Rating: T, possibly bordering on M.
Warnings: Not sure why I keep bothering to warn you all about swearing, but there you go.
Notes: Not quite so long this time, but I still haven't managed to reply to everyone yet. Soon, I promise. Hope you enjoy this one. A little shaky in places, I think, but I can't fix it. Until next time, Peach.
Set in Stone
X
As enjoyable as Mordred finds kissing, he'd really quite like it if things went further some day. Preferably, sometime soon.
The first night, he doesn't particularly think anything of it. Emrys – Merlin, as Mordred is going to try to call him, even if he doesn't see how it makes any difference – places the bag of food on the floor before approaching Mordred again, a tentative smile on his face. He reaches out just as tentatively, and Mordred forces himself to wait until he gets to him, until Emrys places a hand upon his cheek and leans in just as slowly. It is Emrys' choice, everything that happens between them; Mordred wishes it, certainly, wishes for little more, but he would have Merlin know that all that is about to occur is of his own choosing.
Merlin kisses him softly, almost innocently, nothing like the fire there was between them earlier in the day. It is over quickly, too, and Mordred is left tasting the sticky sweetness of the apple Emrys has just crunched his way through on his lips as Emrys steps back, picking up their food again and searching around for somewhere to sit. Mordred digs out the cushions that were on the floor at lunchtime from under his bed, flopping down on one of them and waiting for Merlin to join him.
"Do you have anything to drink in there?" Mordred asks; given that Emrys has magic and the fullness of the bag he has, it doesn't seem all that impossible.
"'Fraid not," Merlin answers, then proceeds to unpack Mordred's second supper, and most likely his own first, although Mordred has noticed him pinching from serving platters at meals. "Dig in, though," he adds, then follows his own advice.
Mordred figures he might as well do the same, trying to keep his confusion personal, hidden; he doesn't want Merlin to know how much this all isn't what he was expecting. He didn't genuinely think Merlin would come back to see him this evening, and then when he did he was rather anticipating something a little more...exciting than a shared dinner.
Emrys chatters as he eats – fortunately not actually at the same time – but his words seem to be of little consequence; an anecdote about helping Gaius with treating patients, something about Queen Guinevere's new maidservant (deeply unwanted on all accounts, as far as Mordred can tell, but then the last one was betraying Guinevere's confidences to Morgana so the almost universal dislike perhaps isn't unwarranted), the conversation he had with the king and queen over their meal. Mordred does his best to listen without thinking too hard about why he's listening, why they're just sitting and eating and talking, because, honestly, when Merlin came back to his room, Mordred had rather been thinking that they would go to bed and then afterwards Merlin would go.
Emrys leans over then, sliding his thumbs over Mordred's forehead. "What's the frown about?" He asks, then crowds in further and bumps his lips to Mordred's. "Is it whatever Gwaine said?"
Given that Mordred doesn't particularly want to share that, he decides that kissing him again is a far better idea.
X
They make it to his bed eventually, but it's nothing like in their dreams.
They aren't unclothed – shoeless, yes, and Merlin's jacket and scarf have long been discarded, but everything else is still in place – and Emrys doesn't push him down onto the mattress and crawl on top of him. They don't kiss like their lives depend on it, cling like letting go will destroy them, devour each other like starving men.
Which isn't to say they don't kiss, because they do. They kiss slowly and sweetly, Merlin's hands tracing the lines of Mordred's face, not dipping below his clothes. They kiss slowly, and each time Mordred tries to liven things up a bit, go a little further, Emrys stops him with gentle words, holding his hands in his own, fingers interlocking. They kiss until Mordred's lips are tingling, until he's sure he'll burst from all that he feels and the sensation of Merlin's mind so close to him, fierce and bright and unguarded. They kiss, lying next to each other on Mordred's bed, and it is pleasant, certainly, but Mordred was expecting something a little more.
They kiss, and when Emrys seems to grow bored of that, he pulls back. "I'm tired," he says softly, resting his head on Mordred's pillows. "Am I staying here tonight?"
Since Mordred is momentarily too baffled to do anything but agree, that is what he does. He lies down himself, pulling the blankets up over them, finding something comforting in the way Emrys' arms close around him, their legs twining together.
X
That is the first night, and things are new enough that Mordred lets it pass unquestioned.
