Hello! Have a shot! This one is the companion piece to "Explosion", and while it could stand alone, you should probably read the 'chapter' prior to this one if you haven't already done so. And I'd like to add that while both one-shots were initially intended to be full of lots of lovely emotional whump, for some reason they went in an entirely different direction. Odd how that happens, eh?

Anyway, hope you enjoy it!

I don't own Merlin. Or Arthur. But the goblet is definitely mine. *nods firmly*

It was probably the worst kept secret in all of Camelot that the King was enormously fond of his manservant, and that the manservant was equally – if not more – enormously fond of the King. It was just one of those things; like bread needing yeast to rise, or Sir Gwaine needing numerous trips to the tavern. Arthur needed Merlin, and Merlin needed Arthur. In fact, they were so often in each other's company, that to see one without the other was enough to make most people pause in whatever they were doing, and scratch at their heads.

The second worst kept secret in Camelot was that the King and his manservant were completely oblivious to their feelings of mutual fondness, and would vehemently deny any such bond unless they were under extreme torture. (This was a proven fact, for Gwaine had once tried getting Merlin to admit to his brotherly affections for the royal blonde, and had only elicited a response after he'd strung Merlin up by the arms, and tickled the young man ruthlessly with a feather from a pheasant he had – ahem – borrowed from the castle's kitchens).

No-one had ever tried to torture the King, of course, as that might have caused a few heads to be chopped off, but it was nevertheless universally agreed that just as the two men in question shared a brotherly bond, they also shared a stubborn streak roughly the size of a small dragon (or maybe a very large horse, depending on who was doing the telling), and that if Merlin only admitted his affections under duress, then clearly Arthur would react in the same way.

The King and his manservant were mostly oblivious to the affectionate gossip that circulated the city about them, and were blissfully unaware that the bond that they believed to be hidden was as about as obvious as the sight of Sir Percival trying to sneak through the city whilst dressed in a sumptuous pink dress. (This was also a proven fact, for while Percival was a large man, he was as susceptible to the evils of too much ale as the next man, and, sadly, was equally susceptible to one of Gwaine's pranks).

Merlin, of course, was privy to several key facts concerning destiny and prophecies and the like, and when he was alone, was comfortable enough to acknowledge the affection he felt for the King. Arthur, on the other hand, was hampered when it came to admitting to the bond, mostly because he was completely in the dark about destinies and prophecies, and all that mumbo-jumbo (as the King would often describe such things), but also because admitting to such girlish sensibilities tended to bring him out in hives.

Not that he was scared. Or a coward. No, not that. He was just ever aware that, as the King, he was above such things.

So it would have come as an enormous surprise to the people of Camelot if they had known that the King was, at this very moment, exploring the very thought that usually caused him to scratch nervously at his arms. Not that he could have scratched his arms, even if he wanted to, seeing as both of his hands were currently occupied with examining a goblet.

Or rather, the goblet. The goblet that had somehow managed to cause confusion, guilt, exasperation, and several other emotions that Arthur wasn't even sure had a name. He sure as hell didn't know what they meant. All he knew was that there was a feeling of... something... swirling around in his stomach, and that this something was definitely something unpleasant.

The King initially tried to blame this feeling on the sausages he'd not long consumed; perhaps there had been one that was slightly raw, for example, or one that had been made with spoiled pork. There was even the very slight possibility that he had over-indulged on the breakfast treats, but Arthur immediately brushed that idea aside, as it was plainly not the root of his present stomach ailment.

No, it wasn't the sausages. It was those strange... whirly things... floating around in his belly. Emotions. Girly stuff.

Whirly things, indeed. Whirly things that had somehow been caused by his idiot manservant.

Merlin had exited the King's chambers several minutes ago, but Arthur was still rooted to the spot, completely befuddled as to what had brought him there. Everything had been perfectly fine that morning; nothing had happened that could explain the absolutely baffling events from the previous few minutes.

Merlin had awoken the king with the usual too-cheerful greetings, accompanying them with the somewhat torturous glare of sunlight blasting through the unveiled window.

No, nothing new there.

A little morning banter had then occurred, mostly because Arthur enjoyed taking out his morning grumpiness on a man who was, quite simply, far too cheerful for the time of day to be anything other than insane. Arthur's day couldn't truly begin until he'd caused Merlin to frown, and thus make the servant a little more normal.

Well, as normal as it was possible for Merlin to be, anyway.

