Leon woke up slouched in a chair and with a horrible crick in his neck.

He yawned and rolled his shoulders, hoping to release the tension in his neck. No such luck.

Muted light filtered in from the window. Unlike the view of Leon's rooms, Mordred's overlooked the courtyard, around which only a few people milled about. It was a cloudy day and the sun glowed dimly behind the blanket of clouds. It was higher than it usually was when Leon woke.

By the wardrobe across the room, Mordred was already dressed and tying his boots. His cloak and the equipment he would need for a patrol were neatly prepared by the door.

When Mordred felt Leon's eyes on him, he glanced up at him.

"Good morning, Leon," he said with a hint of a smirk and Leon just knew Mordred had let him sleep like that as vengeance for letting Mordred sleep on his table last time.

"Vindictive little pooka, aren't you?" accused Leon without any real heat. He was glad Mordred had pulled out of his bad mood from the previous night. "Good morning," he added because he did have manners.

Mordred stood, having finished with his boots.

"Just part of my charm," he said.

Leon huffed a laugh. He felt grubby and passed a hand through his hair, trying to get it into some semblance of order. He needed to wash his face and change clothes.

"You know," said Leon, "most people don't find that charming at all."

Mordred didn't miss a beat.

"I'm not trying to charm most people."

Where Mordred found the gall to say such things, Leon didn't know. Heat burned at his ears and he stopped fussing with his hair as he tried to come up with an appropriate response.

If anything, Leon's stammering only made Mordred's smirk grow.

No one noticed Leon when he left Mordred's room.

They didn't notice his rumpled clothes. They didn't care to spread new rumours about him and Mordred.

It was old news, after all, hardly worth commenting on when there were much more poignant rumours circulating. All of them centred around one person: Merlin. And many of the gossips were suspicious of him.

The idea that charming, bumbling Merlin had been a sorcerer all this time was admittedly jarring. He had had plenty of opportunity to kill both Uther and Arthur, but he hadn't. Even Leon had wondered for a moment if Merlin had some other plot in the works, if only because most of the time that's what a sorcerer infiltrating Camelot meant.

But he was Merlin. The only possible plot Leon could think of would be that Merlin had infiltrated Camelot to teach Arthur to act like a decent man instead of a spoiled brat.

But that would be crazy and incredibly dangerous.

Not that Merlin had the reputation of being reasonable or cautious.

Leon put the thought out of his mind when he reached the door to his chambers.

He had to get ready for the day.

As First Knight, it was Leon's job to manage all the other knights and to arrange shifts with the guards. It could get tricky making sure that all went well. Sometimes, knights had personal issues that came up. Sometimes they got hurt or sick.

Sometimes, they were useless drunkards.

Arthur had organized a hunt with the Knights of the Round Table and the only ones who weren't in the courtyard yet were Arthur, Merlin and Gwaine. Leon didn't know what was holding up Arthur and Merlin, but hopefully they would be late enough that Leon could fetch Gwaine and get him ready before Arthur noticed.

Leon rushed down to the Rising Sun and flung open the door with more familiarity than he would like. A barmaid was clearing off the tables when she heard him come in and she knew exactly what Leon was there for.

"He's not here," she said.

"What?" said Leon, "When did he leave?"

She shrugged.

"He didn't come last night," she said, " 'Haven't seen him in the night before 'last."

That was strange. Gwaine practically lived here. Leon was fairly certain Gwaine ate every meal here and slept half his nights in one of the rooms.

In that case, where could he be?

Leon knew that, bad habits aside, Gwaine was a noble knight and a good friend. He also knew that Gwaine and Merlin were close. If Gwaine had heard the rumours about Merlin that were circulating, surely he would try to cheer up his friend.

And Merlin, despite not being the most subtle manservant in the world, did not care to be outed as a sorcerer. At all. Every attempt Leon had made to know more about his magic had been about as easy as plucking a live griffin.

That was to say, not at all.

Leon thought he knew where he might find his errant knight.

Gwaine and Merlin were in fact at Gaius' table, both rubbing at their temples. The old physician himself was brewing some concoction that made the room smell so strongly of anise that Leon suspected it was to cover up some other smell to make it more palatable.

If Gaius was trying to be kind with his medicines, the previous night must have been more difficult than Leon had assumed.

"The hangover cure should take another ten minutes. It'll get them both back on their feet," said Gaius.

"They should already be outside," said Leon, "The king won't be happy if we keep him waiting."

"The king will sleep until Merlin wakes him," shot back Gaius with more confidence than Leon thought appropriate.

With nothing else to do but wait, Leon crossed his arms.

"Very well," he said, "But I will be escorting them to the courtyard personally."

Eventually, Leon managed to steer Gwaine into fresh clothes and out to their gathering place.

