Archive of Our Own ^beta

“I have a question,” Merlin says, plopping down in the seat across from him. Arthur has to try entirely too hard to not sigh, and pointedly does not look up.

“What?” he asks through his clenched teeth, because ignoring Merlin never actually works, anyway, to his great dismay. He'd been hoping to have this report done by now, so that he could get a few extra hours of training in with the knights. Unfortunately, Merlin had also made a decision about how he wanted to spend his time, and had decided that he wanted to spend his free time with Arthur today, of all days.

(Which seems a little too convenient, Arthur thinks, scowling. Merlin, he has learned, is absolutely not above sabotaging -)

“Arthur!”

Merlin's voice snaps him out of his head and Arthur sighs in resignation, putting down the quill he’d been gripping (perhaps a little too tightly) and looking up. It’s not that he doesn’t like Merlin’s company (most of the time, anyway), it’s just that Merlin really does not understand the concept of not distracting someone who is doing very important work. Or maybe he does understand it, and chooses to ignore it.

Arthur makes a mental note to send Gaius a gift, or something, for his troubles.

“Yes, Merlin?”

“I said, would you still love me if I was a worm?”

Opening his mouth, about to reply, the words get stuck in his throat as the question catches up to him. Arthur sits there, brows furrowed, trying to see if he actually heard correctly - surely Merlin couldn’t have said -

“I'm sorry?”

“Oh, my god, you clotpole. A worm. Would you still love me if I was a worm?”

It’s almost like a joke, except the punchline is that Merlin's the one who looks exasperated, as if Arthur's the slow one. As if it’s even close to a reasonable question.

“What on earth kind of a question is that?” he sputters, voice definitely not high at all. Especially not high enough to crack. Especially, especially not high enough to make Arthur himself wince.

The thing is, Merlin has, admittedly, always been rather… eccentric. But up until this point, Arthur had mostly been joking when he’d spoken about getting Gaius to look into however many mental afflictions Merlin seems to be dealing with. He is rethinking the lightheartedness with which he’s thus far dealt with the subject now, though.

Merlin rolls his eyes which, actually, does nothing to ease Arthur’s growing concern.

“An easy one. Will you just answer it?”

And there are… so many things. So many things Arthur has to say, or can possibly say, or wants to say about that. There are so many damn things that in the end it becomes impossible to even consider where to start. So he just obeys, and if his voice sounds confused or skeptical the entire time, well. Of course it bloody does.

“No.”

Merlin tsks. “Come on Arthur, it’s not that hard a question -“

“No, I mean - that’s my answer. It’s ‘no’.”

At this, Merlin’s jaw drops. And, actually, Arthur had no idea he could open his mouth that much -

“Excuse me?” he screeches, affronted, “you wouldn’t love me? Just because I'm a worm, now?" Arthur rubs his temples.

“Merlin, you’re not actually a worm.”

“Yeah, but if I was you’re saying you wouldn’t love me!”

Arthur imagines there are more ridiculous people out there, with more ridiculous questions and reactions, but he hasn’t met any. Nor, in truth, does he imagine he will ever want to. He doesn’t know why, exactly, Merlin’s any different, and part of him wants to weep because of how utterly ridiculous this conversation is. The other part - God help him, the bigger part - on the other hand, is much more defensive. What does Merlin expect him to say? That he’d happily court a bloody worm?

“You'd be a worm!”

“So?”

Arthur stares at him, jaw on the floor once again. “What do you mean, so? How can someone even love a worm? Besides, I hate worms.”

“But I'm still me! I'd just be a worm! You love your terrifying dogs -“

“That is not the same thing -”

“How is it not the same?”

“Merlin, I do not love you the same way I love my dogs! Also, they’re not terrifying -“

Merlin snorts in derision, his glare something fearsome, indeed. Arthur wonders how magic works, because surely - with a glare like this directed at him - he should be burnt to a crisp by now. Lifting his chin, he glares right back, though. Sometimes, being right and holding one's ground is more important than self preservation, and Merlin's being completely unreasonable.

“I can't believe this,” Merlin says, voice filled with betrayal.

