Archive of Our Own ^beta

The disadvantage of being apprenticed to a physician is the sheer number of times Merlin has picked up the sniffles from someone.

He conspicuously runs his sleeve past his nose as he finishes inspecting Gwaine. “You’re fine, I think,” he says, and pokes Gwaine’s arm one more time. Gwaine hisses. “It’s bruised, but nothing’s broken, and it should heal up soon enough. Maybe don’t get hit, yeah?”

“Thank you, Merlin,” Arthur says pointedly, and looks at Gwaine with a telling look. “I did tell you to take it easy.”

“I’m not letting the likes of you win,” Gwaine says, but he does look a little annoyed about the large, blue-purple bruise that’s now covering the majority of his shoulder and upper arm. It was a hard fall, but hopefully one without any consequences. 

“Take off the rest of the day,” Arthur orders him. “I don’t want to see you on duty for the next three days.”

“It’s just an arm—”

“An arm you’ll need for swordfighting,” Arthur interrupts.

Gwaine rolls his eyes at Merlin. “Mother hen,” he mutters, but grabs his tunic and wrestles it over his head even as he heads for the hallway—presumably before Arthur can make any more demands of him. It leaves Merlin awkwardly seated on the stool, his hands still coated in the lotion he’d put on Gwaine’s bruise. 

“Sometimes I’m worried I’m pushing them too hard,” Arthur says, and leans against the door, craning his neck towards where Gwaine disappeared. “You’d tell me, wouldn’t you?”

“What?” Merlin says absently, cleaning his hands on his jacket.

“Oh, what use are you,” Arthur says in annoyance. “Where’s Gaius?”

Merlin shrugs. “There’s this cold that’s been going around,” he says. “Don’t you recall? Gaius told you about it. It’s in the lower town, mainly, but a couple of people from the castle got ill as well. It shouldn’t be too bad with enough rest and plenty of fluids, but it’s affecting a lot of people. Gaius is checking up on a little girl who’s caught it.”

“Yes, I remember,” Arthur says, and turns to him for a fleeting second. “You’re feeling alright, aren’t you?”

A stuffy nose is no reason to take a day off work. Besides, Merlin has far too much to do—Gwaine’s arrival has made him fall behind on his other tasks, and now he’ll have to make sure Arthur’s chambers are clean before dinner. 

“I’m fine,” Merlin says with a pointed look. “Go and—do whatever kings are supposed to do.”

“Rule the kingdom?” Arthur asks.

“Yes,” Merlin says, and waves at the door. “That. I’m busy.”

“You can’t just send me away, Merlin,” Arthur tells him, but he’s already moving towards the door. “Don’t forget to make sure my cloak is stitched up, will you?”

Because he’d ripped it on a hunting trip two days ago. Merlin sighs; he’d forgotten about that. “Yes, I’ll take care of it,” he says tiredly, and waves Arthur away.

~*~

It’s a bit more than a stuffy nose by the time the evening is out. Arthur’s chambers are ready and he’d been on time for dinner, but by the time midnight rolls around, Merlin is still sitting with needle and thread in his own bedroom, stitching together Arthur’s cloak.

This shouldn’t be his job, admittedly, but Merlin has the misfortune that the seamstress that he usually sends Arthur’s clothes to is also ill with the cold that’s been going around, and Merlin really needs to have this done before tomorrow. 

His head is pounding, though, and he presses his thumb to his forehead in an attempt to alleviate the pain a bit. The pressure helps slightly, but he might have to take some of Gaius’ tinctures for it to be fully relieved. Merlin is reluctant to grab some, though; he needs to be up early, and painkillers have the tendency to knock him out cold until late in the morning.

“I thought I saw the light from your candle,” Gaius says disapprovingly, creaking open Merlin’s door. “Merlin, why are you still up?”

“Why are you?” Merlin fires back, and lays aside Arthur’s cloak. “How did it go? You were gone a long time. I saved you some dinner.”

“Thank you, my boy,” Gaius mutters, and looks at the cloak, probably making his own—correct—assumptions. “I’m afraid this cold seems to be far more vicious than I’d thought beforehand. I was coming in to treat Milga’s daughter, but her fever was dangerously high and I spent most of the day combating it. Then it turned out that her neighbours had caught the same cold—and were also gravely ill.”

