and you will be my battlecry
Author: schweet_heart
Title: and you will be my battlecry
Rating: PG-13
Pairing/s: Merlin/Arthur
Character/s: Merlin, Arthur, Male OC
Summary: "I didn't do it for you."
“Of course not,” Merlin agreed mildly. “You just happened to challenge him to a duel a few seconds after he hit me. Obviously a total coincidence.”
Warnings: Mild off-screen violence.
Word Count: 1000 words.
Prompt: #230 Heat of the Moment.
Author's Notes: Protective!Arthur is my favourite thing, okay?
and you will be my battlecry
Arthur stalked into his chambers ahead of Merlin, tugging off his gauntlets with a few quick movements and flinging them onto the bed.
“Clean those up,” he instructed, his voice tight. “And while you’re at it, I want the rest of my armour polished as well.”
“Yes, sire.”
“And don’t forget to repair my shield. If it breaks like that again you’ll be sewing your head back onto your neck instead of stitching up my arm.”
“Yes, sire.” Merlin stood with his spine straight, hands behind his back as Arthur rounded on him. Arthur in this mood was unpredictable, as likely to throw sympathy back in his face as he was to accept it - the more so, perhaps, since his pride was at stake - but after a moment he seemed to recollect himself, his glare fading into something closer to resignation.
“You may go,” he said, turning away. “I have no further need of you today.”
Merlin glanced from the prince to the pile of metal on his bed, and back again. “Sire - ”
“What, Merlin?”
“I’ll need to remove the rest of your armour if you want me to polish it tonight,” Merlin said, as neutrally as he could. “Unless you'd rather I come back for it later?”
There was an exasperated pause, then Arthur huffed. “Fine,” he said. “But be quick about it.”
Merlin was not quick about it; although to be fair he was quicker than he used to be. The sheer number of buckles and fastenings, many of them practically welded shut by the heat and sweat of combat, was enough to confound any man, and even Merlin had only two hands. Arthur stood patiently while he was undressed, his eyes focused somewhere in the middle distance, moving when Merlin indicated that he should move but otherwise seeming quite detached from the process unfolding around him. Finally, Merlin said, “I suppose I should thank you.”
Arthur blinked. “What for?”
Merlin risked the beginnings of a smile, although it pulled at his split lip to do it. “Challenging Sir Carradoc? Defending my honour?” He raised one eyebrow. “Not that I couldn’t have done it myself, but it’s the thought that counts.”
Arthur snorted. “Right, you could have bored him to death with your ridiculous wittering. He’d have made mincemeat of you in seconds.” Yet some of the tension seemed to drain out of his shoulders nonetheless, leaving a slump of weariness in its wake. “Anyway, I didn’t do it for you.”
“Of course not,” Merlin agreed mildly. “You just happened to challenge him to a duel a few seconds after he hit me. Obviously a total coincidence.”
A muscle jumped in Arthur’s jaw. “You weren't the first,” he said darkly, folding his arms tight across his chest. Merlin made an involuntary noise in defence of his stitches, which were actually quite neat this time and not something he wanted to be forced to repeat, and Arthur shot him an annoyed look but dropped the pose. “I'm sure he has mistreated servants before, although not usually so blatantly. He knows I won’t stand for it, especially not - especially given that he’s a knight, and therefore sworn to protect those weaker than himself.”
Merlin decided to ignore this insinuation of weakness on his part. “So this time you were able to catch him at it.”
“More or less.” Arthur looked away. “Still, I shouldn’t have done it. It was - an unworthy impulse. My father was right to be angry.”
“Because you did the right thing?”
“Because I acted rashly. Carradoc’s family won’t take kindly to the humiliation of their eldest son; it could go badly for us. I shouldn’t have lost my temper.”
“Well, if you’re determined to blame yourself,” Merlin said, tugging free the final piece of Arthur’s armour and setting it with its fellows on the floor. “I suppose I shouldn’t tell you I’m proud of you.” He surveyed the prince with a critical eye; Arthur was still sweaty and slightly flushed, his hair dishevelled, and the cut on his arm was bleeding slowly through its dressing. He looked bruised and battered - worse, he looked beaten, in spite of the fact that he’d won the match. It wasn’t an expression that sat well on a Pendragon’s face. “Is that why you’re so upset - because of what it might mean for Camelot?”
Arthur pursed his lips, but Merlin couldn’t tell if he was holding back a smile or biting his tongue. “I’m not upset.”
“Right,” Merlin said. “Because that’s definitely your ‘look how happy I am, everything is wonderful’ face.”
There was definitely a smile now, small and reluctant though it was. “You’re an idiot, Merlin.”
Merlin beamed back at him, stupidly pleased to have provoked this reaction, then hissed as the movement reopened the cut on his lower lip. In an instant Arthur’s expression had darkened again, and he took a step forward, grasping Merlin’s chin in his hand and tilting his face towards the light to examine the wound. Merlin held himself perfectly still, one hand raised to wrap around Arthur’s wrist by instinct, though whether it was to push him away or pull him closer he couldn’t tell. For a breathless second, Arthur’s thumb where it brushed against his mouth felt like the prelude to a kiss.
“It’ll heal,” was Arthur’s brusque prognosis. “But you should get Gaius to put some bruise balm on your cheek in the meantime. Can’t have you going around looking like the royal punching bag; I’d never hear the end of it.”
Merlin nodded, still struck dumb, and Arthur released him. For an instant they stood close together, Arthur’s eyes dark and intent as he studied Merlin’s face, then the prince stepped away and the moment was broken.
“I can take it from here,” he said over his shoulder. “Go get some rest, give your delicate complexion time to recover.”
“I’m not a girl,” Merlin said, with some indignation.
Arthur’s quiet laughter followed him out of the room as he left.