Title: Setting Down the Lines
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Merlin/Arthur
Word count: 2,606
Warnings: Future fic, but of the entirely fluffy and non-angsty variety
Spoilers: None
Summary: In which Arthur hates stairs, Merlin threatens mutiny and they're both going to be a bit late for the feast.
A/N: Written for nilsi_pilsifan as part of the pay it forward meme. Hope you like it ♥

Arthur forces himself to jog up the tightly wound spiral staircase, taking the stairs two at a time. He’s out of breath when he reaches the top and his thighs burn not with the pleasant ache of exertion but with a sharp discomfort that Arthur refuses to acknowledge; he doesn’t care how grey his hair may be getting – he can still stand with the very best of them on the battlefield and fight like a man half his age, and he will not be bested by stairs of all things. Still, his pride does not prevent him from uttering a few choice curses in the direction of a certain impertinent sorcerer – he suspects sometimes that Merlin chose to install himself at the very top of the highest tower in Camelot solely for his own sadistic pleasure. Merlin has never attempted to deny it.

 

Merlin’s study is always full of noise – shouts and swearing from spells gone wrong and spells gone right; the rustle of parchment; the bubbling of potions and elixirs simmering away; the occasional thud and yelp of Merlin tripping over his furniture or his own feet, mind elsewhere; the soft tones of him thinking aloud – but now when Arthur sweeps inside without knocking he is greeted by silence and the sight of Merlin slumped across his desk, breathing in the slow rhythm of sleep. Arthur picks his way across the cluttered floor, almost kicking over a knee-high stack of yellowed manuscripts while attempting valiantly to manoeuvre round a heap of delicate-looking alchemical equipment; it’s no wonder Merlin’s almost constantly complaining of stubbed toes and bruised shins, and probably some kind of miracle that he hasn’t yet killed himself.
 

Arthur’s not entirely sure how the state of the study manages to get more and more appalling each time he visits. It’s like the room has a mind of its own, and considering how much magic has been conjured within these walls and how many ill-advised experiments Merlin’s carried out here the idea is worryingly plausible. The thick leather-bound tomes spilling from the shelves and spreading across every available surface do look suspiciously as though they might be mounting a stealthy assault on an unsuspecting Merlin, great piles of them rising around his desk as though to engulf him. Arthur has a brief vision of one day having to dig him out of a murderous pile of possibly not-so-inanimate objects and thinks ruefully that it wouldn’t even be close the strangest thing that’s happened to them.
 

He reaches the desk with one last undignified hop that he’s rather glad Merlin isn’t conscious to witness and shakes his head fondly at the sight before him – Merlin, one arm outflung, unruly dark hair shot liberally through with silver in the cool autumn light, drooling quietly onto an open spellbook; Arthur can’t help but grin.
 

It’s rare to see Merlin so still: normally he’s always in motion, fidgeting his way through court audiences and diplomatic meetings, pacing restlessly in his or Arthur’s chambers, driving Arthur mad with his incessant tapping whenever they find the time to eat together. It started not long into Arthur’s reign, a symptom of Merlin’s ever-increasing power as magic came seeping back into the land, and these days Arthur can almost sense the magic singing taut under Merlin’s skin like a wellspring of nervous energy craving release. Even in his sleep Merlin can’t keep still, shifting through positions, alternately draped over Arthur or curled up at the other side of the bed, the covers bunched comfortably around him while Arthur wakes shivering in the middle of the night. Merlin must be exhausted to sleep so deeply now.
 

Arthur reaches out and touches the back of Merlin’s hand, thumb gently tracing the dense black whirls of the tattoo that curls across the skin there, snaking all the way up Merlin’s wrist and forearm to the elbow underneath his sleeve, a souvenir from the four months Merlin spent among the druids sixteen years ago. Arthur remembers when Merlin finally returned, looking more lean than skinny, something indefinably sharper and stronger about him but with the same absurdly wide grin and bright eyes, sleeves rolled up to display his new acquisition. Merlin had jumped down from his horse with something approaching grace and performed an elaborate bow for the sake of the court assembled on the castle steps – one of maybe five instances in his entire life that Arthur has seen Merlin treat him with anything resembling the proper respect – but when Arthur had clasped his hand and formally welcomed him back with a raised brow for the tattoo, Merlin had leaned in, voice pitched low, and said: ‘This isn’t the only one, but there’s no way I can show you the other one in public,’ winking suggestively before moving on to greet the sundry advisors and prominent nobles of the court. The series of meetings and the celebratory feast that followed had made for one of the longest and most uncomfortable days Arthur has ever experienced, counting down the hours until Merlin finally pushed him down onto the bed and stripped for him with lingering slowness; it had indeed been a sight to behold.
 

Merlin’s hand twitches under Arthur’s caress and Arthur looks up to see him blinking gradually into wakefulness, groaning into his arm. Merlin stares dazedly at Arthur for a minute or two until he seems to realise where he is.
 