“But it’s just a cold, isn’t it?” Merlin asks, frowning. “Just bad luck?”

Gaius shrugs off his jacket. “I’m not sure,” he says. “Perhaps, or perhaps it’s something a little more dangerous. Let’s just hope it will stop spreading soon enough—if you see anyone with a cold, Merlin, please urge them to rest before they become too ill.”

“Right, I will,” Merlin says absentmindedly. “But the girl—she’s okay?”

There’s a kind smile gracing Gaius’ face. “She’ll pull through, yes. She’s still young, but she’s a very active young girl, and she might’ve pushed herself too far before healing properly.”

“That’s good.” Merlin takes up Arthur’s cloak again, smiling wryly as he lifts up the thread and needle. “I’ll just finish this, and then I’ll go to bed. I won’t make it too late, I promise.”

“Good night, Merlin,” Gaius says, and slowly closes the door behind him. Merlin sighs, and gets back to it. Gaius will be going to sleep—best not bother him by grabbing any pain medication. That’s the choice made for him, he supposes.

~*~

Only to be woken up by a woman crying out in the early morning. One of the knights’ wives is going into labour, but there’s something going wrong with the birth, and her maid pounds on Gaius’ door to get some more help. Merlin goes along, just in case a little magic is needed, but in the end it turns out alright without his help, and a healthy boy is born right as the sun rises.

Which is nice, but babies cry rather loudly, and Merlin only had half a night’s sleep. It’s too late to go back to bed, unfortunately, so Merlin just decides to make his way to the kitchen. Arthur wanted to be up early, as it is. 

By some miracle, Arthur has just woken up when Merlin gets there. It’s not necessarily that Arthur is a late riser, by any means, but he does tend to go to sleep late while still dealing with any letters that need to be written or any report he needs to finish reading for the council. Sometimes, Merlin sits with him doing his own job while Arthur finishes up his—it’s his favourite moment of the day.

“You’re here earlier than I thought,” Arthur says, raising an eyebrow at him. “Don’t tell me you’re starting to make an effort now, Merlin?”

“Me? No, never,” Merlin tells him faintly, and wishes his head would stop pounding so loudly that it makes it hard to listen to Arthur. His nose is still stuffy, and he runs his hand past his face a couple of times, trying not to sniffle too loudly. It makes it hard to breathe, though, and by the time he’s making Arthur’s bed, he’s feeling so faint that he might fall over.

“Are you listening?” Arthur suddenly stands there, peering at him uncertainly. Merlin supposes he must have missed a beat in the conversation—although, to be frank, he’d mostly been humming while Arthur was talking. 

“Only if you’ve got something interesting to say,” Merlin tells him. “If you’re going to give me more to do—”

“No, rather the opposite,” Arthur says, and thumps a hand against Merlin’s shoulder good-naturedly. Still, Merlin’s head throbs in pain at the unexpected movement. “We’re going to the tavern with the knights tonight, and Gwaine insisted that you’d be there. Well?”

“Well?”

“Are you?”

“I thought that was a command, not an invitation,” Merlin says, grimacing. There’s nothing he wants more than to go to bed early and sleep away this oncoming cold, because it’s frankly very useless. But he rarely gets to spend time with the knights unless they’re leaving the citadel, and if he says no, Arthur might not let him have the evening off at all. “Fine, I suppose I’ll come.”

Arthur perks up. “Wonderful,” he says, and smiles slyly. “I know who I’ll be sending for our ale, then. Make sure you’ve finished cleaning my boots, sharpening my sword and mucking out the stable before the day’s over, won’t you?”

Lovely.

“Yes, my lord,” Merlin says, and tells himself to get to Gaius’ chambers for some painkillers before he does anything else.

~*~

The painkillers don’t do nearly as much as he hoped they’d do, and going back to Gaius’ chambers ended up only giving Merlin more work. He tries not to groan as he mindlessly crushes the herbs, and tries to think of anything but his headache and the hardship that breathing has become and the way his throat has started to ache in the last few hours.

He should’ve mentioned something, maybe, but Gaius is so busy going around the lower town to help bring fevers down. They actually lost an elderly man to the cold last night; he’d been somewhat sickly already, but still. Gaius has his hands full, and the least that Merlin can do is help out.

