arthur, who had been ordered by Gaius to be confined to bed and be useless for a week, and nothing irked Arthur more than being thought useless.
"You know, when most people are ordered to bed, they generally do as they're told. They stay in bed and are very quiet about it," Merlin said, discarding the soiled bandages in a basin and unfolding a clean square. "I know I do." There. Gauntlet thrown. Arthur liked to win at things, even if the contest and prize were total rubbish, and even if it was a total lie about Merlin following instructions, but Arthur didn't have to know that bit.
Arthur gave him a sidelong glance, probably wondering which angle he should pick up, and settled on deliberately missing Merlin's suggestion of suitable convalescent behaviour. "You? Quiet? I find this difficult to believe."
"Well, you know, sometimes if I was good," Merlin said, emphasis on good, "my mother would sing me songs and kiss me to make it all better."
"That sounds nice," Arthur said, a small smile playing at his lips.
"Yeah, it was. Made a world of difference," Merlin said wistfully, and grinned.
"Hm," Arthur contemplated, and cast a curious glance at the decorative lute sitting at his window. "No, I think your singing might worsen my condition irreparably," he said, mostly to himself.
"What?"
"It'll have to be the other one."
"What are you talking about?" Merlin asked, certain he had grossly misinterpreted something somewhere.
"I've been bedridden for days, Merlin. I can feel my whole body atrophying as we speak. If that's what it takes to heal this wretched injury, then, as your future sovereign, I command you to kiss me."
Merlin blinked, wondering when reality had packed up its things and marched out the door. He leaned forward speculatively. "Have you hit your head?"
Arthur was silent for a moment, as though taking stock of his mental faculties while Merlin felt around for lumps. "What if I have?"
"Well, if you're going to besmirch my honour," Merlin said, all indifference, as he really had no idea at all where Arthur's little flight of fancy was headed, "I'd rather you be able to remember it after."
"Besmirch --!" Arthur chortled. "You're a servant, Merlin. And on your best day, maybe even a physician's apprentice. You haven't any honour to speak of."
Merlin rolled his eyes. "That's not very nice, Arthur. I don't think you deserve a kiss after all," he said loftily, putting an end to that.
"Oh, come on, Merlin. You know you want to," Arthur said, clearly not having received the message. The cajoling quality to his voice was simultaneously a challenge and a mockery, helped significantly along by a waggle of his eyebrows.
"Hm," said Merlin, agreeing to nothing. He fastened a final knot, patting his handiwork lightly, and rose to his feet. "There, all finished. Get some rest, sire."
"Aren't you forgetting something?" This was accompanied by more eyebrow action.
"Arthur. Really," Merlin said, brooking no argument. "You need to rest."
Arthur smiled brightly, and that was the consolation, Merlin supposed. At least Arthur's stupid joke was taking his mind off his injury, which was all very well and good for Arthur, but Merlin, who'd watched woman after woman ensnare him, enchantments notwithstanding, and had himself only managed the odd, discreet ogle and fleeting touches thus far, really wasn't finding Arthur as funny as he apparently thought he was.
"Merlin," Arthur sing-songed, stretching the syllables out to the ends of the earth and smirking his face off. He patted the spot on the bed Merlin had just vacated.
He obviously expected Merlin to go red or stammer out something unintelligible or maybe flee the room in embarrassment, and it rankled, igniting a little spark of normally dormant frustration that had long ago curled up at home in Merlin's chest. He'd been good at forcing it down whenever it flared, whenever Arthur suddenly declared his love for somebody else, whenever he did his best to support Arthur's various romantic endeavours over the years. To be fair, at least half of those instances had been due to sorcery and not in any way Arthur's own doing or fault, but knowing that still wouldn't erase the memories of Arthur kissing what seemed like every eligible lady who ever visited Camelot.
Merlin sat back down heavily, jaw shifting, tense. It would be just like Arthur to throw this in his face without even knowing it.
"Don't say I never follow orders, then," Merlin said.
"What --" said Arthur, and then had to shut up because Merlin's lips were suddenly pressed against his.
Perhaps Merlin himself had hit his head, and had had what little sense he possessed knocked clear out of his mind, because this was very clearly the work of a lunatic, the kind of lunatic who loses his temper by kissing his prince and, oh, he was probably going to get beheaded for this or sent to the stocks for the rest of his natural life and develop a terrible hunch, and this was why Gaius was always nagging at him to think things through before running off on whims, and Arthur would never forgive him, and the dragon would laugh and laugh before saying something grievously damning like, if Arthur was so opposed to the idea he wouldn't be kissing Merlin back, and -- oh.
Merlin drew back. "Er," he said.
Arthur blinked at him, looking slightly stunned.
Shooting off the bed, Merlin scrabbled for the old bits of dressing and shuffled away towards the chamber door. "Well. That -- that ought to do it, then. I'll just... Go? And -- wash. These," he said, words hitching all over each other like they'd been spliced in from completely different conversations. "Okay."
"Merlin," said Arthur, before he could make his great escape. "This remedy of yours."
"Urk," said Merlin somewhere at the bottom of his throat. He clutched the basin against his chest like a shield.
"I shall need repeated treatments, don't you think?" Arthur asked, and waited patiently for Merlin to catch on.
"I -- Oh. Oh, yeah. At least three times a day," Merlin said, edging forward. "I mean, that's my -- my professional opinion. As a physician's apprentice, you know."
Arthur grinned. "Yes, well, I don't really trust your medical expertise, Merlin. Better make it four."
Rating: PG
Summary: Arthur irritates Merlin into dispensing some sound medical advice.
Notes: Originally written for the_muppet, who is awesome.
"Ow," Arthur gritted loudly.