“You’re being dramatic,” Arthur reasons, though really - he should know better. Such words have never done well to calm anyone, not even himself. Of course they wouldn’t work on Merlin.

“Dramatic!” Merlin scoffs, “I thought we were in love, but it turns out all it would take for you to up and leave me is if I turned into a worm!”

Arthur lets out a calming breath and rubs his face with his hand. “Are you even hearing yourself? You’d be a worm! What do you expect me to say? That I'd just court you like nothing’s different?” he demands. Merlin just glares harder.

“So, what? If a bird ate me, you wouldn’t even mourn? Wouldn’t even give me a funeral?”

“Wha - ! When did being eaten by a bird come into it?”

“Well I'm a worm, Arthur! If you leave me to fend for myself -”

“You know what? I'd thank the bird! At least then I wouldn't have to hear you blabbering on!"

Merlin gasps, standing from his chair, and Arthur snaps his mouth shut. One of Merlin's hands is over his heart, and Arthur has to - really can do nothing but - roll his eyes at the theatrics of it all.

“This is unbelievable,” Merlin mutters, fuming. Arthur just waves him off.

“Can I please get back to this report, now?” he asks, trying to sound as pleasant and patient as he very much is. Honestly, he doesn’t even know how Merlin comes up with these kinds of questions.

“You’re such a prat,” Merlin curses in lieu of answering, and then sweeps out the room with one last glare. Arthur just shakes his head at the sound of the door slamming, and gets back to the wretched report.

By the time night rolls around, the argument (was it an argument? Arthur doesn’t even know if Merlin was serious about it… he sure as hell isn’t considering the ridiculous thing an argument) from the afternoon is forgotten. The both of them get ready for bed as if nothing out of the ordinary happened at all (and in a way, Arthur supposes it didn’t), and it’s a good night.

Arthur’s muscles ache in a dull, content way from training for longer than he’s used to in the afternoon (because he had, thank God, finished that report), and it’s pure relief he feels, collapsing onto the bed. Merlin talks about his day, mentions nonsense things he and Gwaine and Lancelot got up to before Arthur stole them away, and - almost unconsciously - begins massaging Arthur’s arm.

They both blow out the candles, settling in the bed with nothing but the soft rustle of sheets interrupting their quiet conversation, and Arthur doesn’t think about the odd question again. Not when Merlin pulls him close under the blanket, nor when he kisses Arthur’s cheek with a silent I love you murmured against it.

It’s a good night.

Merlin has a plan.

Well, it’s not so much a plan as it is an impulsive, in-the-heat-of-the-moment decision. But that’s so far beside the point that Merlin barely spares a thought to the argument. Not that it’s even an argument. Anyways, if anyone ever asks he can just pretend and say that it began as a very intricate plan. Since he’s such an intricate planner and so on.

One thing going for him is that Arthur is, indeed, a very heavy sleeper. Well, only when he’s in a bed, really; when he knows there’s no danger. Merlin knows that ever since they’d started spending their nights together, Arthur’s gotten even better with sleeping heavily through the night. It’s quite a compliment, really, and he’s glad for it. Arthur looks a lot happier, a lot less stressed these days, despite all the new duties he’s had to take on as king. A good night’s rest makes him softer and happier and that’s all Merlin’s ever -

Anyways. That’s not important. What is important is that Arthur sleeps heavily in their bed, and Merlin’s been working on an invisibility spell for ages, and yesterday - while he was stewing in his anger over an, admittedly, ridiculous slight - he found a worm.

A long, skinny, rather disgusting and plain looking worm.

Looking at a worm, and imagining it to be a transformed lover, is rather different to thinking about it in theory. Yesterday he’d been appalled, really. I’d still love him, he’d thought to himself, my love isn’t conditional on his state of existence.

Except… now, picking the worm up with his nose scrunched in disgust and plucking on the pillow next to Arthur’s golden head, Merlin thinks that - maybe - he might see where Arthur was coming from, the day before. About the whole ‘you’d be a worm!’ thing.

Not, mind, that he would ever admit such to Arthur.