It’s definitely more important than making sure Arthur’s boots are all polished and shiny, although he still makes sure to do that right after dinner, too. All he wants to do is fall into bed—for a precious second or two, he thinks about just leaving the knights to go to the tavern and sleep the evening away. 

But then Elyan catches sight of him, and rolls an arm around Merlin’s shoulder. “There you are!” he exclaims, smiling broadly while it’s all Merlin can do not to wince at the volume of his voice. “We were just about to leave. Arthur refused to go without you.”

“That’s not true,” Arthur says, appearing right behind Elyan with Leon in tow. “I just said he might be useless enough to lose the way if we didn’t pick him up. Although I suppose you’ve gone and visited the tavern enough to walk there blindly, haven’t you, Merlin?”

Merlin blinks. “What?”

“I think you need an ale,” Gwaine decides, and then Merlin is surrounded by knights. It’s easier to just let himself be jostled and walked down the street. Elyan’s arm is warm around Merlin’s shoulder, and the knights have plenty to talk about amongst themselves that Merlin’s silence isn’t very noticeable. 

Percival is the first to get a round of ale at the tavern, and Merlin breathes in relief when they’re all settled around a table. The king’s presence makes sure that they are treated with the utmost respect, and no one even blinks at Merlin sitting among the knights. One mug of ale is shoved in front of him, and Merlin grabs at it with both hands. It is pleasantly cool against his warm hands, and he shivers involuntarily.

Merlin is usually a bit quieter among the rambunctious knights, so it’s no real surprise no one comments on the way he huddles in on himself. He’s happy enough to join in on their antics on occasion, but there is a gap between them and him that he isn’t sure they always notice. They are Arthur’s men, his knights, his brotherhood—and he’s just Merlin.

“Remember,” Gwaine says eventually, rising up from his chair and leaning on the table with outstretched hands. They’ll be sticky with alcohol by the end of the night, Merlin considers absently. “Merlin’s won Arthur's money plenty of times. Our esteemed king might be a lucky man with the cards, but when it comes to the dice…” He winks meaningfully at Merlin.

“You’d think I don’t pay him enough,” Arthur says, mock-grumbling, but there’s something shining in his eyes that Merlin is pleased to see. Arthur doesn’t get many evenings like this anymore. Then Arthur turns to him, grinning deeply, and says, “So I suppose that it all can go to your wages, don’t you, Merlin? Or perhaps you can get the next round.”

He holds up his ale, and the knights cheer. Merlin’s only taken one or two sips of his own mug, and already feels a bit nauseous, but he just plasters on a smile and gets up. The entire world is woozy already, and he holds onto the table for a second to make sure he doesn’t fall over.

“Plastered already, aren’t you?” Gwaine says cheerfully. “Come on, Merlin!”

“I’m fine,” Merlin mutters, and rubs his eyes. “Just tired.”

Somehow, he makes it back to the table without falling over, even if he has to go towards the bar and back two times to carry all the mugs of ale. Somehow, the bar matron seems far less inclined to help him than any of the knights—sees it as his job, probably, and perhaps it should be. An odd job, both to get the ale and drink it as well, but Merlin supposes he and Arthur have never been very traditional in that sense.

“You okay?” Leon asks quietly when Merlin finally sits down again, feeling very much as if he might throw up what little dinner he had. “You’re looking a bit pale.”

“Just got up early,” Merlin tells him. It’s not even a lie, except it’s not entirely the reason the world is swaying in front of him. 

By the time the knights are all ready to go home—not nearly as late as Gwaine wants, but their nights out are always hampered by the knowledge of their duties come morning—they’re all too drunk to notice that Merlin is swaying despite not actually drinking anything. But Arthur, made kinder by the drink, lets Merlin lean on him as he proclaims that Merlin’s duties aren’t yet over, and he should put him to bed. 

So Merlin brings Arthur to his bed, his limbs and eyelids weighing three times as heavy as they usually do, and promptly falls over to sleep on the floor right next to him.

~*~

It’s the clanking of Arthur’s armour that wakes him, and Merlin has to stop himself from retching. The light of morning blinds him for a moment, and the tiles of the floor are cold against his skin, and Merlin wishes that he’d lost all his senses so he wouldn’t be so utterly overwhelmed.

“Sun’s up, Merlin,” Arthur sing-songs, and Merlin wishes he could use his magic to throw him over. He just barely refrains, if only because his magic feels oddly erratic and just as stuffy as his nose is, and makes a noise that probably passes more as a grunt than actual words.