Arthur had eaten his breakfast, perhaps consuming a sausage or three too many – honestly, if he wasn't supposed to eat them, why put the ruddy things on his plate to begin with? – and his friend had flitted around the room, making the bed, clearing the laundry, and doing whatever else it was that the servant did to make Arthur feel dizzy, for surely it should be illegal to move so quickly when it was still so early in the day.

The King paused, and made a mental note to consider a new law at the next council meeting, and then he continued his mental recollection of the morning's events.

Inevitably, the idiot manservant had tripped over his overlarge feet, and Arthur had grinned at the resulting scowl on Merlin's face, for it meant that the King's day could start in earnest. He'd tossed an insult across the room, and had waited eagerly for a response. Arthur was witty – or at least he liked to think so – but Merlin was more than a match for him. The verbal sparring between them had become as important a morning ritual as breakfast was.

Well, almost as important, anyway. Couldn't dismiss the value of those sausages, after all.

But as the King started to realise just how important these daily bantering sessions truly were, he was visited with a notion that startled him into a muffled groan.

Damn. It had been the sausages after all, just not in the way that Arthur had initially thought. Merlin's sharp jibe about the king's physique – it was muscle, and very definitely not fat – had irked the blonde, and he'd hurled his empty goblet at the back of his servant's head.

And that was what had caused such a disturbingly odd scene to unfold. It was all so very baffling, and Arthur was still frowning with the bemusement of it all. He'd been hurling objects at his ridiculously goofy friend ever since Merlin had become his manservant. It was an established routine. It was normal. And, despite his friend's grumbling, Arthur knew Merlin secretly enjoyed it, or why else would the man continue to provoke Arthur into doing it?

Perhaps, Arthur conceded, the goblet shouldn't have been his first choice for something to launch across the room, but there had been nothing else within reach, so it really wasn't his fault. And perhaps – and he squirmed a little at this thought – perhaps he may have put a little too much force into his throw.

Only a little; not too much.

Alright, he'd thrown the blasted thing with every bit of strength that he'd had. He'd never meant to hurt the fool, though. Not seriously, anyway. Merlin was usually so swift that he managed to avoid anything more than a glancing blow, and a glancing blow was all that Arthur had intended, truly it was.

And yet, the King had a sliver of a memory flash through his mind, an image of something that might have been blood; not a large amount – he had dismissed the red trickle as some loose threads from Merlin's ridiculous neckerchief at the time – but it was enough to make the King think.

He tried to recall what had first alerted him to Merlin's odd behaviour – other than his usual oddness, that was – and realised that it had been when his servant had stopped – simply stopped – moving. At the time, Arthur had assumed that hitting the doorframe – and again, he squirmed guiltily at that particular memory – had momentarily stunned his dark-haired friend, and so he'd done what he always did when inappropriate feelings of concern for a servant (who really shouldn't be anything more than a servant, least of all a sort-of-best-friend) threatened to make him do something ridiculously stupid such as rush to the more-than-a-servant's aid.

He'd thrown his hands in the air, huffed a little, and then let loose a stream of exasperated insults towards the man who he'd both wanted to comfort and strangle at the same time.

And then he'd grabbed the goblet from the floor – the goblet that had a slight pinkish stain on it, now that he examined it closely – and had rapped it a few times on Merlin's head. Then his ridiculous manservant had cut his stupid fingers on the broken plates he'd been trying to pick up, so Arthur, unable to control his urge to stop his friend from hurting himself any further, had hauled the thinner man to his feet, covering his concern with what had become his legendary rolling of the eyes.

The other man had been disorientated, and the King once again found himself squirming at the memory. Merlin had looked really quite ill, and the servant's eyes had been clouded with pain and confusion. The blonde had immediately recognised the symptoms of a concussion, and had tried to think of a way to get Merlin to seek out Gaius, even while his stupid mouth had continued to spurt utter nonsense about how useless his friend truly was.

But even that was still normal; Arthur had always preferred to disguise his softer feelings for other people with teasing little barbs of spite. It just wasn't quite the thing for a King to admit concern for others, after all. So it had come as a huge shock when his hitherto calm friend had thrown the armful of plates he'd still held furiously into the air.

It had come as an even bigger shock when the other man had not only insulted Arthur's intelligence – a flea, for goodness sake! – but had sent a bitter tirade towards the blonde; a stream of words that betrayed the level of confusion that his friend was obviously suffering.