Making sure the wiggly thing is in Arthur’s line of sight, Merlin tip-toes (quite stealthily, if he does say so himself - he doesn’t know what Arthur means when he claims Merlin would suck as an assassin) towards the looking glass behind the dressing screen. It’s a rather easy enchantment - no ridiculously complex pronunciations or anything - and Merlin only means to keep it for a few hours, anyway. Just long enough to convince Arthur.

Arthur - doesn’t know what wakes him.

It can’t be a noise, he doesn’t think, but it’s no touch either. The sun’s still orange against the wall opposite to the window, so it can’t be a natural waking, because he’s never waken up this early in his own bed without Merlin’s assistance (er… in whatever capacity). He lets out a groan, running a hand over his face and through his hair.

It’s only then that he notices a distinct lack of weight on his right side. A lack of a distinctly Merlin weight. Blinking his eyes to focus, the first thing he sees is an empty side of the bed. The sheets haven’t gone completely cool, so he can’t have been gone long but - still. It’s disorienting. These days, he and Merlin usually wake up together (never mind that Arthur complains and orders his way into getting an extra few minutes after Merlin’s gotten up). He can’t remember the last time he woke up without seeing a tuft of black hair on the pillow beside his.

After a minute or two, however, he catches a small, indecipherable movement on Merlin’s pillow from the corner of his eye. Turning his head, Arthur really just expects it to be a light breeze making a wayward thread rustle. He does not expect to see a pale, pink, writhing worm.

Screeching is perhaps - er - a strong word, for what transpires next, so. So it’s not that he screeches, exactly, at the sight of the dastardly thing but - er. But he doesn’t exactly take it in stride, either. Obviously. It’s a worm on Merlin’s pillow - a worm wriggling next to Arthur’s head - not exactly commonplace.

And it’s not that Arthur’s squeamish, or anything - he isn’t, honestly, he can’t afford to be given how much of his life is spent sleeping on the forest floor but. Well. This isn’t exactly the forest floor, it’s their bed and one does not usually find a worm -

A worm. On Merlin’s pillow.

“Oh, very funny,” he says to the empty space. He could kill Merlin. “Come out, then, you’re not nearly as clever as you think you are.”

Except nothing happens, which is just a little strange, because Arthur’s sure that Merlin wouldn’t play such a (foolish, stupid, simple, not at all original, take your pick) prank without ensuring he was able to witness its results for himself. He squints his eyes, looking around the room suspiciously, and begins quietly checking around.

Not under the bed, or stuffed in the wardrobe; not behind the curtain nor snickering behind the changing screen. He’s not here, Arthur thinks, almost in awe, almost in giddy satisfaction. After checking the last possible place Merlin possibly could be hiding, Arthur lets his guard down. His shoulders lose their tenseness, and he snorts to himself. Idiot, he thinks fondly, unable to stop the smile spreading across his face.

“Can’t even execute a simple bloody prank correctly,” Arthur says to the empty room, and he fancies he can imagine Merlin’s offended sputtering replying to him. The smile stays plastered on Arthur’s face as he eyes the worm consideringly.

For a second, the fondness is so debilitating that Arthur genuinely considers getting back into bed and waiting for Merlin to return, just so that he won’t be disappointed in his failed attempt in pranking the very clever and cunning king of Camelot. He soon dismisses the idea, though, feeling not quite easy about the idea of lying next to a worm.

“He’s quite early for breakfast, though,” he tells the worm, as if it understands. It wiggles a bit, almost as if it actually does, and Arthur shakes his head, turning away. Stupid Merlin, putting stupid ideas in his head. Of course the worm doesn’t understand him. It’s a worm. Not -

Surely not Merlin.

Arthur dresses himself, not bothering to go behind the screen (not wanting to let the thing out of his sight) and then drags a chair close to the right side of his bed, alternating between eyeing the stupid worm, and watching the door, waiting for it to open. He waits in vain.

It should take Merlin about ten minutes to get breakfast, if he were a singularly focused person. He is not, unfortunately, and is rather prone to talking and wandering a lot, and so Arthur has come to expect it to take about twenty minutes, in actuality, for he and Merlin to be able to eat their breakfast together. Given the fact that it’s earlier than usual, today, he waits for almost half an hour, before allowing himself to actually feel any panic.