“Go ‘way,” he mutters eventually, but then Arthur’s grabbing his tunic—and, oh, Merlin really did just fall over and sleep on Arthur’s floor, didn’t he? He’s still in his clothes from yesterday—and hoists him up, and Merlin has little choice about standing up. 

“You look horrible,” Arthur decides, but he sounds somewhat gleeful about it. “How much did you drink, Merlin? Two mugs of ale? Three? God, I don’t think I’ve ever seen you this hungover.”

Merlin swats away Arthur’s hand—with great effort, and very unconvincing strength, but Arthur backs off, still smirking in a way that shouldn’t be as handsome as it is. Perhaps that’s the fever talking; Merlin can feel it, pounding away at his head and making his limbs tremble as he stands. 

“Not as much as you,” is all he can think to say, even though his throat is aching as he speaks. His words come out so hoarse that he can barely recognise his own voice, and Arthur just tilts his head at him.

“I’d give you the morning off,” Arthur starts, and Merlin blinks, “but it’s your own fault, really, you lazy lightweight.”

“Fine,” Merlin mutters. He’s too tired to argue, and Arthur still seems somewhat affected by last night as well. His hair stands up and there are shadows under his eyes, and Merlin isn’t going to push his luck. He’s Arthur’s servant; and now he’s being made to serve, with nothing he can do about it.

Fine, maybe he’s feeling a bit annoyed. 

He only barely gets Arthur’s breakfast to him before stumbling away again. Arthur is calling after him, his “Merlin!” echoing through the hallway, but Merlin can’t. He’ll fall over if he doesn’t get to his bed right away, and not even Arthur can keep him from that.

He shivers with cold as he forces his way up the stairs, and finally falls through the doors to Gaius’ chamber.

“Ah, Merlin,” Gaius says, not even looking up as he bows over his patient. A young woman, her eyes closed in sleep, but her body wracking with fever. “You’re perfectly on time. Would you hand me the tincture for—what are you doing?”

Merlin’s legs have given out; he only notices it as Gaius is looking at him, his face aghast. “Sorry,” Merlin says uselessly, and doesn’t know if there’s even any sound coming out of his mouth. His throat is aching very badly, and he doesn’t think he can stand up without falling over immediately. But the floor is blissfully cold, and he slowly leans over to rest his forehead against it.

Wasn’t he cold just a minute ago?

“Merlin,” Gaius says, and then calls out again “Merlin!” 

Merlin is already unconscious.

~*~

He’s dreaming, or at least—he thinks he is. It must be a dream.

There’s several people leaning over him, but Merlin is feeling a bit woozy, and the world keeps turning even though he’s lying down. He keeps feeling as if he’s falling, only to shock into the awareness that he’s already lying down, but the knowledge doesn’t make him feel any more secure.

Arthur’s golden hair glints in the sun, and Merlin can only barely look at him before his eyes fall closed again.

“How ill is he?” Arthur demands, and Merlin isn’t ill. At worst, it’s a heavy cold, and he’ll be right as rain within a day or two. Nothing a bit of rest can’t fix; nothing that requires Arthur to look at him so solemnly.

It’s a dream, is all, he concludes, when he feels Arthur’s calloused fingers settle softly on his forehead. He makes a noise, because if Arthur is being kind to him in his dream, the least Merlin can do is to let him know how much it’s appreciated. And his head is still aching terribly—does he feel pain in dreams? Apparently he does—and so he focuses on how Arthur’s thumb trails down to caress his eyebrows and drops down to his temple.

“Are we sure it’s not just a hangover?” Elyan asks anxiously; Merlin hadn’t seen him, but he must be dreaming up Elyan now. In fact, he thinks he’s dreamt up all the knights.

“He didn’t look very well last night,” Leon confesses.

Gaius grunts. “It’s the cold that’s been going around,” he says. “It shouldn’t have been this bad, but he’s been walking around too long, and sleeping too little. I told him to be careful…”

“I’m sorry,” Arthur mumbles, too soft for anyone else to hear. Merlin likes that he’s dreaming up Arthur like this, as if he would sit by his bedside if Merlin were ill—which he isn’t. Apparently, it isn’t enough to dream of Arthur by day only, to watch him and to bury everything that shouldn’t be brought to light. But this—this might be enough, to have Arthur so tenderly stroke him in that way he’d never actually do.