‘What time is it?’ he murmurs, voice rough from sleep.
 

Arthur smiles. ‘Almost sunset.’
 

‘Ugh,’ Merlin replies eloquently. He drops his head back to the table with a muffled thump for a moment before pushing himself upright, hair tumbling messily into his eyes as he yawns and scratches drowsily at the small white scar at the corner of his right eye. His fingers tangle with Arthur’s where they’re still touching and he props his chin in his other hand, head cocked curiously, watching Arthur watch him.
 

‘You’re looking a bit flushed,’ Merlin says after a little while, grin spreading slowly across his face. ‘Did you try to run up the stairs again?’
 

Arthur perches nonchalantly on the edge of the table. ‘I felt like a little light exercise.’
 

Merlin’s grin widens and Arthur gets the marked impression of being laughed at; Merlin quirks an eyebrow and Arthur knows what’s coming.
 

‘You do realise you’re-‘
 

‘‘Not twenty anymore’,’ Arthur interrupts with a long-suffering sigh, ‘yes I know – you say it often enough.’
 

‘Only because it never seems to get through that thick skull of yours.’
 

Arthur rolls his eyes and cuffs Merlin lightly round the head. Merlin laughs and leans back, stretching his legs out under the desk, a wicked glint in his eyes. One finger begins tapping against his thigh.
 

‘You shouldn’t treat me like that,’ he warns. ‘One day I might decide to turn you into a toad and seize the throne for myself.’
 

‘You, on the throne?’ Arthur asks incredulously, not bothering to disguise the amused scepticism in his voice.
 

‘I would rule with an iron fist and start a reign of terror the likes of which the world has never seen.’
 

Arthur’s lips twitch involuntarily. ‘I tremble with fear.’
 

‘You should.’ Merlin flashes him a toothy grin. ‘I’m a very dangerous person.’
 

‘Only to yourself,’ Arthur says, because even though he’s seen Merlin halt time and split the earth asunder, seen him stalking the battlefield with blood on his face and fire at his fingertips, he’s also seen him conjuring ribbons and dolls for little girls in the marketplace, face lit up and smiling wide as though he were the one receiving the gift; to Arthur he will always be the same ridiculous, reckless idiot who barged his way into his life all those years ago and stubbornly refused to leave.
 

Merlin snorts and smiles to himself. A comfortable silence settles over them and Arthur is content to let it lie, fingers rubbing over the smooth grain of the wooden desk, watching the light shift in Merlin’s greying hair and his blue eyes, still so lively and full of youth despite the weary years that sit heavy on both their shoulders. Merlin stirs and looks at Arthur thoughtfully.
 

‘Since you woke me up I assume you want something?’ He grins. ‘For your sake it I hope it’s important.’
 

Arthur folds his arms and smiles indulgently back. ‘You’ve forgotten about the feast haven’t you?’
 

The look Merlin gives him in return is utterly blank. Arthur chuckles.
 

‘I thought as much.’
 

‘Feast?’ Merlin asks with a frown.
 

‘Yes. The feast. The one that’s being held tonight,’ Arthur enunciates carefully as though talking to a particularly slow child. He shakes an admonishing finger in Merlin’s direction. ‘You’re not allowed to shirk this time.’
 

‘Why?’ Merlin asks sounding distinctly petulant.
 

‘Caeroch’s back to reaffirm his vows of fealty – you know how seriously he takes it.’
 

‘Caeroch.’ Merlin pulls a face. He and Caeroch have had something of a feud going on ever since the day they first met – Caeroch places great importance on etiquette and propriety; Merlin most decidedly does not.
 

‘I know, I know,’ Arthur says. ‘He’s going to be making another one of his interminable speeches and if I have to suffer through it then so do you.’
 

Merlin’s mouth twists sourly and he gives a mock bow in his seat. ‘I am yours to command, my most benevolent of kings.’
 

Arthur claps his hands. ‘Excellent,’ he says brightly, ‘because I’m commanding you to go.’
 

Merlin shoots him a dirty look.
 

‘Now, now,’ Arthur says with relish, ‘sulking does not become you.’ He gives Merlin a quick once over. ‘And you’re not wearing that,’ he adds.
 

‘Why, what’s wrong with it?’ Merlin asks indignantly, plucking at his tunic.
 

Arthur looks him up and down again, pointedly lingering over the scuffed black boots and threadbare blue tunic – it may set off Merlin’s eyes rather nicely but it’s hardly appropriate for someone of Merlin’s rank under normal circumstances, let alone at a feast. Merlin has become notorious throughout the land not only for his power and eccentricity but also for his humility – a grave misconception as far as Arthur’s concerned, caused by the fact that Merlin is physically incapable of looking even slightly decent. He insists on attending audiences dressed more like the servant he used to be than the most powerful sorcerer the land has ever seen and one of the King’s closest advisors.
 