The second night follows a difficult day, hours of training where the whole world seems to be against Mordred. The king, the knights, even Mordred's horse...well, it's just his imagination, at least that last part, but Arthur is definitely being more aggressive than usual when Mordred finds himself sparring with him.
It's not something Mordred would have complained about, normally. The king never goes easy on any of them, and they all understand why. They are at war, people die in wars, and no one wants the death to be them. No one is willing to relax, and no one is going to complain, when Arthur's training might be all that keeps them alive.
So Mordred isn't going to say anything, not when he might be reading something more into Arthur's violence than is actually there. Even so, the day has been challenging enough that he is almost relieved when Merlin wants nothing more from him than to sleep.
Well, nothing is perhaps an exaggeration, but everything else between them comes to an abrupt halt when, finally having succeeded in getting them both shirtless, Mordred responds to one of Merlin's particularly loud gasps with a murmured, "Emrys."
Merlin draws away from him immediately, pulling back far enough that he can lower a hand to the floor to scramble for his shirt. "I told you not to call me that," he says, redressing and throwing Mordred's own shirt at him.
Mordred stands up, dropping his shirt to the floor. "Why not, Emrys?" he asks. "It's your name, isn't it?"
The expression on Emrys' face can best be described as a sneer. It doesn't do it justice, not by a long way; it's not unfriendly enough to be that, but then again it's not nice enough to be called anything else. "It isn't," he says, all angry sorrow. "It's just...not."
"Why. Not?" Mordred repeats, because he's just so tired of this game, Merlin pulling him close only to push him away again. He's tired and angry and frustrated he doesn't see what the difference is. Whatever name he chooses to call him, Merlin will still be who he is, and there is no reason for Merlin not to just grow up and deal with it.
"Because I said not," says Merlin, just as angry, just as sad.
"That's not a reason. I'm not a child, however much the lot of you want to treat me like it, and 'because I said so' wouldn't have counted as a reason the first time we met."
Merlin tilts his head to one side, his rage softening, but the pity that takes its place isn't any better. He doesn't carry on the argument, though, or not in an overt way. "Do they have a name for you? The Druids, I mean."
"They call me Mordred," he answers, not entirely without truth but not quite the most honest answer he could have given. "I was born one of them. Why should they have another name for me?"
"Then I wouldn't expect you to understand," Merlin says. "I thought you might, given the future we keep seeing, but...well, if the whole world doesn't spend most of their time trying to remind you who they want you to be, why would you know how it feels?"
For a moment, Mordred can only look at him, the half-lie he so recently told coming back to haunt him. He knows exactly how it feels, has fought the names, the insults and the mistrust for so many years, and finally, finally thought he was getting somewhere here. He thought he could be accepted in Camelot, just another knight. The Druid Knight, maybe, but not the man who will ruin his people's hopes for equality and freedom from persecution, the man who will kill the king.
Yes, Mordred understands how it feels.
"Sorry, Merlin," he offers, pulling on his shirt as a concession to the fact that once again, sleeping with Merlin isn't going to be anything more than sleep. "I'll try," he says, walking around the bed to take Merlin's hand. "I'll try."
X
On the third day, Arthur seems to have decided battering Mordred is not enough. This isn't to say he has stopped his violence, but when training is over, when Mordred finally lays down his sword and prepares himself to limp back to his room, the king calls him over.
He doesn't say anything for a long moment, standing and staring at Mordred without emotion. The knights trickle from the field, comparing bruises and victories, but Mordred can feel Merlin standing behind him, not close, but very definitely still present. He's not quite sure which of them he's waiting for, or whether it's just that he still doesn't trust Mordred to be alone with Arthur, but it's comforting anyway; Merlin probably won't allow harm to come to Mordred, anymore than he's willing to let harm come to Arthur.
Arthur smiles at him, when Mordred is the only person left within hearing range. He smiles, rests a hand on Mordred's shoulder. "I can take you apart with one blow," he says. "I hope training today has taught you that."
Mordred fights the urge to laugh, because that isn't usually the best response to a threat. It isn't that he doubts it, not at all, because although he's hardly defenceless himself he's not going to use his gifts against Arthur unless he has a very good reason, but the story of Merlin's first argument with Arthur has passed down through the ranks of Arthur's men over the years, met with varying levels of disbelief and amusement. Mordred thinks he's probably the only one who knows the truth to Merlin's response; Gwaine never has managed to work out why Mordred found it quite so funny when he first told him of this.