“Arthur,” he mutters, and Arthur’s fingers tighten.

“I think he’s awake,” Arthur calls out, and the noise bludgeons Merlin’s head like a hammer, and he presses his eyes closed as if to force away his ability to hear as much as his ability to see. It doesn’t work well for him, and he chokes on a breath. His throat is on fire as he starts coughing.

Gods, he’s ill. He thinks he’s very ill.

“Merlin!” Gaius says, and then there’s new hands on his face. “Turn him over, Percival, he can’t breathe—”

“Stay with me,” Arthur says, painfully quiet, and now it’s so soft that Merlin doesn’t even know if Arthur intended for him to hear. “I’m sorry, Merlin. Stay with me.”

~*~

He doesn’t really realise he’s awake at first. It’s a realisation that dawns on him slowly, bit by bit, with every ache making itself known to him. It’s the heaviness of his limbs that he notices first, the inability to even properly open his eyes or scratch his itching elbow. It’s his throat next, feeling raw and inflamed and as if someone has scratched it open with their nails. Right after, his head begins pounding. It wouldn’t be the first time someone hit him in the temple with a sword, but even that hadn’t been as painful as this is.

It’s miserable, and Merlin can hardly breathe. His lungs are painfully constricted, and he has to force his head up to look at his chest to make sure he hasn’t actually been stabbed. It’s a sharp pain, cold like metal and just as biting, but there’s nothing to see on his naked skin. He grapples uselessly with the blankets, but he’s still shivering even when he manages to tug them back up.

“Calm down, Merlin,” Gaius exclaims, and Merlin didn’t even notice him come in. Then Gaius is sitting by his side, laying a cold hand on his forehead. He clicks his tongue. “Still a fever. That’s to be expected, I suppose, but I’m glad to see you awake.”

“Wha’?” Merlin slurs, and immediately regrets using his voice at all. 

“Don’t talk,” Gaius commands, as if he knows, and his expression softens. “You were very ill, Merlin. You caught the cold that has been going around—and caught it tremendously bad, I’m afraid. Pneumonia set in, and you are still very weak.”

Merlin just coughs, although that’s even worse on his throat and lungs. He must look utterly miserable, because Gaius just turns around and grabs a tincture from his desk behind him, unbothered by the clutter. 

Gaius continues, “Try to drink this. It won’t taste very pleasant, my boy, but it will do wonders for your throat. There’s some sedatives in it as well—you need your rest more than anything. I’ll sit with you.”

Merlin makes a noise. He supposes it vaguely sounds like “Arthur?” 

“I’ll inform the king you’ve been awake when you’re back asleep,” Gaius mutters, and runs a hand over Merlin’s forehead. Merlin closes his eyes and downs the tincture. It’s all the energy he has, and swallowing is awkward while he’s lying down, but it goes down. “He’s been pacing his legs off, but you’re my first priority, Merlin. Just sleep.”

He drifts off before he has had a chance to process Gaius’ words.

~*~

It continues like that for a while. Merlin wakes up, and Gaius is always near. He has no idea how many days pass, or even if days have passed. He’s so disoriented that it may as well have been hours, and he never remembers what kind of light was falling into the room the last time he woke up, so he’s kept guessing.

And then Arthur comes to visit, and Merlin feels more awake than ever at the sight of him.

“I see you’ve decided to grace us with your presence again,” Arthur says dryly, but he’s still frowning deeply as he takes the seat next to Merlin’s bed. He folds his hands over his lap, and Merlin remembers, suddenly—that dream, with Arthur’s hand on his brow, and his voice tender and quiet.

A fever dream, he decides. Nothing more than a sense of wistfulness when he’d been in the throes of his illness.

“I try,” Merlin croaks out. Gaius keeps advising him against talking, but Merlin doesn’t think he has it in him to just stare Arthur down while he’s here. There’s no more certain way to send Arthur fleeing again. And the ache in Merlin’s throat has been slowly abating—slowly. Very slowly. But it’s progress.

Arthur smiles wryly, and looks down at his hands. Merlin stares at him intently, waiting for him to say something—anything, really, since Merlin won’t be able to do the majority of the talking today. He would like to, just for this unsettling silence to go away.

