Stubborn
by Skandranon
Summary : Merlin has a knack for falling asleep anywhere. Written as a response to a fic challenge, then I realized I didn't fulfill some of the challenge stipulations, so I decided to post it here instead. Set Season 2.
Warning : no direct romance.
Arthur finally spotted the tracks of the raiders they've been hunting, and turned around to point them out to Merlin. He paused, blinking, and had to reign in his horse just to watch as Merlin's horse plodded past his, meandering in a steady unfazed line with its head low and placid. His manservant was asleep in the saddle, propped upright only by a miracle of gravity. The bloody horse kept going too, until Arthur had to give up the view to chase after it and grab the reigns before it carried Merlin off to who knows where.
He glared at the stupid brown thing with its stupid brown eyes. He'd picked it for Merlin because it was an easy rider, with a smooth gait and almost no startle point. He knew Merlin wasn't brought up riding the way he and the knights were. Which was hilarious, and he always enjoyed saddling the twit on one of the shy younger stallions on hunting trips, to see how long it took him to get flung off. But when on the trail of threats to Camelot he didn't have time to backtrack and pick up the cursing, whining fallen servant, who always glared at him with that sullen pout like he knew Arthur'd done it on purpose, which of course he didn't know because Arthur was clever and keen and Merlin was a silly twit who couldn't ride worth anything.
But apparently picking a gentle horse had rocked the twit to sleep. He hung there, swaying ever so slightly but always returning to center, head not even tucked downwards, back perfectly upright as if fully awake. Except his eyes were shut and his mouth was hanging open.
Alright, it had been a hard three days ride with little rest. Even his own backside was aching from the bounce of the horses. But he had to carry the full weight of armor too, which was a real strain on the shoulders let me tell you. Merlin didn't have that to complain about, so there was really no excuse for him nodding off while Arthur had to stay alert and lead the charge. It was just unfair.
It was also really funny. He was just... hanging there. With his mouth open. Arthur grinned, suddenly not quite as sore as he'd been.
Once he had amused himself by looking, he whacked Merlin over the head and sent his flying off into the brush, where the amount of shouting that followed told him the twit was very much awake now.
The horse didn't even blink.
The meetings with the other Kings was dragging on far longer than anyone had anticipated, mostly because Uther wouldn't budge in the slightest on anything. His voice boomed with every 'I will not', and the other Kings didn't stand up and leave right there only because they needed this treaty so badly. So it went on, and on. How exactly did you tell your father - who was also King, and a very ornery man to boot - that he was being a prat? Would he get thrown in the dungeon - again - if he just threw down his goblet and shouted 'Yes, for God's sake yes, just let them have the thirty five bushels of whatever! I don't even like carrots!'?
Instead he finished off the goblet and held it up to his shoulder for a refill. Which didn't come. Distracted, he glanced behind him.
Merlin was propped against the chair back, his head resting on a decorative pommel. He was drooling.
Arthur turned back around to the Kings and put his goblet down, trying to pretend he'd never needed it refilled. No one else had seemed to notice that Merlin had nodded off. Most nobility thought of servants as furniture anyway, and didn't look at them except when things didn't get done. But the mood was already tense in the room, and escalating. If he were to draw attention to Merlin by trying to wake him subtly, which of course would make the twit jerk upright with a shout or a whirling of his arms or some other crazy antic, and then things would get knocked over and he'd go 'Sorry, sorry, sorry', anyway it would end with Uther sacking the boy or tossing him in the dungeon, if he wasn't outright beheaded just for a nap at the wrong time, which was a tad harsh. Not that Arthur didn't threaten it himself when he shirts got ruined.
How did he do that, anyway? He was just standing there, completely upright, wine jug still clutched in his hands, barely even leaning on the chair. It was as if he was only against it to keep him in place. If Arthur nudged him away he probably wouldn't even fall over.
Maybe it came from a youth sleeping on floors. Arthur tried to ignored a twinge of guilt, which was absurd. It wasn't like he'd chosen to be born royal. But he'd never even noticed that his own bed was softer, thicker, warmer, sturdier, infestation free, cleaned regularly with scented soaps, and also bigger than that of the common folk, until Merlin had shown up and been obnoxiously real for a servant. It dumbfounded Arthur, how he'd missed a whole side to the world, the lives of so many people who he was responsible for. He'd woken up one morning and discovered the sky was actually red, and everyone looked at him like he was an idiot for not knowing this. Or rather they tried not to look at him like that, which just made him notice even more.
He even liked Hunith and felt shy and awkward around her, and thanked her for her godawful whatever that porridge stuff was. What sort of nonsense was that, liking a servant's mother? It wasn't like she was his mother, or aunt or other relative, so why did he get the urge to say 'yes ma'am' to her?
The meeting dragged on. Uther was finally coming around to allowing that maybe, possibly, he might be willing to grace the other kings with a hint of a compromise, not that he was backing down, and you damned well better not find him weak for this, because he and his army would thump you if you did.
Arthur was thirsty, but grateful that Merlin didn't snore.
