"So…does that mean that you're not going to hit me anymore?"
"When do I ever hit you?"
"All the time."
"That's not hitting, Merlin. That's maybe friendly slaps. It's horseplay."
Poetry
Contrary to the rumors now floating around the castle (thank you, Merlin), Arthur was not actually good at poetry.
He liked to talk. He really did. He really had no room to tease his manservant for pointless prattle when he was the king of it. Literally. He could go on and on and on about how to improve Camelot and how to defend Camelot and how to unite with other lands to give more allies to Camelot. Merlin was a better listener than he was a cupbearer or a cook or a lackey; that was probably one of the reasons why Arthur had grown so fond of him so quickly.
He just couldn't say that. He didn't know how. Even Guinevere didn't get to hear everything he felt in his heart.
So instead of speaking it, he subconsciously invented his own form of poetry. Eventually, those he loved learned what each line meant. A ruffle to your hair or light fingers across your back meant that he was quite fond of you. A smack to the head meant that you were an idiot but he was glad you were there with him anyway. A yank to the sleeve or front of your shirt or a rough shove meant that he was frightened but wanted you to know he was going to protect you. A clap on the back or shoulder meant that he was proud of you and proud to stand with you. A light touch to your face or hair meant that he loved you dearly and wanted you to know it, as did all his kisses and embraces.
A friendly slap meant that you were his best friend and he didn't ever want to lose you. The harder the truer.
Lackey. I really like that word. Laaaackeeeey.
Anyways, I just felt like I should post something so you'd know I wasn't dead or in a coma or whatnot. I am working on Chapter 3 of Our Brother's Keeper; it's just not working with me...so sorry. It'll be posted by the end of the week, I'm expecting. Until then-Happy Thanksgiving to all of my fellow Americans!