Privileges of Rank(1).pdf

RIVILEGES OF R ANK

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Privileges of Rank

Author: Seperis

Codes

Codes: Merlin, Merlin/Arthur

Rating

Rating: NC-17

Spoilers

Spoilers: None specific, first season in general.

Summary

Summary: Arthur's biggest problem to date, Merlin thinks darkly as he carries yet another load of

suspiciously not-really-dirty clothing down the stairs, is an unaccountable fear of anyone, anywhere,

suspecting he's capable of being other than a complete and utter prat.

Author

chopchica for audiencing and encouragement, which is always

pleasing. For a pwp that lacks even the rudiments of shame, this turned out rather long. I think

Merlin is my voice of porn, or something. No clue what is up with that.

Notes: Thank you to chopchica

chopchica

mmary: Arthur's biggest problem to date, Merlin thinks darkly as he carries yet another load of

suspiciously not-really-dirty clothing down the stairs, is an unaccountable fear of anyone,

anywhere, suspecting he's capable of being other than a complete and utter prat.

mmary

Arthur had left the feast hours early, before even the dancing had begun; tournament evenings

always ended early for him. He'd waved off Merlin's assistance, leaving Merlin somewhat at loose

ends. Gella had invited him to the servants quarters for the first time since he had arrived for a less

formal, though far more satisfactory, celebration of the prince's victory. Gertrude taught him the

simple country songs she'd grown up with on her harp, but the ale they'd given him made it

dangerous to try and learn to dance.

Merlin emerges into the shocking cold of the hall hours later and almost thinks he could be sober,

still warm from the press of a serving girl in his lap and tasting her slow, ale-flavoured mouth

before they sent him away. It's later than he'd thought; even the night-guards are sleeping at their

stations.

It's odd, he thinks, trying to navigate the winter-cold halls toward Gaius room, how the people he

sees standing in expressionless attention behind their masters can be so different in the privacy of

their rooms. Perhaps something to do with growing up in service, or the years of practice he's never

had serving in the court. He knows they resent him sometimes, for taking a position that should

have gone to one of them; apparently, serving a prince is something to be envied. He hadn't known

that.

It's a secret world there, warmer than the formalities of court, and he's glad he could go tonight.

They might never be friends, but at least they now accept him, and sometimes, he imagines that one

day that might be enough.

It takes him three tries to acknowledge he can't find his key, and ten minutes of knocking before he

acknowledges that Gaius' warning he remember his key or spend the night outside was in earnest.

Frowning, Merlin wraps his arms around himself, trying to work out a spell that opens doors and

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then remembers how the bodice of someone's dress had come open in his hands and has to take a

moment to breathe.

Right, so that's not going to work.

Leaning against the wall across from the door, Merlin tries again, but in the back of his mind, a

voice pipes up, does he really want to try magic when he's seeing two doors? Merlin tries knocking

one more time--Gaius can't possibly be able to sleep through that--but the door remains stubbornly

closed and Merlin's freezing.

Trudging across the courtyard, Merlin considers going back to the servants' quarters, but his feet

carry him up the stairs instead with a sudden memory of having his key while dressing Arthur this

evening. He'd had it in his pocket, he's sure. It's hazy, but he thinks he can remember sitting it on the

hearth when Arthur was muttering about being shown off like a prize ewe at fair and Merlin had

laughed so hard he'd almost concussed himself against a bedpost.

Arthur hadn't been amused.

Hesitating, Merlin studies the door, nodding at a passing guard. His right to enter and leave at will

has never been questioned, the key given to him by Arthur himself. It's taken him a while to

understand what that freedom meant; not just servant, but guardian of what little privacy Arthur

can find in a court that knows everything, everything, almost before it happens. It's a privilege he

didn't expect, would never have thought to ask for; it surprised him, then, that Arthur would trust

him that much. It surprises him now.

That key he never loses; fishing it from around his neck, Merlin considers he'd best add his own key

on here as well, then opens the door, hissing in surprise when he shuts the door behind him. It's

colder here than in the hall.

The shutters were left open, a glaze of ice beginning to coat the sill. With a sigh, Merlin makes his

way over, looking out on a world gilded in silver, trees bowing beneath the weight of ice hanging

like ornaments, snow coating the ground and making everything faintly unreal, not quite his

familiar city and home. It's beautiful.

