Fic: Merlin: Babies, Baths and Bickering: Merlin/Arthur, MPREG
Title: Babies, Bath-Time and Bickering
Warnings: Unrestrained fluff (it's after yer lucky charms!) and MPREG.
Rating: G
Word Count: 1311
Summary: Bran does not want a bath. Bran is pretty certain he does not need a bath. Merlin has other ideas.
AN: Written for littlewolfstar for help_haiti, at long, long last. Set in the same universe as Magic, Marriage and Mayhem and its rather premature sequel, also for littlewolfstar, Doomesticity. I hope you enjoy! ^_^
**
“Bran!” The shout rang down the corridor, and the little boy ducked behind a curtain as an irate Merlin turned the corner, baby on his hip and daughter at his heels. “When I say bath-time, it means bath-time, d’you understand me, young man?! Now come out from behind that curtain.”
It was, Bran though rebelliously, wholly unfair that his papa always knew where they were hiding.
Sulkily he slipped out from behind the curtain and glared up at his father, who met his glare quite calmly. “Bran, I said bath-time.”
“ ’ know.” Bran muttered. Behind Merlin’s knees, clinging onto his trousers, Ylaine beamed at him, clearly glorying in her triumph. Bran stuck his tongue out at her, and realised his mistake as Papa almost squawked in disapproval.
“Bran Pendragon, apologise this instant, or so help me Gods, I will stop your fencing lessons for an entire week!”
This was, Bran couldn’t help but feel, an entirely disproportionate response, because “I wasn’t doing it at you, Papa!” he protested. “Was for Ylaine.”
“And nice little princes don’t stick their tongues out at their little sisters.” Merlin told him crisply. “And they don’t run away at bath time. Apologise to your sister, and come and have your bath.”
Bran looked at Ylaine who was now, of course, smiling sweetly at him, for all the world as though she couldn’t imagine what base urge had driven her older brother to act like such a hooligan. “Sorry,” he muttered, and Merlin - clearly deciding that it was better than nothing - nodded and grabbed his hand.
“Good boy,” he said, pulling him carefully along as Bran dragged his feet and pouted the entire way back to his room, where, yes, the dreaded bath was sat in front of the fire waiting for him. Ylaine trailed after them and baby Tristram gummed uselessly at Papa’s ever-present neckerchief. Bran regarded them all with dislike as Papa put Baby carefully on the centre of the bed - of Bran’s bed! - and instructed Ylaine to look after him. Then he turned to Bran.
“I didn’t do anything dirty today, Papa,” Bran told him earnestly, “I’m all clean, I can just go to-”
“Bran,” Papa said, surprisingly gentle, “it’s bath-time. If you didn’t kick up such a fuss about it, it would have been over by now.”
Bran, struck by this unexpected thought, made no further protests until Papa hefted him up to put him in the bath. Seeing the dreaded hot water approaching, he began to kick, trying to wiggle his way out of Papa’s grip, wailing piteously, “don’t want a bath! Don’t want it, don’t want it don’t want it don’t-”
Merlin, running out of patience, held on tightly and dunked him in. Bran’s wailing set Tristram off, and it was a very woebegone Ylaine who shrieked, “Pappy, Pappy, Pappy!”, clearly on the verge of tears herself. Giving Bran a firm glance, he headed over to the bed to pick Tristram up and soothe Ylaine. Bran, stood upright in the enormous, half-filled tub, smacked his hands down on the water to indicate his intense displeasure, sending sheets of water over the sides which vanished before they even reached the floor.
Bran, aware even as he did it that he had maybe gone too far, watched with wary eyes as Papa headed over to the bell-pull, Tristram on his hip, to ring for the nursemaid - only to be forestalled by Daddy’s arrival on the scene. Bran sucked in a small breath: Daddy was not going to be happy with him.
Arthur took in the entire scene at a glance, all too used to coming home to scenes of such domestic unrest, then quite deliberately ignored Bran in favour of going over to the still-upset Ylaine and picking her up for what had to be a rather uncomfortable cuddle against his chainmail. Bran, feeling rather small and ashamed, sat down quietly in his bath and waited for either of his parents to pay attention to him again. He could hear Daddy and Papa talking over Ylaine and Tristram’s heads, and he wished he could go back so he hadn’t made such a fuss earlier. Then Papa wouldn’t be upset and Daddy wouldn’t be (probably) angry with him - but it was too late to wish he’d been good earlier.
Papa appeared over the side of the bath, soap in one hand, cloth in the other. “Now,” he said quietly, “are you going to be a good boy for me?” Bran nodded miserably, and Papa rewarded him with a small smile, already working the soap up to a lather on the cloth.
He’d been right, too, Bran thought as he let Papa wash him - it was all over quickly. Before Bran could even begin to start disliking the whole experience, he was being pulled out of the tub and dried in front of the fire, then whisked into his nightshirt and into bed before he could blink. Papa perched on the edge of the bed, and Daddy stood next to him, and Bran shrank a little bit under his heavy sheets. Tristram and Ylaine had been taken away by the nursemaid as Papa dried Bran off, probably to their own horrible baths, Bran thought a little rebelliously - but the rebellious thoughts died when he met Papa’s eyes.
