Merlin had known it was going to be a rough morning the moment he opened his eyes. He usually tried to have an upbeat attitude from the instant he started his day because he knew, by the end of it, he would be ready to throw something, usually in the general direction of His Royal Prattyness. No matter how hard he tried, however, his usual burst of optimism kept slipping through his fingers.

He'd woken up late, which wasn't unusual, but he felt that after all the hard work he put in for the prince, recognized or not, he deserved a few perks. Normally this wouldn't be a problem. He usually arrived late to Arthur's chambers and believed that if he actually arrived on time Arthur might die of shock. So Merlin decided to be consistent with his tardiness, all in the name of the prince's safety, of course. However, Merlin hadn't planned on the list of errands Gaius had left him beside his now cold breakfast, all of which needed to be completed before attending to the prince.

Merlin could have left the errands for later, of course. But somehow dealing with an angry Arthur was much more appealing than dealing with an angry Gaius. And besides, Arthur thoroughly enjoyed making things hard on his servant. Who was he to deny his prince the simple pleasures in life?

Merlin finished with the errands as quickly as possible, but still managed to arrive at Arthur's chambers much later than he should have. He was in a rather foul mood, especially after having a rank smelling concoction of Gaius's spill all over his only pair of shoes. He knew that he would be teased mercilessly over his clumsiness and while he understood that the prince would not mean to be hurtful, the idea still bothered him.

So it was with less enthusiasm than usual that Merlin burst into the slumbering prince's chambers, without so much as a knock.

"Rise and shine, you great clotpole," he called, while unceremoniously tossing the heavy drapes aside.

Sunshine spilled through and filled the room with dusky light. Merlin turned around just in time to see Arthur's face disappear beneath the blankets. A muffled reply came to him from underneath the lump of sheets. Merlin could not make out the words, but guessed it went something like "Go away Merlin!"

"Get up," Merlin snapped, impatience coloring his tone a bit more than he had intended.

"No," came the response, and as if to prove his point, Arthur buried himself even deeper into his blanket cave.

Merlin sighed. He knew that he really shouldn't take any enjoyment out of what he had to do next, but he also understood that it was useless trying not to. He closed the drapes, as if in defeat, before proceeding to the small table on the far side of Arthur's room. Waiting there, as it was every morning, was the pitcher of water set out in case the prince needed to quench his thirst during the night.

Clutching the pitcher tightly in his arms, less he drop it, Merlin moved as stealthily as he could to the prince's bedside. He didn't have to wait long before Arthur's head popped out from beneath the covers, eyes closed and face adorned with the peaceful expression that can only be achieved in sleep. Somehow this made Merlin's task even more enjoyable and he had to fight hard to keep from laughing. He allowed the prince one more moment of peace before dumping the night-chilled water all over Arthur's face.

Arthur jerked as if he had been slapped, arms and legs flailing as he tried to untangle himself from his sheets. One misaimed blow knocked the metal pitcher from Merlin's outstretched hands and it crashed against the floor with a heavy clang. Unintelligible sounds echoed from where the prince had almost freed himself and Merlin got the distinct impression that Arthur was attempting to curse and spit the offending water from his mouth at the same time. It was more than Merlin had ever hoped for.

"Good morning, Sire," he said again with much more cheer than his first attempt. He threw the drapes open once more and was about to turn and face his undoubtedly angry friend when something hard and cold collided with his head. Spots exploded into his vision and he was sure that he heard a distant, muffled ringing. He swayed slightly and when he put his arm out to steady himself his hand landed on warm, damp skin.

Merlin jerked back, nearly falling over backwards as he did so, but Arthur grabbed him by the shoulder and steadied him again.

"That was a bit dramatic don't you think," Merlin snapped, rubbing the tender lump forming on his skull.

"Hardly," Arthur replied as he pushed his water plastered hair from his forehead, the end result being a rather rooster like tuff of hair sticking straight up. "If, for example, I had decided to string you up for a day or two you might get away with calling it dramatic. This, however, was perfectly fitting."

The two men stood glaring at each other for a long moment, each unwilling to be the one to apologize. In the end, Arthur went with his reliable and often called upon friend the subject change.

"Uh, Merlin," he said, with a glance at the table where the pitcher once stood. "Did you forget something?"

"No," Merlin instantly replied, even though he was sure he had. He just couldn't remember what it was.

"Really," Arthur prompted with all the casualness of a jungle cat stalking its prey. "Because it appears to me that something is missing. Perhaps you would like to guess what that might be."

Merlin pretended to think for a long moment, pressing his lips together and squeezing his eyes shut as if in deep concentration.

"Your brain," he finally ventured, taking a quick step back in case Arthur decided to hit him again.

"No, you idiot," Arthur snapped, exasperation clear in his voice. "My breakfast!"

"Ohhhh," Merlin said. "You aren't having a good morning, are you Sire? Missing your breakfast AND your brain. It must be difficult to be you, but don't worry nobody holds your stupidity against you."

Arthur's eyes grew wide and his lips pinched together in, what would be a comical expression, if Merlin did not know the prince's angry face so well. Merlin skipped to the side, narrowly avoiding the pitcher again and practically bounded from the room like a deer fleeing for its life.