"Who--Merlin?"

Merlin jumps, jerking the shutters closed and nearly tripping over his feet. "Ah. Good evening, sire.

The window--"

"Oh." The bedclothes move sluggishly; Merlin can't imagine how Arthur can possibly be warm

enough to sleep. Shivering, Merlin goes to the hearth, wishing he'd remembered to fill the bin so he

could start a decent fire. "Christ, it's cold."

"I--can get some logs--"

"Don't bother." After a moment, a messy blond head pokes above the covers, looking at Merlin in

sleepy bewilderment, neither particularly surprised nor particularly upset. He must have been

sleeping very deeply. "What are you doing?"

"I saw the window was open from the courtyard?" Merlin can't quite make out Arthur's expression,

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but he can guess what it is. "I left my key, and Gaius won't let me in."

"Key, Gaius won't let you--oh. Stayed out past your bedtime, did you?" Arthur sits up more, then

shivers; Merlin wants to tell him to get back under the bedclothes already, because Merlin's seen

Arthur sick and that's a nightmare that Merlin would prefer never be repeated. Going to the

cupboard, Merlin finds the extra blankets he brought in a few weeks ago, when the frost first

covered the ground, and shakes them out. They're a little musty, but the heavy wool will help trap

heat and they won't wake up to a frozen prince one day. There's really no way Merlin could explain

that to Uther at all.

Going to the bed, Merlin spreads them out, fighting not to comment on the fact that Arthur's far too

pale and that he really needs to cover up, please, for Merlin's sanity if nothing else. His shirt's come

unlaced, and Merlin, used to the careful not-seeing-anything during the more formal acts of

dressing him, isn't feeling terribly formal at the moment. He only hopes its too dark for Arthur to see

his flush.

"Thank you. Now get your key and go to bed before you freeze," Arthur says, looking something

between irritated and amused. Merlin bows elaborately to see the amusement win, and goes to the

hearth.

No key. Right. "I--it seems to be--"

"Missing? Of course. Only you."

Merlin sighs. Servants quarters it is, and let them laugh at him. Provided all of them haven't gone to

bed as well. Or ignore him. They may accept him, but that doesn't mean they will go out of their way

for him. "I'll--"

"I'm not throwing you out to freeze to death." Arthur waves vaguely toward the other side of the bed.

"Get in."

Merlin blinks. "Really?"

"No. I was just saying that to amuse myself before I send you to die cold and alone in the hallway.

Yes, really."

Merlin may (perhaps) be (a little) drunk, but he's pretty sure he didn't hallucinate that, and even if

he did, it's freezing. Stripping boots and tunic, Merlin takes a thoughtful second to consider his

trousers and wonder--

"Merlin. I promise I will not be shocked by the sight of another man's body." There's a second of

bedclothes shifting before Arthur sits up completely, looking far too amused. "Are you shy?"

"I--" Merlin's fingers tangle in the laces, face hot. "Sire--"

"Perhaps there are tentacles." Blue eyes wide with sincerity, Arthur glances down, eyes fixing on

Merlin's suddenly-shaky hands. "I've heard peasants aren't like the nobility, but I hadn't realized it

extended to their--"

"God," Merlin says, turning around, knowing he's blushing bright enough to light the room, "shut up.

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Sire." Forgetting the laces, Merlin jerks his trousers down, hears something snap, and resigns himself

to the humiliation of walking through the castle holding up his breeches in the morning. Stepping

out, every single inch of skin almost instantly freezes, and whatever scruples he might have had

vanish with what little heat his body possessed. Crawling into bed, Merlin buries himself beneath

cool wool and linen and tries not to shake himself apart, teeth locked together until his body slowly,

slowly begins to warm the space.

Honestly, in this sort of weather, he's surprised Arthur doesn't share his bed with a convenient

chambermaid. While Merlin can't believe it's ever too cold for sex, the warmth of another body

would be motivation enough.

"Are you finished?" Arthur says, voice sardonic. Merlin slowly pokes his head out to see Arthur on

his side, watching him with a slight smile. "You're shaking the bed."

"It's cold," Merlin explains, trying not to move so as to not touch any non-body-warmed space.

"Outstanding deduction. Also, it is night. Please, tell me more."