When the doors to his chambers remain stubbornly closed, Arthur looks with horror at the worm again, now having wiggled all the way off the pillow and near the edge of the bed.

“You did not,” he says, addressing it and contradicting himself in the process. The idiot really would do something like this, wouldn’t he? Turn himself into a bloody worm just to get a damn point across? Arthur takes a calming breath, though it really does not help.

“Okay,” he says, “okay.”

He might’ve just gone to Gaius, Arthur reasons. Or to Gwen or Gwaine or Lancelot, there are a number of places he may yet be. All of which make more sense than Merlin turning himself into a worm. Arthur almost laughs at himself. He’s being ridiculous; of course, this is Merlin’s influence.

Getting up, he slowly starts the ritual of securing his sword to his belt, glancing at the door now and again, just in case Merlin does turn up.

“I’m going to make him attend so many boring council meetings and hearings for this,” he confides in the worm. Again, Arthur pretends he can hear Merlin's sputtering protests, and tries to keep the fondness out of his voice when he adds, “it’s nothing more than he deserves, really. Utterly ridiculous.”

Some part of his brain unsolicitedly reminds him that he’s talking to a worm, and is, perhaps, not exactly in a position to call others - even Merlin - ridiculous. But that annoying, nagging voice in his head sounds a lot like Merlin, so it doesn’t matter. Why would he listen to such a ridiculous idiot? He’s the king, after all.

Putting on his jacket, Arthur’s about to exit the chambers, when a thought - a stupid, completely invalid concern, really - occurs to him. He looks at the worm, and back at the door again. Obviously, it would be a stupid idea for one to transform themselves into a worm to get a point across, but equally foolish - perhaps even more so, actually - would it be to underestimate Merlin’s idiocy.

Arthur stands, unmoving by the door, before the gnawing guilt and worry get the best of him. He moves back towards the bed, sighing and gently picking the worm up with a great deal of caution and disgust - telling himself it’s only because he doesn’t want the bloody thing to get lost in the chambers, and not because it may, actually, be Merlin - and encloses it in his hands, pretending to not feel queasy just from the weird sensation of the worm against his palm, moving around. Ugh - he hates worms.

“I’m gonna make him wear such a ridiculous outfit, too,” he curses, scowling at his hands as the damn the wiggles around even more. A large hat with feathers and bows and whatever other things that adorn hats.

On his way to Gaius’ chambers, Arthur encounters not only Gwaine and Lancelot, but Guinevere, as well. None of them has seen Merlin since last night, which is just fantastic, really, because Arthur had been counting on the fact that if the visit to Gaius’ was fruitless, at least he’d have three other options to fall back on before having to conclude the worst. Now, Gaius is his only hope.

Well, their only hope.

After learning about Arthur not knowing where Merlin was, the other three became concerned as well, and now Arthur has to deal with a posse of people trailing him to Gaius’ chambers, which does not help his nerves at all.

And it’s not that he minds - or doesn’t appreciate - the company (well - maybe Gwaine’s), it’s just that he’s not sure how he’s going to explain, if Merlin is, in fact, the worm inside his palm, why Merlin’s a worm in his palm. Gaius’ eyebrow will be enough of a challenge to endure, he doesn’t also need Lancelot’s startled/amused/concerned presence, or Gwen’s quite terribly concealed laughter, or Gwaine’s - well. Everything.

“Wha - Sire?” Gaius is still in his night robes when he opens the door to see the four of them piled together in his doorway. Arthur apologizes for the inconvenience, before shooting a glare at Gwaine for bluntly asking if Merlin’s there or not.

Gaius looks skeptical and - oh, great, the eyebrows already making an entrance, that's just lovely - slightly confused. To Arthur’s horror, he begins slowly shaking his head in the negative.

“Er - no, he hasn’t come by, today. May I ask why - that is, usually he’s with you at this time, sire.”

Arthur doesn’t blush at the obvious meaning behind the words - it’s been a year, really - but it’s a near thing. The worm wiggles in his hands, again, startling him so hard he almost jumps, and there’s really nothing more to it after that.