Arthur and Merlin had yet to show up and Leon was unhappy with how late they were running. Merlin, unlike somebody, didn't usually drink. The state Leon had found them in had Gwaine's influence written all over it. Leon blamed Gwaine entirely.

He had plans, damn it all, and that drunk was going to ruin everything.

Plan A had fallen through the previous night because Mordred had been in a bad mood.

Plan B that morning had fallen through because Mordred had been all charming and it had addled Leon's senses. He forgot about Plan B.

There was only a narrow window for Plan C that evening between their return from the hunt and Mordred's night shift on patrol. Between putting away the hunting equipment and Mordred's preparation for patrol, he would have just short of an hour to knock on Mordred's door and properly ask to court him.

It wasn't something that could be done publicly or off-handedly. They needed the space and time to discuss it if Mordred had any misgivings, but they should have more than enough time then.

Or they would have had enough time if somebody hadn't made them horribly late.

At this rate, Mordred was going to have to rush from the hunt directly to the patrol and Mordred's night shifts that week meant that their schedules wouldn't align again until the following week.

Leon couldn't even alter either of their schedules. Sir Caridoc who usually did that route (he was a bit of a night owl) was travelling to his home estate for his sister's wedding that week. Arthur himself had decided it would be a good opportunity for Mordred to try a week of night patrols.

Arthur had also asked for nearly the entirety of Leon's time that week for some yet unspecified reason (which was almost definitely magic).

Leon couldn't do anything. He could almost feel this opportunityit slipping through his fingers.

If Gwaine noticed Leon glaring at the back of his head, he didn't comment on it. Eventually, Arthur and Merlin arrived.

The forest was calm.

The birds chittered; the leaves rustled. The sounds of the forest were ordinary, but the silence among the party was not.

Arthur and Merlin, riding at the front, normally bickered back and forth, but today they were silent. It was odd because nothing had truly changed besides the seat at the table. They had all seen the magic and seen it forgiven. Arthur had alluded to apologizing before doing so publicly, so even that hadn't been different.

Maybe it was saying the word "sorcerer" that had done this.

After some time travelling at a lethargic pace, Arthur cleared his throat.

"So, Merlin," he said, "do tell."

Although Leon could only see the back of his head, he could imagine Merlin's guarded look.

"Tell what?" he asked.

"About your magic," replied Arthur with forced patience, "You know, your secret sorcerer life. I want to know the details.

"It started when my father met my mother in a little town called Ealdor-"

"No, you idiot! I don't want your entire life's story. I just want to know about the magical bits."

"Well, sire," replied Merlin, "my entire life is magical. The only reason I've kept my head this long is because Uther had the observation powers of a turnip and you inherited it. If you want to know all the magical happenings in my life, I'll have to write an autobiography."

"Fine," grumped Arthur, "In that case, tell me about the first time you used magic near me."

The silence stretched for several long moments.

"Come on, Merlin," urged Arthur.

"Hold on a second, let me think. Was it...? No, before that was... Ah yes."

Now, Leon could not see his face. There wasn't anything to his posture that gave away what Merlin was thinking. But he sort of... emanated mischief.

Leon exchanged a few hand motions with Percival to prepare themselves just in case Arthur tried to strangle Merlin for whatever was coming.

"On my second day in Camelot," said Merlin, "I picked a fight with a right ass who had been bullying a servant. It was a mace fight, you see, and I didn't know how to use a mace at all. But my opponent didn't seem to know either. He kept fumbling with it or knocking into the stalls..."

Arthur slowed.

Actually, everyone slowed. Picking a fight with the prince of Camelot and blatantly using magic to publicly humiliate him wasn't just reckless, it was suicidal.

How had Merlin managed to survive this long?

Maybe Emrys was watching over him. Only divine interference could salvage this level of stupidity.

"That-" stammered Arthur, "That was you?!"

Merlin continued ahead, forcing everyone else to speed up again to keep pace. He laughed at Arthur's outrage. Arthur himself visibly suppressed his fury.

"And you know what else?" taunted Merlin, the temptation of mocking Arthur apparently outweighing his recalcitrance, "That same day, I used magic to kill Mary Collins and Uther rewarded me for it. With a position as your servant!"

Merlin laughed harder. He laughed so hard, it was bordering on maniacal cackling.

It sounded like a bad joke, but Leon had been there. He had attended that banquet and seen how the sorceress had nearly killed Arthur and how she had been crushed under a chandelier.

He had dismissed it as luck and moved on. After all, why should anyone suspect sorcery being used in public to rescue the prince?

They had stopped entirely, most of the party in shock and Merlin in doubled over on his horse laughing.

It was Gwaine who finally spoke up.

"Wait, what?"

It was simple, but it perfectly encapsulated Leon's feelings.

Magic was fine. Secrets were alright. Enigmas were annoying but understandable.