And then Arthur talks. “I suppose I should apologise.” He’s still not looking at Merlin. “I asked you if I was pushing Gwaine too hard—the knights too hard, and I never thought to consider I might be pushing you, instead. And you clearly—well, you clearly didn’t feel as if you were free to tell me you were feeling ill, or that you would have been listened to. And that’s…”

He falls quiet. Merlin hoists himself up with all the strength he has, and grabs Arthur’s wrist. He’s been lying in bed for days—perhaps just to make sure he is able to do this. “Not your fault,” he insists. “I thought—” He’s interrupted by a cough.

“Don’t talk yet,” Arthur says gently, and hands Merlin the cup of water by his bedside. “You’re not well. In fact, you were very unwell. Why didn’t you say something?”

“Thought it was fine,” Merlin says miserably.

“Well, it clearly wasn’t.”

Merlin eyes Arthur. “Yeah.”

“Obviously, you’re free to take all the time you need to heal,” Arthur says. “In fact, you can consider that a command from your king. And when you’re back, we should have a conversation about your duties, and whether someone else needs to be assigned to—”

“No.”

“No?” Arthur says sceptically. “Merlin, you are gravely ill. If you’d been left untreated for long enough, you might have died. And yet, you clearly didn’t feel as if this was cause to talk to me about taking a day off, which might’ve saved you numerous days of recuperation, let alone the risk to your health. If you felt too busy—”

“No,” Merlin repeats stubbornly.

Arthur doesn’t back down, though. “You have two jobs. You have had two jobs since you became my manservant, and Gaius told me how much you’ve been assisting him lately. I can’t blame you for it, but you can’t keep it up. I am king now, and you are still the only manservant I have—but your duties have increased in number, and I didn’t realise before how much pressure I put on you.”

“No,” Merlin says again. “I can do it.”

“But you clearly can’t,” Arthur says. “And even if you could—Merlin, I can’t trust you to tell me when it’s too much. So clearly I have to take matters into my own hands.”

“Arthur.”

“Don’t do that,” Arthur snaps, and Merlin reels back. His head pounds, and Arthur presses his lips together. “Sorry. I’m sorry. This is clearly too much for you right now, and—we’ll talk later, won’t we? When you’re feeling better.”

“It’s my job,” Merlin insists, but his voice is getting rougher with the moment, and he swallows hard—it aches every muscle in his throat.

“You’ll stay with Gaius, and I will keep you on in some measure,” Arthur promises him gently. For a second, his hands twitch, and Merlin thinks that he might reach out—might give him some comfort, like when Merlin dreamed of him. But then Arthur stands up, and he is further away than he’s ever been. “But this can’t happen again, Merlin. It can’t, do you understand?”

He doesn’t wait for an answer. He turns around, and then he’s gone, and Merlin dreams of watching Arthur from afar, but never being able to get any closer.

~*~

He has plenty of visitors. Merlin’s recuperation is slow, but it’s steady enough for Gaius to be pleased. His headache is the first thing to go away, and then his sore throat follows after several more days. In total, he’s been in bed for four days, Gaius tells him. The fever broke somewhere during the second day, but it had stolen much of his energy.

Gwaine is the first to come and visit, his eyes apologetic even though they don’t talk about Merlin’s illness. Leon and Elyan come afterwards, and they come with plenty of food—both of them have been subjected to Gaius’ idea of stew, and Merlin is grateful, although he only manages a couple of bites.

The most persistent issue is Merlin’s lack of energy, and he still sleeps a lot even when he’s beginning to feel otherwise okay. The few steps from Gaius’ chambers to his own bedroom are too much at first, so he sleeps with Gaius in the main rooms and tries to ignore Gaius’ snoring. Sleep comes to him more easily during the day, anyway.

The knights have a rotation schedule of some sort, he figures out after a couple of days, depending on when they’re on duty. It’s oddly endearing, and he thinks he manages to talk them out of feeling guilty after a day or two. They’re very useful to have around, though, never failing to bring him some water or food or blankets if he needs them—despite the fact that Merlin rarely asks.

The only one who doesn’t come again is Arthur.

“When do you think I can get back to work?” Merlin asks Gaius, sitting opposite him for dinner after a week or so. “I’m not ill anymore. I should be able to get back to it soon, shouldn’t I? Arthur’s helpless without me.”

