I don't own Merlin.
/
Merlin drops his head onto the pillow, curls up, and pretends that he doesn't hear the extremely unmasked snort.
"What, pray tell, are you doing in my bed?"
Merlin pulls the covers over his head. "'M not in your bed. It's just your imagina-"
Arthur yanks the covers back, glaring. "I don't have much of an imagination, Merlin. Out."
Merlin glares up at him, slithering out of the nice, incredibly warm bed. "It's warm. You don't have to deal with a drafty room and thin blankets," he grumbles, stalking over to pick up a basket of laundry.
"I've told you and Gwaine to take the double suite on the third floor, but will you listen?" Arthur snaps back, even though he's smiling a little fondly.
"There are already rumors flying about that you and I are enjoying ourselves in the solace of these chambers. I'm not ruining Gwaine's reputation as well," Merlin calls over his shoulder as he saunters out the door, laundry balanced on his hip, and ignoring the shamed blush that's marching up to conquer his face.
No, Gwaine's reputation doesn't need any more damage than it already had thanks to his frequent visits to the man's chambers.