He has to order Gwaine to leave the room about four times, while telling the wretched tale of their supposed argument of the day before, and the apparent result of it this morning. Gwen’s turned away once he finishes, no doubt trying to compose herself, and Lancelot and Gaius look exactly as he’d expected them to. Honestly, everyone is entirely too predictable, Arthur grumbles to himself. Including Merlin. The idiot who turned himself into a worm to get a point across.

“Merlin, my friend,” Gwaine laughs, crouching down to look at the - to look at Merlin in Arthur’s palm, “I applaud you - this is your best idea yet.”

And if Arthur hadn’t been holding Merlin, he would’ve strangled one of his best knights, he really would’ve. Except, now that it seems certain that the worm is, indeed, Merlin (the fact that no one questioned drawing such a conclusion speaks volumes about Merlin, really), Arthur can’t let him go. He is so fragile, so vulnerable and small, like this. He’s terrified of looking away for a moment and risking Merlin wriggling off a table, or getting lost, or being stepped on, or - God forbid - being eaten by a bloody bird.

He takes a seat, overwhelmed by worry and anger and fear. What sort of idiot -

“What is the problem, exactly?” Lancelot asks, after a moment, and Arthur turns to look at him incredulously.

“Lancelot, I don’t know how it’s escaped your notice, but he’s a worm -”

“No, yes, of course, sire. I just mean - he’s not lost, and he’s a powerful warlock. I’m sure he can just… turn back, yes?” Lancelot addresses the last part to the worm, and Arthur watches in some sort of detached wonder as he does. They have literally all gone insane - anyone would say so, seeing them now; they’re talking to a worm. The - Merlin? - worm makes no indication that it - he? - heard, let alone understood, anything Lancelot said.

“If that’s true, then - er - why hasn’t he?” Gwen asks, cautiously eyeing the worm now, too. The humour’s slowly slipping off of her face, being replaced by worry.

“Oh,” Lancelot says, furrowing his eyebrows, “hm.”

Arthur congratulates himself for thinking ahead and sitting down, because now he really does think he may faint. I’m going to make your life a living hell, he thinks fiercely at the worm - Merlin - whatever. As if he’ll be heard and understood. For a second Arthur wonders if he’ll break any records if his heart gives out from worry and fear, for being the youngest monarch to do so. At least he can never say Merlin’s magic didn’t make a name for him in history, if so. Perhaps just not the one everyone was expecting.

“Gaius?” Gwaine asks, more serious now, too. And that does not help Arthur’s nerves at all.

“It’s possible the spell’s too powerful to be broken with a thought or counter spell,” Gaius says, after a moment, “quite like the aging spell he uses.”

“So we need to make a potion?”

“Ah - well, actually, sire - I’m not quite sure it’s that simple.”

“Gaius, spare me, I beg you. What do we need?”

“It’s just -” Gaius hesitates, looking at - at Merlin in Arthur’s palm with growing concern marring his features. “Different spells are broken in different ways. I’m not sure a potion would do the job, in this scenario. Without knowing exactly what spell Merlin used, we can’t be sure…”

Arthur clenches his jaw, and then holds up his other hand to keep Merlin from wiggling off his palm.

“So, he’s stuck like this until we can find what spell he used?” Arthur asks, and his voice sounds dead to his own ears. He feels numb - Merlin’s stuck as a fragile, tiny worm because Arthur said some stupid thing about not loving him if he were to become this. This is his fault.

“Well -”

“Hold on,” Gwaine cuts in sounding as if he’s been thinking, which is really not a good thing. The fear growing in Arthur’s chest increases; oh god, Gwaine’s thinking. That just seals it. Everything’s fucked - Merlin’s never going to - “I once heard of a story about a frog and a princess -”

Merlin was having the time of his fucking life.

This plan - okay, the not-plan, in-the-heat-of-the-moment decision - was going so much better than he could have ever hoped. No intricate plan could’ve hoped to achieve the same staggering results as this has done. Not only are they all convinced he’s some damn worm - conversing with it as if it really is him! - but Arthur’s -

Arthur’s worried about it. He’s never not paying attention to the worm he believes Merlin to be - won’t even let it down!