“’m sorry,” he said in a tiny voice.
“I know you are,” Papa nodded. “And I know you weren’t trying to be unkind to me or to your siblings,” Bran wasn’t sure what ‘siblings’ were, but he was pretty certain Papa meant Ylaine and Tristram, “but a Prince has got to remember to think of others before himself, Bran.”
“I thought being a Prince meant everyone had to do what I told them to,” Bran objected, and grinned when Daddy laughed.
“I thought so too,” he agreed, “but as you get older you’ll find it’s not at all about that. Does Papa always do what you tell him to?”
“No,” Bran conceded, “but Papa’s a prince too and he’s my father.”
“One day,” Papa promised, “if you’re very good,” and that was definitely meant as a reminder of his earlier behaviour, Bran knew, “I’ll tell you the story of how Daddy and I met. He was a prat, princeling, and I’m trying to make sure you don’t grow up like him. He thought everyone should do what he told them to.”
“But I want to be like Daddy when I grow up,” Bran told him.
Papa laughed and patted his knee, and Bran basked in the warmth of regained parental approval. “You think so now,” he said, and Bran didn’t really understand what he was saying, but accepted that it was grown-up talk, like when his parents talked about wardstones and treaties and so on. One day, he’d understand. “Now, Daddy and I have been talking,” Papa continued, “and we think that three days off fencing is punishment enough for your behaviour tonight.”
Bran pouted half-heartedly, but rather thought he’d got off lightly. “OK then,” he nodded, with as much good grace as he could muster. Papa patted his knee through the bedclothes again and leant forwards to kiss him quickly on the forehead, murmuring over him, as he did every night, “Gods bless and keep you safe, Bran.”
Daddy rolled his eyes behind Papa’s head, as he did every time he witnessed the ‘blessing’, then leant forwards to press his own quick kiss to Bran’s hair. Daddy smelt of metal and his chain mail just brushed the tip of Bran’s nose as he leant over him, telling him to ‘sleep well’. Bran cuddled down into bed as the lights shut off, by magic.
Tomorrow, he vowed, he’d be good. He wouldn’t get into trouble, or be difficult for Papa. He’d even be nice to Ylaine! And with these comfortably virtuous thoughts, he drifted off to sleep.
**
Bless his little anachronistically-cotton socks. ^_^ I hope you liked it!
Warnings: Unrestrained fluff (it's after yer lucky charms!) and MPREG.
Rating: G
Word Count: 1311
Summary: Bran does not want a bath. Bran is pretty certain he does not need a bath. Merlin has other ideas.
AN: Written for littlewolfstar for help_haiti, at long, long last. Set in the same universe as Magic, Marriage and Mayhem and its rather premature sequel, also for littlewolfstar, Doomesticity. I hope you enjoy! ^_^
**
“Bran!” The shout rang down the corridor, and the little boy ducked behind a curtain as an irate Merlin turned the corner, baby on his hip and daughter at his heels. “When I say bath-time, it means bath-time, d’you understand me, young man?! Now come out from behind that curtain.”
It was, Bran though rebelliously, wholly unfair that his papa always knew where they were hiding.
Sulkily he slipped out from behind the curtain and glared up at his father, who met his glare quite calmly. “Bran, I said bath-time.”
“ ’ know.” Bran muttered. Behind Merlin’s knees, clinging onto his trousers, Ylaine beamed at him, clearly glorying in her triumph. Bran stuck his tongue out at her, and realised his mistake as Papa almost squawked in disapproval.
“Bran Pendragon, apologise this instant, or so help me Gods, I will stop your fencing lessons for an entire week!”
This was, Bran couldn’t help but feel, an entirely disproportionate response, because “I wasn’t doing it at you, Papa!” he protested. “Was for Ylaine.”
“And nice little princes don’t stick their tongues out at their little sisters.” Merlin told him crisply. “And they don’t run away at bath time. Apologise to your sister, and come and have your bath.”
Bran looked at Ylaine who was now, of course, smiling sweetly at him, for all the world as though she couldn’t imagine what base urge had driven her older brother to act like such a hooligan. “Sorry,” he muttered, and Merlin - clearly deciding that it was better than nothing - nodded and grabbed his hand.
“Good boy,” he said, pulling him carefully along as Bran dragged his feet and pouted the entire way back to his room, where, yes, the dreaded bath was sat in front of the fire waiting for him. Ylaine trailed after them and baby Tristram gummed uselessly at Papa’s ever-present neckerchief. Bran regarded them all with dislike as Papa put Baby carefully on the centre of the bed - of Bran’s bed! - and instructed Ylaine to look after him. Then he turned to Bran.