Arthur walked into his antechamber and found his armor polishing itself.
Merlin was curled up in the corner, passed out right on the floor with a leather needle in one hand and one of Arthur's boots in the other. The one that he'd torn a hole in running from that ogre, he recalled. The hole wasn't patched yet.
The armor merrily scrubbed itself in midair as if it had every right to be there.
It took several minutes to wrestle the stubborn armor back into obeying the laws of physics, during which the stupid twit of a lying, backstabbing, treacherous and very suicidal magic-practicing manservant slept on oblivious.
Arthur went into his bedroom and paced for an hour, rubbing his arms in the winter chill and debating how angry he was, before coming back out and covering Merlin with a blanket.
It took three jugs of wine to work up the courage to say "Merlin, I know you're a sorcerer, and it's alright. I'm not going to tell anyone, so next time we're in battle please don't blink innocently after your sword flings itself at the guy behind me, because it's really starting to make me think you don't trust or respect me. And I know you trust and respect me, because you always call me a prat but I think you mean it nicely, and you keep following me into trouble though I think some of it might've been your fault anyway so you don't get credit for those. But for the love of God please stop telling me I defeated the enemy right before I hit my head and now I mysteriously don't remember it, because I just can't keep a straight face when you do that anymore. Also I think I'm a bit drunk."
Merlin was very quiet. No, wait, Merlin was asleep, head laying on the table with his arms sprawled out.
"Stop doing that!" Arthur whined.
They'd set up camp between sheer boulders for the night, and Arthur reluctantly allowed a fire. It probably wouldn't be seen by the scouts anyway, what with the rocks in the way. The heat echoed off the rock walls and made him a little uncomfortable in his armor, but his fingers were too stiff from swordfighting to undo the straps. He could've ordered Merlin to do it for him, or done without the fire and been comfortably cool while his manservant shivered. But he didn't. Merlin had that look in his eyes again.
He was sitting by the fire, staring into it like it'd murdered his family. Arthur was pretty sure the fire wasn't actually a killer, since lately Merlin fixed all sorts of inanimate objects with that stare. The whole world had become one big 'how could you', and he wouldn't even tell Arthur what was wrong, the twit, the prat, the absolute sneaky bastard son of inbred gremlins. Badgering him got nothing. Grabbing him by the ears and twisting until he begged mercy got no answers either, just rueful smirks and blatant lies. The smirks alone were worth the effort, since they chased away that look for a little while, but it still grated at his skin. Merlin told him nothing.
He told Merlin nothing right back. Still didn't say a word when doors unlocked themselves and monsters mysteriously caught fire. Served him right for keeping secrets.
"You should try to get some sleep," he muttered, shifting against where he rested on the rocks. Not the most comfortable spot; he missed his feather-filled sheets. "You'll need your strength for the attack tomorrow."
"I'm not tired," Merlin answered, in that frustrating monotone. His eyes never left the fire.
"You will be if you don't sleep, Merlin."
He missed the days when that emphasis on the name, saying it 'MER-lin', with the added serious eyebrows, got him results. When Merlin would duck and blush and chuckle nervously and trip over something and everyone could have a laugh.
Merlin said nothing. He didn't move. He looked like death. Pale and wretched and miserable, and very, very angry.
"MER-lin," he said again, louder.
"I can't sleep. Ground's too hard," Merlin mumbled.
Arthur snorted. "And here I thought you could sleep anywhere."
Merlin didn't react. He never did. He should; another lie, another time Arthur almost but not quite called him on it but made it perfectly clear with his tone and eyes that, should Merlin fess up, Arthur already knew and it was okay, honest. It was stupid and insanely dangerous and technically treason, but it's okay. Just tell the truth and I'll fix everything, somehow. I'm the Prince, you don't think I could do something to help if you just told me? Stopping looking like that, damn it!
He threw a pebble at Merlin's head. Maybe he would get a rueful smirk if he pushed hard enough. It wasn't much, but it would make the lead in his veins go away for a little while.
The pebble bounced off his cheek. Merlin didn't even blink.
Snarling, he jerked up and jumped over the fire, tackling Merlin and bowling him over.
Startled, Merlin wrestled with him for a moment, before Arthur's superior weight and skill pinned him in place. He kept him there, his armor heavy on Merlin's chest, iron arms chaining him down. "You are going to sleep if I have to hold you down all night," he growled. "You cannot keep going without rest, you're going to get us both killed."
Merlin glowered at him, eyes flashing. "Let me up."
Arthur glared right back. He didn't budge, his eyes daring Merlin to use magic to knock him off. If Merlin would just see it, recognize the gaze for what it was, cry mercy and tell him everything...
Instead Merlin drew inward and turned his head away. He was resigned to his deceit.
They lay there for a solid hour, with the owls hooting in the distance and the fire baking Arthur in his cuirass, before Merlin's eyes drooped shut. His breathing drifted off, with the slight wheeze occasionally from where he was being squeezed.
Arthur didn't get back up, just in case.
Merlin started snoring.
Arthur didn't call him on it.