“I think he’s grown more mature than you like to think,” Gaius says mildly, and then drops his spoon in his stew. “I’d like to wait another day to see how your energy is tomorrow, and perhaps then we can talk about slowly taking back up your duties. Although—Arthur has talked to you about this, hasn’t he?”

Merlin bites the inside of his cheek. “He spewed some inane nonsense about my duties. But Gaius, you know it’s not necessary for me to give up my job. I just got ill, that happens, and it’s not—”

“Well, you do have some other responsibilities that Arthur remains unaware of,” Gaius points out, and sighs. “You’ve taken on a lot of duties, Merlin, and I feel partly responsible for how long you’ve gone without a rest. It’s no surprise you were so ill from the cold—you’ve hardly had a day to yourself in over a year, and you hardly ever complain.” Merlin raises his eyebrows, and Gaius concedes, “You hardly ever complain about your number of duties, Merlin, yes, I’m aware you complain about Arthur often.”

“Just because he’s a clotpole,” Merlin says, and deflates. “But that doesn’t mean I want things to change.”

Gaius looks at him. “I think you ought to explain that to him, not to me,” he says. “You know how much Arthur fusses about his men, Merlin. But I’ve never seen him as worried as when you collapsed.”

“He’s a mother hen,” Merlin says, thinking back about Gwaine’s complaint when he hurt his arm. “That’s just how he is. He thinks everyone’s his responsibility.”

“He’s the king,” Gaius points out. “Can you blame him?”

Merlin takes a moment, and thinks about it—he’s never considered himself one of Arthur’s men. In truth, he doesn’t think Arthur thinks about him like that. He’s a servant, but there’s a part of him—that’s also not. That never has been. He isn’t entirely sure what to think about Arthur’s concerns, really.

And there’s only one way to find out.

~*~

His strength still hasn’t entirely returned. It’s a point of mourning for Merlin, because he’s grown rather used to being able to run around the castle doing his errands. It’s the only way to get everything done in time, and he’s collided with more than half of the servants in the castle at this point.

And now he’s moving so slow.

“Merlin?” Arthur says, blinking at him when Merlin has knocked on his door. “What are you—I thought you were still healing. Did Gaius agree to let you out?”

“It’s a walk across the castle, Arthur,” Merlin says wryly. “And I didn’t have to knock him across the head with a pan, actually. He agreed that it’s a good idea to stretch my legs, and that I can return to light tasks tomorrow.”

“When you’re still swaying on your feet?” Arthur asks, and scowls at Merlin before he grabs his arm. “Sit down, you moron. I doubt you even could’ve lifted a pan to knock out Gaius with.”

Merlin sighs, but then Arthur manhandles him into a chair, and it is nice to sit down for a moment. There’s lots of sitting in his future, he thinks, until he’s back to his normal strength. 

“Look,” Merlin tries. “I’ve thought about what you said. And I’m sorry.”

“What are you sorry for?” Arthur says incredulously.

“Well, you’ve clearly got it into your head that you are, somehow, to be blamed for my illness,” Merlin says, and crosses his arms. “But you’re not, and I should’ve told you before that I wasn’t feeling well, but I didn’t want you to worry. And there was still so much to do, I thought I could—get away with it. Rest in between tasks. I didn’t know it was so serious.”

“You were delirious,” Arthur points out.

“Yes, well, I work with Gaius,” Merlin says defensively, rubbing his arm. “There’s loads of ill people coming into our chambers every day. Usually it goes away by itself.”

“You’ve felt ill before,” Arthur says, and turns around, throwing up his hands. “Of course you’ve felt ill before, and you’ve worked through it, and you never thought to say a word. Merlin, for someone who’s not a knight, you have a terrible sense of self-preservation. I suppose I should have known.”

“It’s not like that,” Merlin says.

Arthur turns back towards him, an odd anger on his face that Merlin hasn’t seen before. “Then what is it, Merlin? Because I can’t rely on you to tell me the truth, clearly.”

“I didn’t think it was that important,” Merlin says sullenly.

Arthur’s shoulders drop. “Not that important?”

“People get ill sometimes.” Merlin shrugs. “It happens, Arthur. But I’m fine now, and I want to get back to my duties. And I don’t want you to hand over part of my job to anyone else, or to share the load—I’ve been doing this for years. Let me do it.”

