Ficlet: Whoso List (Merlin, Merlin+Arthur, "Mistletoe," 300 words)
AN: Written for the Mistletoe challenge at wishkisses.
Whoso List
"If you scare this one away, I'll have you put in the stocks for a week." The boy is a hopeless fool and squeamish as any girl. But the way he tries particularly to protect the soft, graceful does is such a ridiculous parody of chivalry that deep under his irritation Arthur knows he is amused. He tells himself it's why he keeps ordering Merlin to come, despite his persistent, almost willful incompetence.
Merlin ignores him, as usual, watching who knows what in the trees, eyes tracing along high bare branches dotted with stray evergreen.
There is no figuring Merlin out--he's tried on occasion, late at night in front of dying fires--but the pieces refuse to add up. So then, as now, he tosses the puzzle aside as a useless distraction, as one of those things he must simply accept. Like Morgana's sharp tongue. Like his father's hatred of magic.
Merlin nods, like he's reached a decision, and takes a deliberate step closer. His face has the intent, too serious look he lets show during arguments when they both forget he's just a servant. He reaches out for Arthur's hand and, half bowing, half raising it to his lips, lays one soft kiss against the scarred knuckles of his prince, in a gesture so odd the whole thing is over before Arthur can think to pull back.
"Have you gone quite mad?" He should probably sound firmer, more affronted--except that with Merlin it hardly seems to matter.
Merlin smiles, pleased with himself, eyes darting up to check for real anger and then sliding away, back to tracing along the branches above them. Arthur sighs and shoves Merlin once, on principle. But gently.
Sometimes he thinks he knows Merlin. Other times he's just as glad he really doesn't.
Whoso List
"If you scare this one away, I'll have you put in the stocks for a week." The boy is a hopeless fool and squeamish as any girl. But the way he tries particularly to protect the soft, graceful does is such a ridiculous parody of chivalry that deep under his irritation Arthur knows he is amused. He tells himself it's why he keeps ordering Merlin to come, despite his persistent, almost willful incompetence.
Merlin ignores him, as usual, watching who knows what in the trees, eyes tracing along high bare branches dotted with stray evergreen.
There is no figuring Merlin out--he's tried on occasion, late at night in front of dying fires--but the pieces refuse to add up. So then, as now, he tosses the puzzle aside as a useless distraction, as one of those things he must simply accept. Like Morgana's sharp tongue. Like his father's hatred of magic.
Merlin nods, like he's reached a decision, and takes a deliberate step closer. His face has the intent, too serious look he lets show during arguments when they both forget he's just a servant. He reaches out for Arthur's hand and, half bowing, half raising it to his lips, lays one soft kiss against the scarred knuckles of his prince, in a gesture so odd the whole thing is over before Arthur can think to pull back.
"Have you gone quite mad?" He should probably sound firmer, more affronted--except that with Merlin it hardly seems to matter.
Merlin smiles, pleased with himself, eyes darting up to check for real anger and then sliding away, back to tracing along the branches above them. Arthur sighs and shoves Merlin once, on principle. But gently.
Sometimes he thinks he knows Merlin. Other times he's just as glad he really doesn't.