Disclaimer: I don't own Merlin.

ANGST. You have been warned. :(


Arthur wakes up the next morning as angry as a bear. He knows it, and he doesn't even try, just growls and shouts at Merlin and throws a pitcher at his head. Merlin squeaks and ducks, and the flash of disappointment that crosses his face just raises Arthur's ire.

He snarls and stomps around the room and finds fault with the first three outfits Merlin brings. Then Merlin's fingers fumble and skim Arthur's arm as he's trying, one-handed, to help with his shirt, and it feels like his touch makes sparks fly across Arthur's skin. He sucks in a harsh breath.

'Damn it, you're useless, Merlin,' he says roughly, ignoring the way Merlin's shoulders slump. 'Just go – go and get my breakfast.'

Merlin goes quietly, his head bowed and his bandaged arm curled in close to his chest. But when he returns, at length, with a tray full of Arthur's breakfast, he's back to grinning and teasingly tongue-in-cheek, and he talks back at Arthur's grumbles and tells him he really needs his breakfast, right now. And Arthur glowers and thumps things on the table and does not watch Merlin flitting about the room while he eats.


The next few weeks are the worst Arthur's ever spent. Instead of just thinking about Merlin all the time, he's thinking about Merlin, and Merlin's lips, and Merlin's skin, and good God, help him, because he thinks it's driving him mad. He never wants to see that jam again.

He's taken to treating Merlin with a cold politeness, because that seems to be the best way to keep himself from doing anything stupid. He doesn't look at Merlin much, and he definitely doesn't make Merlin do any more training with the knights, because he's only human, after all. If the thought of Merlin training – all hot and flushed and with sweaty hair sticking to his forehead – makes Arthur's throat feel dry, he doesn't want to risk seeing what the actual version will make him do. Not after the jam.

Merlin seems to have decided to just go on as he normally does, grinning cheerfully and teasing and talking back to Arthur. It makes things difficult for Arthur, because there's nothing harder than waking up to the sight of Merlin's sweetest smile, and then having to turn away and ignore that smile, and carry on ignoring it all day. It's not Arthur's fault that Merlin's smile is so – so bright, and sunshiny, and soft, but he soldiers on bravely.

It also doesn't help that sometimes he catches an accidental glimpse of raw hurt in Merlin's eyes, when Arthur turns away from him and speaks to him with rigid formality, and tells him his services won't be required this evening, thank you, Arthur can ready himself for bed on his own.

Damn Merlin, and his eyes, and his smile. Damn him.


Merlin carries on walking around with his arm bound up and splinted. Arthur has begun to loathe that big white bandage.

Every time he sees Merlin trying awkwardly to do some simple task one-handed, a shard of guilt pierces Arthur's belly. More than once, he's had to catch himself, horrified, because he's about to stride forward and take whatever it is out of Merlin's hands and do it for him, take care of him; and that would be a recipe for disaster and ruin.

So when Merlin spills Arthur's wine on the table, muttering a soft apology, Arthur just looks straight through him and waits for him to mop it up. And when Merlin carries in a big platter of apples, and one drops and bounces halfway across the room, Arthur ignores the way Merlin huffs with laughter and glances up to meet Arthur's eyes, to share the moment.

Because if he meets Merlin's eyes and shares his laughter, it will most certainly snap Arthur's tight hold on himself. And then – then, God alone knows what Arthur might do, because it terrifies him to think about it.

Merlin glances at him again, still smiling – Arthur, hyper-aware, can see him in the corner of his vision. Merlin waits. Glances again, the smile fading, as Arthur looks disinterestedly over Merlin's shoulder at an interesting pattern in the border of the tapestry behind him. Arthur can feel him looking, can feel Merlin's gaze as though it were a warm wind. It's suddenly difficult to breathe, but he makes himself move, makes himself walk away from Merlin and his stupid apple and his stupid dear laughter and sticking-out ears and vulnerable eyes.

There's a little indescribable sound of hurt, like pain given voice into the quietness of the chamber, and Arthur realises that it's come from Merlin. And then Merlin's stomping to the table, breathing hard, and he crashes the platter down onto its surface with a shattering smash that would be enough reason for any sane person to fire their servant. Arthur looks at him; finally, really, looks at him in the face.

Merlin's face is bright with anger, his fists clenched at his sides, looking straight at Arthur; and Arthur is frozen like a startled rabbit, his mouth opening and closing helplessly and his brain screaming for him to get out, now, this instant, out of the window if he must – just away. There's no breath left in his lungs.

'Oh, so you – you can damn well l-look at me now!' Merlin spits out. He's stuttering a little, red and ridiculous, and Arthur can't move. He has the bizarre panicked thought that Merlin might eat him up whole, because he looks angry enough.

And then Merlin's face crumples and he cradles his arm in to his chest again, huddling his head into his shoulders, and he turns and makes for the door. 'Got to go,' he says in a choked voice, over his shoulder, and the door judders twice behind him, as though his hand is shaking as he tries to close it.

'Wait,' Arthur says, idiotically, to the empty room; and then he sinks down into a chair and buries his face in his hands.


Merlin says nothing about the incident, when he comes in the next morning, and neither does Arthur. Merlin doesn't smile when he opens the curtains and wakes Arthur, and his face is blank, neutrally respectful. There is no sparkle in his eyes, and it makes Arthur feel sick and hurt and writhing inside his stomach.

He has Merlin help him into his armour; it's like an awkward dance where they circle each other, not making eye contact, and Merlin's fingers never once touch Arthur's skin. Arthur thinks dully that he should be glad of that, at least.

He spends the day on the training field, and Merlin does not come outside to watch.


Arthur grows stern and quiet. There must be something about his face that scares people, because he is being avoided. People scurry around corners when he appears, and try not to meet his eyes. It makes him realise how much he has come to rely on Merlin for companionship - just ordinary, friendly, human interaction.

And he misses him – he misses him – he misses him. He misses him like a physical ache in his chest, and every day he has to see Merlin's shuttered face, closed and blank and his eyes like dark pools of hurt. And Merlin doesn't talk, except to say 'Yes, sire' and 'No, sire', which hurts more than his silence.

'Merlin,' Arthur says desperately, one day. Merlin is clearing away the plates from his dinner, his face turned away, and Arthur is painfully aware of him, of the soft quiet breaths Merlin is taking through his nose, of the tense beautiful line of his cheekbone and jaw, the tightness in his shoulders. And he can't help it, his tongue moves before he can stop it, and he blurts out Merlin's name.

Merlin startles. He's like a beautiful deer, Arthur thinks, like something gentle and delicate and fey; and Arthur makes a little longing movement, reaching for him, but stops with his hand hanging in the air. And Merlin's face is so open, so full of hope, at that moment; but something inside Arthur is screaming, No! - No!

And Arthur pushes his chair back clumsily and turns away with a little choking sound, and stumbles away to stand by the post of his bed, closing his eyes. He hears Merlin setting the stack of plates down on the table with a light click, his breathing going shaky, as though he's trying his hardest not to sob. There's a little pain-filled pause between them, and then Merlin's footsteps move unsteadily towards the door, and he goes away and leaves Arthur there.

Arthur rests his forehead on the smooth carved wood of the bedpost, fisting his fingers in the crimson of the draperies, hating himself. And then there are tears on his face, shameful hot tears sliding down and darkly blotching the red silk where they fall.

Merlin doesn't come back that day, or the next.


I'm sorry, I'm sorry! *cries* Things will start looking brighter in the next chapter, I swear.

Please do leave a review! *hugs*