"I understand," Mordred says instead. "Merlin is perfectly safe with me." An understatement, he knows, because Emrys could quite easily rip him to pieces, could snuff Mordred's life out with so much efficiency that he may as well have never breathed at all, but until Arthur knows just who Merlin is, it's best that he not say anything more.
"Merlin?" Arthur asks. "What does Merlin have to do with anything?" He lets go of Mordred's shoulder, pats his cheek, and ambles off, shouting for Merlin to follow him.
X
That night is the first time Mordred makes a serious attempt to take things further; if he is going to be threatened by the king, he might as well get as much as he can, might as well get what Arthur is threatening him for having.
Mordred tries not be hurt when Merlin turns him down.
He isn't even mollified when Merlin stays with him anyway, pressing a final kiss to Mordred's neck. "Goodnight, Mordred," he murmurs. "Pleasant dreams."
Mordred smiles inwardly, nestles closer to him. Maybe that's the way Emrys wants to play it, keeping things between them the same as they were the first time. "Maybe I'll see you in them," he ventures, sliding his thigh between Merlin's.
"No," Merlin answers, although he doesn't move back; if anything, he wraps tighter around him. "No, I don't think you will."
X
For the first time in weeks, Mordred doesn't dream about Emrys. It is the only upside of Merlin rejecting him yet again.
X
Merlin leaves early every morning, before Mordred awakes. He sees him here and there over the course of the day, but all conversation between them is strictly mental, becoming more and more frequent as the walls in Merlin's head construct themselves. Mordred tests them occasionally, scraping at the metaphorical masonry Merlin is putting up, searching for cracks and crevices, weaknesses of any kind. Merlin doesn't know he's doing it, of course, but since he hasn't found any flaws to report as of yet, it's hardly an issue.
The queen wishes to speak to you, Merlin tells him the week after Arthur's threats. She requests that I find you and send you to her chambers for tea.
Is she going to poison me? He asks before he can stop himself, because that's rather the way his life has been going lately.
Merlin's answering laughter is not at all reassuring.
X
"I wish to apologise for my husband's behaviour," Queen Guinevere states kindly, sliding a cup towards Mordred and offering him a seat. "Arthur can be a little overbearing sometimes."
"I don't know what you're talking about, my lady," Mordred answers, sitting opposite her; it's hardly wise to criticise the king in front of his wife, even if doing so largely requires him to lie through his teeth. "The king has done a great deal to make me feel welcome here."
Guinevere smiles and sips her tea; Mordred isn't quite that brave, even if she did pour both cups from the same pot. "He means well," she says, patting his hand. "But you must understand, Sir Mordred. Merlin is very dear to us both."
Mordred nods, still not willing to touch his drink. "I do understand," he answers, rather thinking that non-committal is the way to go. But, on the other hand..."King Arthur has a rather odd way of showing it."
The queen laughs, then drinks again. "He does mean well," she repeats. "He's just cautious, and you have dangerous friends. This sorcerer, for example?"
"What of him?" Mordred asks reluctantly. Given the choice between this conversation and Arthur trying to scare him through unnecessary levels of violence, he'd rather face Arthur any day.
X
And then, almost two weeks later and far worse than the king and queen put together, there is Gwaine.
Perhaps the other knights have not noticed the change in Merlin and Mordred's circumstances, or perhaps they just don't consider it necessary to say anything about it. Either way, their lack of comment is definitely preferable to the obscenely smug grin Gwaine is sporting when, as Mordred makes his way back from lunch, he grabs him by the elbow and tugs him into a room. It's the same grin he's worn every time Mordred has seen him recently, and it's not at all an exaggeration to say that he loathes it.
"What?" Mordred snaps, Gwaine shutting the door behind them. "Do you really have nothing better to do with your life than look at me like that?"
"At the moment?" Gwaine shrugs. "Nah, not really. Right now, your sex life is the most interesting thing in this city."
Mordred can think of precisely one response to give that statement, however unkind it may be. "You, Gwaine, have problems."