“I didn’t do anything dirty today, Papa,” Bran told him earnestly, “I’m all clean, I can just go to-”
“Bran,” Papa said, surprisingly gentle, “it’s bath-time. If you didn’t kick up such a fuss about it, it would have been over by now.”
Bran, struck by this unexpected thought, made no further protests until Papa hefted him up to put him in the bath. Seeing the dreaded hot water approaching, he began to kick, trying to wiggle his way out of Papa’s grip, wailing piteously, “don’t want a bath! Don’t want it, don’t want it don’t want it don’t-”
Merlin, running out of patience, held on tightly and dunked him in. Bran’s wailing set Tristram off, and it was a very woebegone Ylaine who shrieked, “Pappy, Pappy, Pappy!”, clearly on the verge of tears herself. Giving Bran a firm glance, he headed over to the bed to pick Tristram up and soothe Ylaine. Bran, stood upright in the enormous, half-filled tub, smacked his hands down on the water to indicate his intense displeasure, sending sheets of water over the sides which vanished before they even reached the floor.
Bran, aware even as he did it that he had maybe gone too far, watched with wary eyes as Papa headed over to the bell-pull, Tristram on his hip, to ring for the nursemaid - only to be forestalled by Daddy’s arrival on the scene. Bran sucked in a small breath: Daddy was not going to be happy with him.
Arthur took in the entire scene at a glance, all too used to coming home to scenes of such domestic unrest, then quite deliberately ignored Bran in favour of going over to the still-upset Ylaine and picking her up for what had to be a rather uncomfortable cuddle against his chainmail. Bran, feeling rather small and ashamed, sat down quietly in his bath and waited for either of his parents to pay attention to him again. He could hear Daddy and Papa talking over Ylaine and Tristram’s heads, and he wished he could go back so he hadn’t made such a fuss earlier. Then Papa wouldn’t be upset and Daddy wouldn’t be (probably) angry with him - but it was too late to wish he’d been good earlier.
Papa appeared over the side of the bath, soap in one hand, cloth in the other. “Now,” he said quietly, “are you going to be a good boy for me?” Bran nodded miserably, and Papa rewarded him with a small smile, already working the soap up to a lather on the cloth.
He’d been right, too, Bran thought as he let Papa wash him - it was all over quickly. Before Bran could even begin to start disliking the whole experience, he was being pulled out of the tub and dried in front of the fire, then whisked into his nightshirt and into bed before he could blink. Papa perched on the edge of the bed, and Daddy stood next to him, and Bran shrank a little bit under his heavy sheets. Tristram and Ylaine had been taken away by the nursemaid as Papa dried Bran off, probably to their own horrible baths, Bran thought a little rebelliously - but the rebellious thoughts died when he met Papa’s eyes.
“’m sorry,” he said in a tiny voice.
“I know you are,” Papa nodded. “And I know you weren’t trying to be unkind to me or to your siblings,” Bran wasn’t sure what ‘siblings’ were, but he was pretty certain Papa meant Ylaine and Tristram, “but a Prince has got to remember to think of others before himself, Bran.”
“I thought being a Prince meant everyone had to do what I told them to,” Bran objected, and grinned when Daddy laughed.
“I thought so too,” he agreed, “but as you get older you’ll find it’s not at all about that. Does Papa always do what you tell him to?”
“No,” Bran conceded, “but Papa’s a prince too and he’s my father.”
“One day,” Papa promised, “if you’re very good,” and that was definitely meant as a reminder of his earlier behaviour, Bran knew, “I’ll tell you the story of how Daddy and I met. He was a prat, princeling, and I’m trying to make sure you don’t grow up like him. He thought everyone should do what he told them to.”
“But I want to be like Daddy when I grow up,” Bran told him.
Papa laughed and patted his knee, and Bran basked in the warmth of regained parental approval. “You think so now,” he said, and Bran didn’t really understand what he was saying, but accepted that it was grown-up talk, like when his parents talked about wardstones and treaties and so on. One day, he’d understand. “Now, Daddy and I have been talking,” Papa continued, “and we think that three days off fencing is punishment enough for your behaviour tonight.”
Bran pouted half-heartedly, but rather thought he’d got off lightly. “OK then,” he nodded, with as much good grace as he could muster. Papa patted his knee through the bedclothes again and leant forwards to kiss him quickly on the forehead, murmuring over him, as he did every night, “Gods bless and keep you safe, Bran.”
Daddy rolled his eyes behind Papa’s head, as he did every time he witnessed the ‘blessing’, then leant forwards to press his own quick kiss to Bran’s hair. Daddy smelt of metal and his chain mail just brushed the tip of Bran’s nose as he leant over him, telling him to ‘sleep well’. Bran cuddled down into bed as the lights shut off, by magic.
Tomorrow, he vowed, he’d be good. He wouldn’t get into trouble, or be difficult for Papa. He’d even be nice to Ylaine! And with these comfortably virtuous thoughts, he drifted off to sleep.
**
Bless his little anachronistically-cotton socks. ^_^ I hope you liked it!