Part of him does, of course, feel uneasy keeping up the farce. He’d meant to play a harmless joke, really, but Arthur looks like he’s going to be sick and - well. Merlin can’t bear the thought that it’s because of something he’s doing.

And he’s about to put an end to it all, really - he is. When they start genuinely thinking he’s trapped as a worm, and looking more and more concerned, he’s ready to end it (there are lines and limits, and Merlin will not cross them with his friends - with Arthur).

But then, er - well. But then Gwaine mentions something about a princess kissing a frog and - really, it’s almost too good. So good that Merlin is stunned, really. His not-plans have never had so much luck. How could he possibly not bask in it a little longer?

Not to mention, curiosity is a wretched thing, and Merlin is quite curious to see if Arthur will actually consider -

The king is looking at Gwaine, horrified, and it’s the best day of Merlin’s life, it really is. Because Arthur doesn’t just stare at Gwaine in horror, he also turns to the worm that’s gently cradled in his palm, and looks so resigned - so depressed and convicted and disgusted - that Merlin knows.

He’s actually going to do it, he thinks, giddy and stunned and hysterical and - perhaps just a little bit - touched. He’s going to kiss a worm for me.

“Are - are you sure?” Arthur begs, looking from Gwaine to Gaius, imploring one of them to negate Gwaine’s tale. Gaius eyes the worm consideringly and shrugs.

“I suppose it has as much of a chance as any, sire, true love’s kiss has been documented to break other strong enchantments.”

And it wasn’t the point at all, really, but Merlin felt himself go soft at the casual mention of Arthur being his true love. Not that he ever doubted it, really, nor that he ever thought Arthur felt differently, but to hear it said so plainly by someone else - as if it’s just naturally assumed. As if of course it’s them, is - nice. More than nice, really. Euphoric.

Gwaine claps Arthur on the back, “pucker up, princess,” he says, quite seriously.

Arthur takes a deep breath, looking a little green, and Merlin decides that that’s enough of that. He’s made his point.

With a whispered word, he feels his magic drop the concealment, and stands in front of the five of them with as innocent a smile as he can manage. They all startle, looking up at him with wide, confused eyes. Merlin clears his throat.

“I think I’m jealous.”

And then everything happens at once: everyone’s exclaiming his name and jumping at him - Gwaine to laugh in his ear, and clap him on the back, Lancelot and Gwen to give him a hug and disapproving - though, slightly amused - look, both, and Gaius, who also hugs him, but also slaps him upside the head.

“Ow!” He complains, ducking away and rubbing the back of his head.

“You idiot boy! What were you thinking? Do you know what you’ve put us through -!”

“I know, I know! Gaius -” he has to duck away again, “I’m sorry!”

Gaius sighs, giving him a truly terrifying glare. After a moment, he waves his hand in dismissal, and Merlin doesn’t think he’s indulging himself when he imagines he sees a smile flit over his face.

The only person who stays stock still is Arthur. Arthur who’s still holding his palm up with a wiggling worm. Arthur whose eyes are wide and blue and confused and lovely. Arthur whose mouth is open in surprise - and, perhaps, shock.

“Arthur?” Merlin asks cautiously, making his way towards him and smiling brightly, “I was only joking you know, I’m not actually jealous of the worm. I don’t think you’d -”

That seems to snap him out of whatever state he was stuck in, because Arthur’s suddenly placing the worm gently on the table, and then turning back to Merlin and hauling him in for - really - one of the best kisses of Merlin’s life. Maybe he should pretend to turn into a disgusting insect more often.

Merlin smiles against his lips, gently cupping Arthur’s face and murmurs in the space between kisses, “I knew you’d still love me as a worm.”

Which, actually, isn’t the right thing to say, because Arthur pulls back, and his face is turning red and his eyes are turning into slits and - well. Merlin may not be smart enough to avoid situations like this, but he is smart enough to know when to run.

And run he does, with Arthur at his heel waking up the entire kingdom yelling, “Merlin, you absolute idiot -!”