For surely Merlin would never have shouted at the King unless he was disturbed in his mind. Well, more than usually disturbed, at any rate. The servant had always been cheeky, and completely incapable of conforming to the rules of propriety when it came to speaking to his betters – in fact, this was what had endeared the younger man to the King to begin with – but Merlin had never been stupid, despite Arthur's frequent observations to the contrary.

And then his obviously deranged friend had snatched the goblet that the King had still been holding, and had hurled it across the room with as much force as when Arthur had flung it mere minutes before.

The King had been shocked, but mildly impressed. He'd never realised that the waif-like body of his friend had contained so much strength. But the resulting dent in Arthur's wardrobe was clearly proof that his servant had hidden reserves of fortitude.

And if the goblet could cause damage to a solid lump of the finest oak in the kingdom, then Arthur was certain that it would also cause quite a bit of damage to the less-than-solid lump of a skull that belonged to his clumsy friend.

Arthur quickly checked to make sure that the door to his chambers was firmly closed, then, feeling slightly stupid, but resolved to test his theory, he proceeded to tap his head a few times with the goblet that was still gripped in his fingers.

Which was possibly a mistake, because –

"Ow!"

He winced. Well. That was enlightening. And really rather painful.

Arthur frowned at the goblet. Then frowned at the wardrobe. Then frowned at the goblet again.

Really, this wouldn't do. This wouldn't do at all.

Because if the King could feel a little dizzy just by gently tapping his head with the goblet, then just how bad did Merlin's abused skull feel like? It was altogether likely that his obviously concussed friend was still wandering around in a daze, probably forgetting about where he was supposed to be going.

The King sighed. He was going to have to find the man, that was all there was to it. It went slightly against his wish to appear aloof at all times, but there was no help for it.

Besides, he reasoned, he had every right to make sure his friend wasn't too severely injured. After all, the blonde needed to have a healthy manservant, did he not?

But before the King could take even a step towards the door, it was thrust open, and the object of his thoughts almost fell into the room in his haste to enter it so quickly.

Arthur rolled his eyes. And sighed.

"Merlin, don't you ever obey my orders?"

The servant – who was clearly still not feeling quite right, judging by the more-than-usual pastiness of his features – appeared to think for a moment, before answering.

"Sometimes I do," he said earnestly.

There was an awkward silence, when Merlin bit his lip, and allowed his gaze to wander, while the King wondered how it might be possible to apologize, without making it sound like one. There were appearances to uphold, after all.

"I'm sorry I threw the goblet."

Arthur blinked. Because he was pretty damned sure he hadn't opened his mouth, so how on earth...

"And I'm sorry I said you had the brains of a flea."

Ah.

"And I'm pretty sure I shouldn't have shouted quite so much," his servant mumbled.

Well. Merlin was apologising. Wait. Merlin was apologising?

"How much of a concussion do you have?" the King asked suspiciously.

Merlin shrugged.

"Because," continued the blonde, "I'm pretty sure you wouldn't be apologising unless your head was more than just a little bit..."

"Dented? Battered? Bruised?" said his friend helpfully.

"Injured."

"Yes, well... it just seemed like I should say something. You know, about the shouting. And stuff. And the throwing thing. Because... well, it really wasn't your fault."

"Of course it wasn't my fault," said the King, proudly lifting his chin. "And for once, I think that you're right."

"What?"

"For apologising, of course. It stands to reason. You were very obviously in the wrong, and one should always apologise when one is in the wrong."

"Ri-ight."

"And one should always apologise when one throws goblets around."

His manservant blinked owlishly.

"Are you apologising to me?"

"Don't be ridiculous, Merlin."

"Because it sort of sounded like you were."

"Then clearly your overly large ears do not appear to have very exceptional hearing qualities, do they?"

Arthur inwardly chuckled as his friend scowled and muttered angrily under his breath. Ah, that was more like it. Merlin might be injured, but he was almost back to his normal self. Another burst of that strange whirly feeling in his stomach occurred, and the King managed to identify the cause this time, though he'd rather be strung up by his thumbs than have to admit it out loud.

Fondness.

There. That's what it was.

His friend shook his head and rolled his eyes, before leaving the room without so much as a word. The King smiled as soon as the door closed, and he stared at the goblet in his hand for a few seconds, before walking over to the table and placing it gently down on the surface. As he did so, he made a vow; in future, The King of Camelot would never again use a goblet for anything more than it was intended for, and certainly would never use it as a weapon.

Sorry, Merlin.

After all, an apology was still an apology, even if it was a silent one.