Merlin's hands stilled momentarily; for someone who showed no weakness in the tiltyard, who never made a peep when bested, who, for all outward appearances, could withstand hurt beyond measure, Arthur in the privacy of his own chambers was a bit of a whiner, really.
"Sorry," said Merlin, resuming his work while Arthur glowered, "but we either change the bandages or you get an infection and we have to lop your limbs off."
"I hate this," said Arthur, who had been ordered by Gaius to be confined to bed and be useless for a week, and nothing irked Arthur more than being thought useless.
"You know, when most people are ordered to bed, they generally do as they're told. They stay in bed and are very quiet about it," Merlin said, discarding the soiled bandages in a basin and unfolding a clean square. "I know I do." There. Gauntlet thrown. Arthur liked to win at things, even if the contest and prize were total rubbish, and even if it was a total lie about Merlin following instructions, but Arthur didn't have to know that bit.
Arthur gave him a sidelong glance, probably wondering which angle he should pick up, and settled on deliberately missing Merlin's suggestion of suitable convalescent behaviour. "You? Quiet? I find this difficult to believe."
"Well, you know, sometimes if I was good," Merlin said, emphasis on good, "my mother would sing me songs and kiss me to make it all better."
"That sounds nice," Arthur said, a small smile playing at his lips.
"Yeah, it was. Made a world of difference," Merlin said wistfully, and grinned.
"Hm," Arthur contemplated, and cast a curious glance at the decorative lute sitting at his window. "No, I think your singing might worsen my condition irreparably," he said, mostly to himself.
"What?"
"It'll have to be the other one."
"What are you talking about?" Merlin asked, certain he had grossly misinterpreted something somewhere.
"I've been bedridden for days, Merlin. I can feel my whole body atrophying as we speak. If that's what it takes to heal this wretched injury, then, as your future sovereign, I command you to kiss me."
Merlin blinked, wondering when reality had packed up its things and marched out the door. He leaned forward speculatively. "Have you hit your head?"
Arthur was silent for a moment, as though taking stock of his mental faculties while Merlin felt around for lumps. "What if I have?"
"Well, if you're going to besmirch my honour," Merlin said, all indifference, as he really had no idea at all where Arthur's little flight of fancy was headed, "I'd rather you be able to remember it after."
"Besmirch --!" Arthur chortled. "You're a servant, Merlin. And on your best day, maybe even a physician's apprentice. You haven't any honour to speak of."
Merlin rolled his eyes. "That's not very nice, Arthur. I don't think you deserve a kiss after all," he said loftily, putting an end to that.
"Oh, come on, Merlin. You know you want to," Arthur said, clearly not having received the message. The cajoling quality to his voice was simultaneously a challenge and a mockery, helped significantly along by a waggle of his eyebrows.
"Hm," said Merlin, agreeing to nothing. He fastened a final knot, patting his handiwork lightly, and rose to his feet. "There, all finished. Get some rest, sire."
"Aren't you forgetting something?" This was accompanied by more eyebrow action.
"Arthur. Really," Merlin said, brooking no argument. "You need to rest."
Arthur smiled brightly, and that was the consolation, Merlin supposed. At least Arthur's stupid joke was taking his mind off his injury, which was all very well and good for Arthur, but Merlin, who'd watched woman after woman ensnare him, enchantments notwithstanding, and had himself only managed the odd, discreet ogle and fleeting touches thus far, really wasn't finding Arthur as funny as he apparently thought he was.
"Merlin," Arthur sing-songed, stretching the syllables out to the ends of the earth and smirking his face off. He patted the spot on the bed Merlin had just vacated.
He obviously expected Merlin to go red or stammer out something unintelligible or maybe flee the room in embarrassment, and it rankled, igniting a little spark of normally dormant frustration that had long ago curled up at home in Merlin's chest. He'd been good at forcing it down whenever it flared, whenever Arthur suddenly declared his love for somebody else, whenever he did his best to support Arthur's various romantic endeavours over the years. To be fair, at least half of those instances had been due to sorcery and not in any way Arthur's own doing or fault, but knowing that still wouldn't erase the memories of Arthur kissing what seemed like every eligible lady who ever visited Camelot.
Merlin sat back down heavily, jaw shifting, tense. It would be just like Arthur to throw this in his face without even knowing it.
"Don't say I never follow orders, then," Merlin said.
"What --" said Arthur, and then had to shut up because Merlin's lips were suddenly pressed against his.
Perhaps Merlin himself had hit his head, and had had what little sense he possessed knocked clear out of his mind, because this was very clearly the work of a lunatic, the kind of lunatic who loses his temper by kissing his prince and, oh, he was probably going to get beheaded for this or sent to the stocks for the rest of his natural life and develop a terrible hunch, and this was why Gaius was always nagging at him to think things through before running off on whims, and Arthur would never forgive him, and the dragon would laugh and laugh before saying something grievously damning like, if Arthur was so opposed to the idea he wouldn't be kissing Merlin back, and -- oh.
Merlin drew back. "Er," he said.
Arthur blinked at him, looking slightly stunned.
Shooting off the bed, Merlin scrabbled for the old bits of dressing and shuffled away towards the chamber door. "Well. That -- that ought to do it, then. I'll just... Go? And -- wash. These," he said, words hitching all over each other like they'd been spliced in from completely different conversations. "Okay."
"Merlin," said Arthur, before he could make his great escape. "This remedy of yours."
"Urk," said Merlin somewhere at the bottom of his throat. He clutched the basin against his chest like a shield.
"I shall need repeated treatments, don't you think?" Arthur asked, and waited patiently for Merlin to catch on.
"I -- Oh. Oh, yeah. At least three times a day," Merlin said, edging forward. "I mean, that's my -- my professional opinion. As a physician's apprentice, you know."
Arthur grinned. "Yes, well, I don't really trust your medical expertise, Merlin. Better make it four."