“Right now, I’m tempted to give your job to George and let you keep your duties with Gaius,” Arthur bites, and Merlin’s heart goes cold. Then Arthur sighs, and pinches his nose. “But you’d just follow me around to annoy me into letting you back, wouldn’t you? And honestly, George has no idea where anything goes.”

It’s more likely that George knows precisely where everything goes, but Arthur has just gotten used to Merlin’s methods after a while. Merlin doesn’t point this out, though. “You’re right,” he says weakly. “You’re not getting rid of me.”

Arthur eyes him darkly. “Oh, I nearly did,” he mutters, and lets himself drop in the chair opposite Merlin. His face is hidden in shadows as he leans forward, and then he unexpectedly grabs Merlin’s hand. “I asked you not to leave, and I like to think, Merlin, that for once in your life, you listened.”

It’s hard to breathe, but this time, the illness isn’t to blame. Arthur’s thumb presses against Merlin’s palm, warm and rough, and Merlin can’t peel his eyes away from it. “I heard you,” he says. “I’ll never leave, Arthur. I promise. Even if you ever ask me to—even if you commanded me.”

Perhaps it’s too heartfelt. It’s too much, and it’s too fast, but Merlin has never had any issues with letting Arthur know the depth of his loyalties. Arthur looks up, and his eyes are dark, and his eyelashes cast long shadows over his cheekbones.

“You should be careful what you promise, Merlin,” he mutters, and runs his thumb across the lines of Merlin’s palm. “I might hold you to it, one day. If you left—”

He’ll blame the fever on this, Merlin decides later, even if it’s run out a long time ago. That fever dream, the one that wasn’t a dream at all, and Arthur’s tentative looks and affectionate touches when he thought Merlin was too out of it to notice. It’s a daydream brought into real life, and Merlin surges forward and kisses Arthur.

Arthur responds at once, his hand coming up to cup Merlin’s cheek, and he presses them together. His lips are chapped, but oh so warm, and Merlin is delirious and warm with something that’s not fever at all, no matter how much he would like to claim he’s not in his right mind.

“Hold me to it,” Merlin breathes when he leans away. Arthur’s eyes are so close to his, intently staring as if he isn’t sure how to respond. “I promise, I’ll tell you whatever you want to hear, but— hold me to it.”

“Don’t get ill again,” Arthur says weakly.

“Never,” Merlin promises, and presses their foreheads together. “Let me work for you?”

“You just want to stay close to me,” Arthur jokes, and then his nose presses against Merlin's cheek, and he is kissing him with dry lips—for only a second, only a moment, and then he’s leaning back to appraise him more thoughtfully. “Is that why you work for me?”

“You didn’t think I was doing it for the benefits, did you?” Merlin asks. “You’re a prat, and you do make me work for too long, and I will be telling you off. And next time I’m fainting next to your bed, maybe make sure that I don’t have a fever, you arse.”

“I’m not planning on a next time,” Arthur says dryly, and his eyes flit towards said bed for a second. “And you’re welcome to join me, as it stands. Are you feeling tired, Merlin? Are your little legs spent from all the stairs? It’s a very comfortable bed.”

“Oh, fine,” Merlin says in exasperation, and stands up a little wobbly. Arthur grins, and grabs him by the middle.

“To bed with you,” Arthur says, and kisses his cheek right after he’s unceremoniously thrown Merlin on the covers. It’s as infuriating as it is endearing, and Merlin wonders if they’ll talk about it. He hopes not, or not for now—he hopes they can just let it be, and he doesn’t have to think about any secrets that Arthur might need to know.

“I’m going to sleep, but just for a few hours,” Merlin says, and burrows himself, grabbing one of Arthur’s pillows. It’s very comfortable indeed. “And then you can—join me. Maybe. Not for—you know. It’s just—”

“And you can make the bed after,” Arthur says, as if he didn’t hear a word Merlin said, although his cheeks are a bit red. “That’s your job, after all. And I’m not letting you out of my sight until I’m sure you are able to do so.”

“Fine,” Merlin says, and he really does mean to go to sleep. But then Arthur sits by his bedside, and he grabs Merlin’s hand again. Merlin closes his eyes and focuses on that source of warmth, and promises that he’ll never leave.

Arthur sits by him as he drifts off, steady, and warm, and just holds his hand.