Merlin stretches by inches, claiming an inch of chilly linen at a time. It's a very nice bed, Merlin

thinks contentedly, trying not to sigh in satisfaction. It's enough to make him pretend Arthur isn't a

complete and utter bastard. "Thank you for the use of your bed, sire." Sincerity tended to throw

Arthur off; he was too used to the servile obedience of the servants or Morgana's unbridled sarcasm,

neither of which did him any good when dealing with other human beings.

"Where were you tonight?" Arthur asks. Before Merlin can tell Arthur how he has no say on what he

does in him free hours, a cold finger traces the skin beside his mouth. Merlin stares. "Paint."

Paint. Paint. Oh. "Um." Merlin squirms and hisses when his foot hits cold linen. "Ah. Just. Um."

"Servants quarters must have been interesting tonight," Arthur says, rubbing his finger clean on the

wool before looking at Merlin with interest. "And you smell of drink and at least three kinds of

perfume. I'm shocked. Licentiousness isn't to be encouraged--"

"I wasn't licent--licenci--that!" Though maybe he was. There's a hazy space where Merlin vaguely

remembers Gertrude and Ana both very close, and snogging on one of the pushed-back beds with--

Mary, was it?--but-- "Not much," he corrects, considering. "And it was just ale."

"Really?" Arthur lifts his head, looking at him with a peculiar expression. "Interesting. How much

did you have?"

"Only a glass," Merlin says, thinking carefully. "Perhaps two." How embarrassing. "Gaius always said

I had no head for drink at all. It was nothing like what we had in Ealdor."

"Apparently not." Arthur says absently, watching him. "I suppose one can forgive the occasional

indulgences of one's servants, even when they interrupt one's sleep."

Merlin feels himself flush again. "I--it was nice. They hadn't invited me before."

Arthur's expression changes briefly, a flicker of something that vanishes almost immediately. "You

will have to get up at dawn no matter how your head feels," Arthur says, eyes closing. "Go to sleep."

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Merlin doesn't find it hard to follow that order at all.

*****

Merlin searches the room top to bottom as soon as Arthur's gone to do whatever knight-related

things one does with weapons and far too much enthusiasm, but the key is nowhere in evidence.

Frustrated, he finishes his morning chores (very little magic, headache far too painful) and considers

the virtues of abstention.

Arthur's biggest problem to date, Merlin thinks darkly as he carries yet another load of suspiciously

not-really-dirty clothing down the stairs, is an unaccountable fear of anyone, anywhere, suspecting

he's capable of being other than a complete and utter prat. Merlin can't tell whether it's just that

Arthur wants to set the lowest bar possible for expectations (not at all a problem) or someone once

told Arthur princes are actually supposed to be complete idiots and he's doing his best to live up to it.

And that best is very good indeed.

(Merlin still flinches from the memory of finding Arthur in the library, reading an actual book. The

single horrified look had been followed by polishing everything that had ever or could ever be found

in an armoury. However, Merlin can now identify by feel the difference between five different types

of metal, so there's a useless skill he can add to his references one day.)

When he's done, he finds Arthur looking with moody discontent into the fire, as if someone just told

him that all the problems in the world can't be solved with a sword and a bloodthirsty turn of mind.

"Where have you been?" he demands.

Merlin counts to five in three languages before he answers. "Your laundry, sire."

"It cannot possibly take that long," Arthur answers, speaking with the wisdom of man who has never

so much as cleaned his own plate. "Though this is you, so I suppose allowances must be made."

Merlin slow-blinks how very soul-destroying Arthur's criticism is and the weeping he will do into

his pillow come nightfall. "Do you require anything, sire?"

Arthur hesitates, scowling, which Merlin correctly translates as: no, I did not. I was bored and you

were not here to entertain me, requiring me to entertain myself, and my rank does not permit me to

lower myself to knowing how to do that. "Practice," he says finally, and if he didn't pull that out of

thin air, Merlin will wear that horrible feathered hat every day for a week. "I need someone to spar

with."

"Wouldn't it be more challenging to go to the kitchens and shoot arrows into the barrel with the

salted fish?" Merlin asks, not sure if he's being rhetorical or not. "Yes, I know, stocks for a week.

Very well, sire."

Arthur frowns. "Your compliance is less satisfactory when it lacks that edge of fear."

"I can cry a bit in terror when you knock me down for the fifth time?"

Arthur nods agreeably. "That will do."

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