The seventh installment! Woohoo! I've finally finished school now for the holiday, so hopefully I'll start uploading earlier in the day.
I still do not own anything to do with the Merlin series, it all belongs to the BBC.
Much love goes to my friend, Katy, for putting up with me while I uploaded this. c:
Enjoy!
On the seventh day of Christmas my true love sent to me, an abundance of tissues.
* * * *
It wasn't often that Arthur was ill. In fact, he couldn't remember the last time he had been so ill he'd had to claim a sick day. He specifically took the doctor's advice and ate healthily, worked out religiously, and took the necessary supplements to keep himself going and fight off the cold. It would seem, however, that the last two flu-free years had come back to kick him in the balls all in one go. He was so ill, in fact, that Merlin had had to take the day off as well to look after him and make sure he didn't just drop dead. In his defence, Arthur had put up a very good fight, claiming man flu and "just a cold", and insisted he could actually go to work.
His argument has fallen flat, however, when he had been racked by such a strong cough that when he had attempted to push past Merlin and get out of bed, he didn't have the energy to hold himself up, and Merlin had had to catch him before he knocked himself out on the headboard.
The flu, Arthur decided, was horribly unfair.
* * * *
"Well, I don't know Gwen. You're the nurse. What do I do?" Arthur woke slowly to teh hushed tone that he assumed was Merlin talking, but he wasn't sure as the voice was strangely distorted by ears that really needed to pop and by a headache so bad, Arthur suspected he had been smashed over the head with a sledge hammer.
"Just soup? Really? Aren't there any magical miracle drugs that will cure him?" The Merlin-like-voice continued, before pausing. Ah, Arthur realised, he's on the phone. "No, I'm a vet, Gwen, Guinea Pigs don't usually get the flu, so I wouldn't know!" The Merlin-like-voice increased in volume and Arthur winced. How inconsiderate. Doesn't he know that some people are trying to sleep? There's no need to shout. Idiot.
"Merlin. " He rasped, momentarily shocked by how dry his throat was.
"Hang on Gwen, he's woken up. I've gotta go." He paused again. "Soup, yes. Vegetable. Okay. Thanks."
"Merlin!" Arthur tried again, slowly becoming impatient.
"Yes, love? How are you feeling?" Arthur let out a small sigh of relief as Merlin placed a cold hand on his burning forehead.
"How do you think I'm feeling?"
"Good point." Arthur faintly heard the Merlin-like-voice chuckle. The cool hand pulled away, and Arthur let out a small (manly) whine as the burning feeling crept back across his forehead. "I was just talking to Gwen, and she told me to make you soup, that that you need to get as much sleeps as possible, okay?" Clearly expecting at least a grunt in answer, Merlin waited. And waited. Listening closely, he laughed softly. Arthur was already asleep.
* * * * *
Merlin knew that his cooking skills weren't the best, but he didn't think they were bad enough that Arthur felt the need to look nauseous every time he ate anything Merlin had made. Besides, Arthur's cooking skills weren't much better than his. At the thought of Arthur, Merlin sighed, slowly stirring his soup. It wasn't often that Arthur got ill, unlike Merlin, who always seemed to be plagued by a cold, but it seemed that whenever Arthur caught something, he caught it bad.
Humming softly to himself, Merlin snapped a stalk of celery in half and simply dropped both parts into the pan of steaming soup. After carefully rinsing a handful of broccoli florets, Merlin tore off the stalks and threw them away, knowing from experience that Arthur strongly disliked them. He frowned as the rest of the broccoli florets just fell apart and sank to the bottom. Oh well, he thought, He's ill. He won't notice.
* * * * *
Arthur noticed. If the way he spat the spoonful of soup Merlin had carefully fed him in a spray across the bed was anything to go by. " What the hell is in that?!" Arthur attempted to sound angry, but merely managed to sound like an unhappy kitten as his throat failed him.
"Vegetables."
"What vegetables?"
"Erm... Celery, broccoli, cabbage, potato and carrot." Merlin scowled at him. "It's good for you. Now eat it." He held up another spoonful for him. Arthur stared at it, eyes fixed on the tendril of cabbage the hung over the edge, dripping onto the bed covers. A wave of nausea washed over him.
"I'm not hungry anymore."
Merlin let the spoon land in the bowl with a clatter and sighed.
"Get some sleep, love." Merlin gently pushed the damp hair away from Arthur's eyes, and pressed a kiss to his forehead. As bad as his cooking was, Arthur had to admit that Merlin made up for it with how much he cared.
* * * * *
After several hours of troubled sleep, plagued with waking up every half an hour, Arthur decided he was well enough to stumble down the stairs and get his fix of caffeine. He felt sick to his stomach at the mere thought of the taste of coffee, but his brain had been demanding caffeine for some time now.
As he almost fell down the last few steps, Merlin looked up from his paperwork he had spread over the coffee table.
"Arthur! What are you doing out of bed?" He stood up quickly, stepping forward to usher Arthur back upstairs. Arthur, however, was having none of it. Eyes wide, he stared at what he assumed was his living room. There was paperwork everywhere, all over the floor, the coffee table, and the sofa; an unhealthy amount of mugs were imprinting circular tea stains on what looked like important forms, and a half eaten box of Chinese food teetered dangerously on the arm of the sofa.
"What have you done to my house?"
Despite Arthur being worn-down by illness, Merlin very soon found out that he was very efficient at giving orders, and guilt tripping Merlin into flowing them.
"That food – bin. Now. Mugs in the dishwasher – all of them! You forgot one! " Arthur lean heavily on the doorframe, exhausted by his journey downstairs. "Do you not understand the meaning of the word 'filing'? No, don't answer that. Clearly you don't." As Merlin began his unplanned clean up, Arthur slowly migrated to the sofa.
"I just tidied those cushions!"
"Well, you can tidy them again later." Merlin stomped off into the kitchen, trying to balance mugs and his unfinished dinner without dropping anything. After several moments of unnecessarily loud washing up, Merlin stood in the doorway, drying his hands slowly.
"Anything else, sire?"
"You couldn't rub my feet for me, could you? Arthur smirked as Merlin's expression darkened.
"Prat."
"Idiot."