Day 3 - Fic: Le Grand Froid
Title: Le Grand Froid
Rating: PG
Pairing: Merlin/Arthur
Warnings: UM...cold? An obsession with heat? Fluff??
Disclaimer: I don't own Merlin (sadly) nor do I make any money from this.
Prompt: Day 3 - too cold to do anything
A/N: Not sure how I feel about this, but I'll just just stop hemming and hawing and post already ^_^ Title in French because. It sounds better that way. :D
That winter, the temperature plummets.
The light sneaks through his shutters and Merlin wakes up cold.
Sheets icy against bare skin, his nose is numb where it brushes against his arm as he shifts. He shivers even as he buries his face into the dubious warmth of his pillow. It’s cold in bed, but it’s colder out of it. He wishes he never has to get up.
Gaius calls him eventually, and Merlin reluctantly slides feet down to the painfully cold stones. The walk across to the corner with his boots seems like a league. This day will be just as miserably cold as the last.
Crossing the courtyard is like crossing a battlefield, the cold the enemy, the wind and wet snow its weapons. Bitter air bites at anyone left exposed, relentlessly seeking any weakness in the armor of quilted shirts and leather jackets those brave enough to face it wear.
It is the coldest winter Camelot has ever seen, even in the memories of the eldest.
The entire castle has halted, like a bear going into the long sleep. Only the meanest necessities are looked too now - the sluggish heartbeat of the slumbering beast. Even Arthur has been forced to admit defeat. The knights no longer train daily, practice set aside until venturing out no longer seems ludicrous. To attempt an attack in this weather would be insanity.
Merlin is still required to daily make his way to wake Arthur. Though he may not train, Arthur will not allow himself to succumb completely to the weather, unlike many of the castle’s nobles, and instead spends each day resolutely working through accounts and reading reports from across the kingdom. He spends hours in the archives, pouring over older materials in the icy room, so much that Merlin worries he’ll freeze in only his typical shirt and jacket. But Arthur is irritable at being cooped up, by being defeated by something so common as the cold, and there’s no reasoning with him.
The change in temperature is immediately noticeable as Merlin steps into Arthur’s chambers. The fire here has been kept roaring all night, tended by an army of slips of boys, and it’s a welcome relief after the outside. Arthur’s sprawled lazily under his mounds of covers, only a tousled golden head sticking out, and Merlin has to pause for a moment as the picture he makes. He looks so relaxed, so warm and comfortable that Merlin thinks about climbing in and reveling in that heat, about waking up warm and lazy beside his prince.
They’ve been coming more and more recently, these daydreams of slipping in beside Arthur. Every morning he’s assaulted with the warmth of Arthur’s chambers, of Arthur’s bed, of Arthur, and it gets harder and harder to ignore.
But it’s the nights that are the worst. At night, alone in his freezing bed, the fantasies refuse to be pushed aside. They capture his attention as he lies awake shivering unable to sleep for cold, thoughts of that enormous bed, warm and soft against his back, as a hot, sleepy body wraps around him. He shivers in his icy sheets imagining that heat spread around him, encompassing him, burning against his skin. It’s nearly possible to sleep and he’s been spending more and more of his days completely exhausted, but when he finally does doze off, in that drowsy world between sleep and waking, images of that hot, pink mouth covering his, of big strong hands warming his sides leave him waking cold, tired, and wanting.
The Arthur in the bed shifts and mutters, breaking Merlin from his revere. He sighs and goes about his routine, pushing away idle fantasies that can never be.
--
The armory is barely warmed than the outdoors, though at least shielded from the wind, and when Merlin falls into an exhausted sleep later in front of the armor he’s supposed to be cleaning, he’s woken by a gentle shake of his shoulder. Arthur’s face frowns at him, muttering some remark about his useless service, but Merlin’s too exhausted by sleepless nights to even try to bother making out the specifics. It’s all unimportant when it’s this cold anyway, and Arthur’s wide, concerned eyes are suddenly right in front of him. It’s all in the eyes, he thinks dazedly. The eyes never lie.
Arthur’s saying something else now, more urgently, but it doesn’t really register and now he has him by both shoulders, and when he shakes him, Merlin just goes with it, slumping forward against the broad warm chest.
The glorious heat is there, even through the layers of clothes, and Merlin can’t help but press into it. He thinks distantly that he hears a curse, and then he’s being lifted in strong arms, tucked in carefully against Arthur. Idiot. He drifts back into oblivion feeling utterly safe.
--
For the first time in weeks, Merlin wakes content. He comes to consciousness slowly, burrowing into the delicious heat all along his front and side, and all around. It’s perfect and lovely as he buries his face in a shoulder and breathes in. There’s a mutter and the warm skin wrapped around him shifts, and - he freezes. Oh god. He’s in bed with someone. He has no memory of how.
His eyes blink open warily to a close-up of Arthur’s face. The blue eyes are open and watching him, calm and yet more open than Merlin’s ever seen them.
He stays frozen, waiting, sure Arthur will pull back, will shove Merlin out of his bed and his life, will make a sarcastic comment and this will all crumble away into what never really was. He’s terrified of this more than anything.
But after a long moment, Arthur merely settles down again, tightening his arms to pull Merlin more snuggly against him and hooks his leg more firmly around Merlin’s.
“Go back to sleep,” he mutters against Merlin’s ear. “It’s too cold to be up.”
Merlin’s confusion melts into a wide grin, and he settles in to the embrace more fully. After all, Arthur’s right. It’s far too cold to be up.
Mods, could please I get a shiny author tag of joy? With whipped cream and cherries on top??