This was... something else. It was really very odd.

For one, murder and Merlin didn't go in the same sentence. He didn't even like hunting rabbits. It was one thing for guards or knights with training to interfere, but a civilian as peaceful as Merlin killing a dangerous sorceress was unthinkable.

For another, how had no one noticed anything? Twice within a day, Merlin had used magic in very public settings and come out with nary a suspicion on him.

For a third, how could Merlin be taking this so lightly?

It was hardly the first time that Leon thought Merlin might be a bit mad.

When Merlin's laughter died down, they resumed their way through the woods. And though the knights were a bit wary, Merlin had relaxed and seemed quite at ease telling them about every unimportant, nonsensical time Merlin had used magic to humiliate Arthur.

Nothing more, nothing less. Leon hoped it would be a starting point to get him to talk about the more difficult aspects of being a sorcerer in Camelot. Maybe they just needed to give him space and let him talk in his own time.

Merlin bragged about embarrassing Arthur up until they saw the gates of Camelot.

Then, he quietened and Leon had the distinct impression that trying to question him here would be as difficult as before.

Leon had been right about their lateness.

They returned later than the start of Mordred's shift and the man darted off as soon as they got off their horses. He passed the reins to Elyan and had him take care of his supplies. Elyan waved him off in good humour as Mordred ran off.

After sullenly putting all of his equipment away and dragging himself up to his quarters, Leon changed into his night clothes before plopping himself by the fireplace to mourn Plan C and stew in his misery.

Eventually, a knock came on the door that startled Leon out of his stupor. He reluctantly rose to crack open the door and shoo away whoever was bothering him.

What he found was a rather familiar young man, nicely dressed and with an equally familiar bottle of cider in hand.

"Mordred?" said Leon, "Aren't you supposed to be on patrol?"

Mordred scratched the back of his head.

"Well, yes, but I found someone to cover for me. I wasn't in a good place yesterday and I owe you a drink. Can I come in?"

"Right," said Leon, somewhat taken off-guard. He was suddenly very aware that he was only in his nightshirt. "Alright, come in. I just need to make myself presentable."

When Leon turned toward his wardrobe to find himself some trousers, a hand on his shoulder held him back. Mordred turned him back towards him.

"Don't bother," he said, as he nudged the door shut and his eyes drifted to Leon's collarbone before meeting his eyes, "Stay just like that."

That was odd but... alright. Whatever made him happy.

Still, he felt oddly under-dressed when they sat with their cups. Unlike Leon, Mordred wore a fine blue tunic with dark trousers and boots. They all had that deep colouring that only new clothes had. It had taken a bit of time to get Mordred clothing appropriate for his rank and entirely worth it.

He couldn't look more the part of a dashing nobleman.

And Leon was in his nightshirt.

They filled and refilled their cups. Mordred mocked some of the more ridiculous conspiracies circulating about Merlin and Leon went on a bit of a tangent about Gwaine.

He meant to proposition Mordred. He had had a script prepared and a gift in the breast pocket of his coat, but Mordred's presence and his cider made him forget his lines and where he put his coat.

Somehow, it seemed much more important to find another story to make Mordred laugh and to wonder if his lips would taste as sweet as his cider.

When the fire started to dim, Leon stretched back in his chair. It had been a long day and the tension in his neck hadn't entirely faded. He stretched it this way and that.

The motion brought a smirk to Mordred's lip.

"Still have a crick in your neck?" he asked too innocently.

Leon glared at him, but when Mordred stood and made his way around Leon, his annoyance made way for curiosity.

What was he up to?

Suddenly, there were hands gently pressing on Leon's shoulders.

"Let me help," whispered Mordred into Leon's ear and Leon could think of nothing more foolish than to refuse.

His hands were like magic. They pressed into his muscles in ways that mere stretching couldn't achieve. Soon, Leon felt more relaxed than he had in a long time and the crick was nothing more than a memory.

All the while, Mordred kept whispering in his ear.

"It's a little ridiculous how we keep falling asleep at the table, don't you think?"

Leon hummed an agreement, only paying half a mind to the words.

"Such a shame when there's a proper bed available," continued Mordred.

Leon remembered the rumours then that he hoped to give credence to.

"What will people say if I leave you at the table twice?" he said.

Mordred laughed softly.

"It's your fault," he said, "You're too distracting. It makes me lose track of my drinks."

Improvisation wasn't in Leon's habit, but there was something rough in Mordred's voice that emboldened him.

"Better get an early night if you don't want to fall asleep on the chair again."

Mordred was silent for a moment before answering.

"That would be for the best," he whispered without a trace of humours for once.

So they left their half-empty cups and the wooden chairs in favour of Leon's bed.

And Leon discovered that Mordred's lips really did taste cider-sweet.