The grin, if it's possible, gets even more obscene. "You're not the first to say it, kid," he drawls, then laughs when Mordred frowns at him, although he decides the name isn't worth protesting. "Now, this thing with Merlin. Tell me about it."
"No."
Gwaine, smugger than smug, has the nerve to pout at him. "Really, Mordred. I'm not asking for...no, well, I am asking for details, but it's not like I'll tell anyone."
Mordred places a hand on both of Gwaine's shoulders and pushes, needing more space than Gwaine seems willing to give him. "Even if I was fool enough to believe that, Sir Gwaine, I would tell you nothing."
"That's because you're boring," Gwaine says, the pout only getting more pronounced.
"No," Mordred says again, and enough is enough when the entire kingdom seems to be trying to prove themselves the best in the land at various unusual actions. Merlin seems to be delighting in causing him sexual frustration, Arthur has taken to violence with great relish, the queen has a fondness for uncomfortable questions the likes of which Mordred has never known, and Gwaine, Gwaine could make annoying into an art-form. "No, I am not boring, no, I am not a child and no, I couldn't give you details even if I was crazy enough to want to because there aren't any details to give."
Gwaine stares at him disbelievingly for a long, long moment then grins at him almost fondly. "Well, mate," he says, sounding like he means it. "There's plenty of ways to fix that."
X
Mordred is not innocent to the ways of the world – Camelot is the first time he's lived somewhere with real walls, somewhere he can't hear every movement and every breath of the people close to him; he knew the facts long before he was old enough to have the impulse to act on them – but the things Gwaine says are enough to make him blush.
Still, just because most of his suggestions are far too extreme for his first time lying with Merlin, it doesn't mean the underlying idea is a bad one.
It is common knowledge that the door to Gaius' chambers is never locked, even when the physician isn't in there; anything particularly dangerous is securely locked away, and it is important that anyone needing assistance be able to enter at any time. It is also common knowledge that Gaius makes his rounds of the village in the morning and the castle in the evening, and Merlin has told Mordred that Gaius has no patients in residence at the moment.
Add to that the fact that Merlin returns to his room at about the same time as Gaius is absent in the evening to get clothes for the following day and yes, Gwaine's plan isn't quite as mad as it sounds at first.
There is a spell the Druids have cast over their camps for years, a little thing, that keeps them from notice. It doesn't work always, and doesn't keep away determined seekers, but it mostly deals with the less persistent people, and Mordred sees no harm in casting it on the physician's quarters when he gets there, to fend off the unwary. It won't work on Merlin, but it will be enough for this, for Mordred to get what he wants without interruption.
He pauses with his hand on the latch to Merlin's bedroom, questioning the wisdom of what he's about to do. He wants, though, wants too much to keep letting Merlin push him away like he is, wants too much not to follow through with it. Mordred lets himself in, his fingers already pulling at the laces on his shirt, ready to undress and wait in Merlin's bed, narrow and rickety but big enough for this, for them.
Or it would be, if there wasn't already someone else in it, and that really rather explains everything.
X
Emrys, Mordred calls, his thought-voice booming in Merlin's head, angry and confused. Merlin has had enough practice lately to make a guess at the direction he's in and distance between them, and it's funny, because he shouldn't be sounding like that when Merlin is pretty sure he's in Gaius' rooms. And yes, there are plenty of unusual things in there, but Mordred has more sense than to touch – or, god forbid, eat – anything he comes across, and nothing in there is such that its mere presence could be expected to cause rage. Then, of course, Mordred continues. Emrys, there's a girl in your room.
There's what? Merlin answers, because really? A girl in his room?
Yes, Mordred tells him, And there's no need to pretend you're surprised by this. I've worked it out.
Worked out what? Merlin asks, very much lost by the progression of this conversation. Who is she?
You tell me, Emrys. It's your bed she's in. Mordred's voice is almost a hiss and Merlin can feel the anger in it, like knives in his skull. Tell me, why didn't you ask her for lessons, since she can hear every word of this conversation we're having?
Keep her there, Merlin orders, Arthur's helm falling from his suddenly boneless fingers and clanging against the floor; whatever else Mordred is talking about, whatever else Merlin doesn't understand, there is a girl in his space and in their heads and that is not safe for anyone. I'm on my way.