Rating: PG
Pairing: Merlin/Arthur
Warnings: UM...cold? An obsession with heat? Fluff??
Disclaimer: I don't own Merlin (sadly) nor do I make any money from this.
Prompt: Day 3 - too cold to do anything
A/N: Not sure how I feel about this, but I'll just just stop hemming and hawing and post already ^_^ Title in French because. It sounds better that way. :D
That winter, the temperature plummets.
The light sneaks through his shutters and Merlin wakes up cold.
Sheets icy against bare skin, his nose is numb where it brushes against his arm as he shifts. He shivers even as he buries his face into the dubious warmth of his pillow. It’s cold in bed, but it’s colder out of it. He wishes he never has to get up.
Gaius calls him eventually, and Merlin reluctantly slides feet down to the painfully cold stones. The walk across to the corner with his boots seems like a league. This day will be just as miserably cold as the last.
Crossing the courtyard is like crossing a battlefield, the cold the enemy, the wind and wet snow its weapons. Bitter air bites at anyone left exposed, relentlessly seeking any weakness in the armor of quilted shirts and leather jackets those brave enough to face it wear.
It is the coldest winter Camelot has ever seen, even in the memories of the eldest.
The entire castle has halted, like a bear going into the long sleep. Only the meanest necessities are looked too now - the sluggish heartbeat of the slumbering beast. Even Arthur has been forced to admit defeat. The knights no longer train daily, practice set aside until venturing out no longer seems ludicrous. To attempt an attack in this weather would be insanity.
Merlin is still required to daily make his way to wake Arthur. Though he may not train, Arthur will not allow himself to succumb completely to the weather, unlike many of the castle’s nobles, and instead spends each day resolutely working through accounts and reading reports from across the kingdom. He spends hours in the archives, pouring over older materials in the icy room, so much that Merlin worries he’ll freeze in only his typical shirt and jacket. But Arthur is irritable at being cooped up, by being defeated by something so common as the cold, and there’s no reasoning with him.
The change in temperature is immediately noticeable as Merlin steps into Arthur’s chambers. The fire here has been kept roaring all night, tended by an army of slips of boys, and it’s a welcome relief after the outside. Arthur’s sprawled lazily under his mounds of covers, only a tousled golden head sticking out, and Merlin has to pause for a moment as the picture he makes. He looks so relaxed, so warm and comfortable that Merlin thinks about climbing in and reveling in that heat, about waking up warm and lazy beside his prince.
They’ve been coming more and more recently, these daydreams of slipping in beside Arthur. Every morning he’s assaulted with the warmth of Arthur’s chambers, of Arthur’s bed, of Arthur, and it gets harder and harder to ignore.
But it’s the nights that are the worst. At night, alone in his freezing bed, the fantasies refuse to be pushed aside. They capture his attention as he lies awake shivering unable to sleep for cold, thoughts of that enormous bed, warm and soft against his back, as a hot, sleepy body wraps around him. He shivers in his icy sheets imagining that heat spread around him, encompassing him, burning against his skin. It’s nearly possible to sleep and he’s been spending more and more of his days completely exhausted, but when he finally does doze off, in that drowsy world between sleep and waking, images of that hot, pink mouth covering his, of big strong hands warming his sides leave him waking cold, tired, and wanting.
The Arthur in the bed shifts and mutters, breaking Merlin from his revere. He sighs and goes about his routine, pushing away idle fantasies that can never be.
--
The armory is barely warmed than the outdoors, though at least shielded from the wind, and when Merlin falls into an exhausted sleep later in front of the armor he’s supposed to be cleaning, he’s woken by a gentle shake of his shoulder. Arthur’s face frowns at him, muttering some remark about his useless service, but Merlin’s too exhausted by sleepless nights to even try to bother making out the specifics. It’s all unimportant when it’s this cold anyway, and Arthur’s wide, concerned eyes are suddenly right in front of him. It’s all in the eyes, he thinks dazedly. The eyes never lie.
Arthur’s saying something else now, more urgently, but it doesn’t really register and now he has him by both shoulders, and when he shakes him, Merlin just goes with it, slumping forward against the broad warm chest.
The glorious heat is there, even through the layers of clothes, and Merlin can’t help but press into it. He thinks distantly that he hears a curse, and then he’s being lifted in strong arms, tucked in carefully against Arthur. Idiot. He drifts back into oblivion feeling utterly safe.
--
For the first time in weeks, Merlin wakes content. He comes to consciousness slowly, burrowing into the delicious heat all along his front and side, and all around. It’s perfect and lovely as he buries his face in a shoulder and breathes in. There’s a mutter and the warm skin wrapped around him shifts, and - he freezes. Oh god. He’s in bed with someone. He has no memory of how.
His eyes blink open warily to a close-up of Arthur’s face. The blue eyes are open and watching him, calm and yet more open than Merlin’s ever seen them.
He stays frozen, waiting, sure Arthur will pull back, will shove Merlin out of his bed and his life, will make a sarcastic comment and this will all crumble away into what never really was. He’s terrified of this more than anything.
But after a long moment, Arthur merely settles down again, tightening his arms to pull Merlin more snuggly against him and hooks his leg more firmly around Merlin’s.
“Go back to sleep,” he mutters against Merlin’s ear. “It’s too cold to be up.”
Merlin’s confusion melts into a wide grin, and he settles in to the embrace more fully. After all, Arthur’s right. It’s far too cold to be up.
Mods, could please I get a shiny author tag of joy? With whipped cream and cherries on top??