A/N Warning for implied references to homophobia.


Funny thing, love.

Sometimes it takes something as hard as a bullet to stifle. And, sometimes, it takes as little as a touch to kindle. And so it was with Merlin and Arthur.

It began with race against time and the Nazis, on one very cold night…

"Great, just perfect," said Arthur under his breath.

Merlin groaned inwardly. Was there no off switch on this man's whinging? Merlin let his arm rest awkwardly on Arthur's thigh while Arthur took off his shoes, something that neither of them would allow in any other situation, but well, this wasn't any normal situation. At least, Merlin didn't think being handcuffed to a man who called himself Arthur Pendragon like some vaudevillian act was normal.

Merlin winced as his wrist was jerked sharply upwards as Arthur removed his tie.

"Hey, hey easy."

Arthur only huffed in response as he threw the tie across the room, jerking Merlin's wrist up again.

Merlin gritted his teeth.

"Do you mind?" he said, yanking his arm down, Arthur's knuckles now brushing his thigh.

"I do mind," said Arthur his voice dangerously low. So the prat was angry. "I've been shot at, trampled on by sheep, chased into freezing cold water, handcuffed to a pasty Irish idiot, and the landlord downstairs probably thinks I'm queer."

"Could be worse," Merlin said after a pause.

"How?" Arthur asked, now trying to de-attach himself from his suit jacket, and failing miserably, since his wrist, of course, still hooked to Merlin's via handcuffs, but he seemed determined nonetheless.

Merlin ended up with Arthur's jacket inside out and halfway up his arm, while Arthur continued to continued to undress.

"I could be queer," said Merlin quietly.

Arthur stopped unbuttoning his shirt and gave Merlin a dark look, as if daring Merlin to continue that line of thought.

"Not that I am," Merlin said simply, a bit louder.

Arthur lay down his back, his shirt half-unbuttoned, his jacket still clinging to his wrist and Merlin's forearm. He placed his arm stiffly in the space between him and Merlin, finally giving Merlin back his arm.

"It wasn't just you getting shot at you know," Merlin said, lying down beside Arthur.

"Good night, Merlin."

"Good night," Merlin replied with sigh.

Later Merlin woke to Arthur's snoring and the lumpy mattress digging into his lower back. He tried shifting his weight, something, anything to change position, but it was a bit hard with his arm flung across Arthur's chest. He tried moving again, but Arthur began snoring louder and murmured fitfully in his sleep.

Merlin sighed.

Arthur Pendragon looked surprisingly peaceful in his sleep, the hard edges that had lined his mouth and his brow earlier that night were smooth, like a boy's face, not the man Merlin had met and been literally chained In the back of a Scottish police van. In sleep, Arthur looked happy.

And perhaps that was all he needed. Some sleep. Maybe in the morning Merlin would find a different, slightly less irritating arrogant prat. Merlin could hope. It was all he could do at the moment.

So even though the mattress springs poked his back, Merlin found himself counting, not sheep, (the memory of their encounter with that Scottish flock was still too fresh in his mind) but Arthur's (prattish, arrogant, stubborn) heartbeats on the back of his hand, memorizing the rise and fall of Arthur's chest, and trying to count the hairs on the back of Arthur's hand with his thumb.

That was the moment Merlin loved Arthur, or maybe….


A/N This scene is based on Hitchcock's The 39 Steps.