Arthur had commissioned a special uniform to be tailored specifically for Merlin’s new position but Merlin had taken one look at it, made some disparaging remarks about feathers and embroidery and vehemently refused to wear it. Merlin’s powerful enough to get away with looking like a peasant if he really wants to and Arthur doesn’t mind all that much – he thinks Merlin looks rakishly handsome with his scruffy attire and perpetually tousled hair, though he’d never admit it aloud – but sometimes decorum is called for; there are few people willing to argue with a sorcerer who could reduce them to ash with a thought over the state of his clothes but Caeroch is one of them.
 

Merlin seems to sense that he isn’t going to win this fight. He sighs. ‘Fine, let’s go change.’
 

He stands and flips the spellbook closed. Arthur catches a glimpse of Merlin’s spidery handwriting before the heavy cover slams shut – about half the books in the room have been gathered from all across the land: rare books of obscure lore and rituals, encyclopaedias and compendiums of plants and animals and of course a wealth of books concerning magic and it uses – but the rest Merlin has written and compiled himself; his surprisingly bookish streak never fails to amuse Arthur.
 

Merlin adds the book to the nearest teetering stack and turns to Arthur, irritated and ruffled, and Arthur leans in on impulse and kisses him, an affectionate brush of lips, unhurried and relaxed. Merlin leans into it, calloused hands cupping Arthur’s face and stroking through the short hair at the back of his neck, his tongue pressing insistently against Arthur’s mouth. Arthur opens for him with a contented hum, tilting his head as the kiss deepens and he tugs Merlin forward by the hips. It’s the easiest thing in the world to stand there, warm and comfortable and intimate, and Arthur slides his hands up under Merlin’s tunic and along his back, searching out scars that are more familiar to Arthur than his own and almost as numerous. One hand slips down just below the waist of Merlin’s breeches and settles there lightly.
 

Merlin grins. ‘I knew you were just a lecherous old man.’
 

Arthur presses tender kisses to the deepening lines crinkling around Merlin’s mouth and at the corners of his eyes. ‘You’re not looking so young yourself,’ he murmurs.
 

‘And such a charmer too,’ Merlin chuckles and nips teasingly at Arthur’s bottom lip.
 

Arthur leans his forehead against Merlin’s and closes his eyes as they breathe softly against each other’s mouths. He pulls away reluctantly after a moment and takes Merlin by the wrist, thumb resting over his pulse.
 

‘Come on, we should go.’
 

Merlin’s mouth flattens out unhappily but he lets Arthur tow him towards the door, magically removing the various obstacles in their way after the third time Arthur almost crushes a priceless artefact.
 

‘Cupboards, Merlin – they’re there to be used,’ Arthur grumbles, looking back in time to catch Merlin’s grin.
 

‘I’m too set in my ways now.’
 

Their boots scuff against the stone as they descend the neverending steps in a conversational silence. Arthur wonders for the hundredth time that day why Merlin couldn’t have picked a room that did not require a veritable hike to reach like any other normal person would, but then Merlin opens his mouth and Arthur is forcefully reminded that Merlin is anything but normal.
 

‘I could always turn Caeroch into a toad,’ Merlin says speculatively.
 

Arthur glances at him in wry amusement. ‘You can’t go around turning my loyal vassals into toads just because you don’t like them.’
 

‘It would only be for a day or two.’
 

‘No.’
 

‘An hour?’
 

‘Merlin.’
 

‘What if I turned his beard green?’
 

‘Merlin, you may not have realised this but you’re not twenty years old either; at least try to act your age for once.’
 

When Merlin laughs and Arthur turns to see the devious fire in his eyes, Arthur realises he may have said the wrong thing. His suspicion is confirmed when Merlin suddenly pushes him back against the wall, his thigh between Arthur’s legs and his mouth at Arthur’s neck, deliberately provocative.
 

‘I thought you liked it better when I didn’t act my age,’ Merlin smirks.
 

‘We don’t have the time for this,’ Arthur says but his hands are already in Merlin’s hair and he tugs him up to bite at his lips.
 

‘We won’t be long, and we both have to change anyway, right?’ Merlin whispers reasonably, skimming a hand across Arthur’s abdomen under his clothes.
 

‘Merlin, we have to go,’ Arthur says, but his heart isn’t in it and he urges Merlin closer rather than pushing him away.
 

‘Just a few minutes,’ Merlin coaxes. His eyes gleam with mischief and his fingers are deft on the buckle of Arthur’s belt; Arthur knows he’s beaten.
 

‘Alright,’ he sighs and pulls Merlin back in for a kiss. Merlin comes eagerly, as demanding and insubordinate as he ever was back when he was still just an insufferable servant who called Arthur a prat and refused to do as he was told.
 

Arthur smiles into Merlin’s mouth and strokes at the back of his neck; some things never change.