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vanessaramaTitle: Tend
Pairing: Arthur/Merlin (preslash)
Rating: PG
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
andraste_oz/vanessarama
Length: 1400 words
Summary: Distress and comfort. A missing scene from ‘The Tears of Uther Pendragon’. Sometimes the giver and receiver are both one and the same.
Warnings: wee bit o’violence and owieness, nothing permanent.
Notes: This was originally written as a bit of distraction for the lovelylolafeist.
It’s a physician’s job to tend and comfort as well as to heal; Merlin knows this well, has been lectured by Gaius often enough about the effect of the mind and soul on the body. A patient without hope will waste away, and when despair is itself a symptom the need for comfort is all the more urgent.
Merlin’s hands do not tremble as he pulls the covers over the King’s shoulder. He is even tender as he tucks the rich heavy cloth around Uther’s sweaty neck. This is not the King, the man who loathes and fears everything Merlin is, the tyrant with death on his hands who could order Merlin’s death at will, were he given reason to do so.
The man trembling and sobbing before him is none of those things. He is Arthur’s father. Merlin will comfort him as best he can, for Arthur’s sake.
As he smooths his hand over the bedding, a hand snakes from under the covers and grasps his wrist hard. Given the pitiable state the King’s in, the strength is surprising.
“Help me,” whispers Uther. He pulls, pulls with surprising strength until Merlin’s half-kneeling on the bed.
“What do you need, sire?” asks Merlin.
“Help me.”
Uther pulls him down. Merlin lands, one foot still on the floor, trying to brace himself with his free hand, but he ends up twisted on his side with his head on the King’s pillow. This close, he can smell the sourness of old sweat, leavened with little billows of lavender when the sheets are disturbed.
Uther’s eyes are closed, but his hands nose and push over Merlin’s skin like moles, feeling their way. He rolls half onto Merlin, displacing the bedclothes, and buries his head in Merlin’s neck; Merlin hears him sniff and gasp.
He has no idea what to do. Uther’s face is pressed into his neck, his head butting at Merlin’s jaw. He’s breathing wetly and heavily with the occasional little half-gasp. He is a hard weight on Merlin’s chest and his shadow is giant and trembling on the wall, on the canopy, in the candlelight.
“Don’t,” Uther mutters.
“Sire?”
“You mustn’t. Please. Mustn’t call me that.”
Uther is slurring and then sobbing, heavily, from the pit of his guts. The bed and Merlin shake with it.
“Shhh,” whispers Merlin. “Shhhh.” His arms are trapped, one beneath him and one wrist still in Uther’s grip, so he cannot stroke and soothe. He wishes he could raise his arms. This is Arthur’s father, rocking into Merlin, his tears running hot into Merlin’s neck and moistening his scarf. He puts his mouth to Merlin’s jaw, his teeth smooth and bared against the flesh.
“Traitor,” snarls Uther. “Murderer.”
His hand, the one not occupied with gripping Merlin’s wrist, slams into his jaw from beneath and Merlin sees a dazzlement of light. He cries out loudly. Uther clenches and tears at his scarf and hits Merlin with his uncoordinated fist, and then there’s nothing Merlin can do but bear Uther’s weight and his pain and breathe.
It’s just a few moments more of Uther shoving and clawing at him, his breath close and hot and flecks of his spittle misting Merlin’s face; Merlin suddenly feels movement and then the King’s body is rolled off him, to the side. When he opens his eyes Arthur’s face is there, real and vivid in front of the looming shadow. It is as if there is colour in the room for the first time. Merlin’s heart surges in relief. He scrambles back, trying to get past Arthur and off the bed, and ends up on his arse on the floor. His lip is wet and he tastes blood. Arthur bends past him to tend to the King.
“Father,” says Arthur soothingly, his hands pressing into the King’s shoulders. “It’s all right, Father. I’m here. Sleep.”
Uther mutters and snarls, but his movements are uncontrolled and loose and he is no match for Arthur. Arthur firmly guides his arms back under the counterpane and tucks it tightly around him, and Uther turns his head slightly and nestles down into the pillows, obedient as a child.
Arthur puts a hand under Merlin’s arm, hoisting him to his feet and then strides past to the door, opening it and calling out. Merlin presses his shaking self against the wall and wills his breathing to slow.
Arthur is giving orders. “Tell Gaius the King is agitated and needs attending, and wait by him to assist. And until further notice, none of the maids is to come into this room.”
When he returns to Merlin’s side his face is set as stone; he takes Merlin by the elbow and steers him towards the door. Merlin lets himself be pulled along, his head slowly clearing away from the stuffy closeness of the King’s room. His face is burning. He has no idea what Arthur is thinking, whether Arthur thinks he did anything to provoke the King, whether Arthur heard his father call Merlin a traitor.
As they stumble into Arthur’s chambers, Merlin pulls away. Fear and worry and tension skitter like mice under his skin.
“I didn’t do anything,” he blurts out.
“What?”
“I didn’t. He just - I think he thought I was someone else.”
“That much is obvious,” scoffs Arthur. “Only delirium could lead to anyone dragging you into their bed.” But his tone is gentler than the words, and his hands are tender as he tilts Merlin’s chin up to examine the marks on his neck. He touches Merlin’s lip.
“He hit you?”
“He didn’t mean to,” says Merlin. It’s bravado; it hurts as much as if he had meant to, but Arthur seems cross and Merlin doesn’t want him crosser.
“You’d better sit down and have some wine,” says Arthur.
“No, really, Arthur! You can leave me alone. I’m all right.”
He looks into Arthur’s eyes properly for the first time and realises suddenly that while Arthur’s face is calm as stone his eyes are red-rimmed and swimming with pain. He feels the sudden tremor through Arthur’s body, right to the fingertips, as he realises Merlin has seen through him. Arthur pulls back instantly but Merlin follows, stumbling a little so that Arthur needs to steady him.
“Now that you come to mention it,” Merlin says carefully, “a drink would make me feel better.”
---
An hour later, they are sitting side by side, contemplating the sagging wineskin. The room has changed its colour; cold and dark when they entered, the edges seem softened and rounded now, deep and warm as a burrow. Merlin’s lip is hot and swollen, and his jaw throbs, but Arthur is a warm presence pressed all along his side. They have barely spoken, but the drink has made them loose, their limbs pleasantly heavy.
Arthur sighs and tilts his head back; the tension has been gradually ebbing from him, almost palpable, but concern is still evident in the unhappy twist of his mouth. Fuzzy with wine, Merlin feels a great tenderness rush out to envelop him.
“He’ll be all right,” he says. “Gaius will see to him.”
“Of course he will,” says Arthur. “It’s you who needs looking after.”
“I’m better now,” says Merlin. He lets himself sag against Arthur a little more, as he’s been doing for the past hour. He is very comfortable.
“You’ve had a head injury,” says Arthur. “You need to be careful.”
“I wouldn’t call it a head injury,” says Merlin.
“With a head as soft as yours, you need to be extra careful. In fact, I think you should stay here tonight.”
“Here?”
“I doubt you’d make the stairs.”
“But there’s only one bed.”
“That’s all right,” says Arthur. His breath is ruffling Merlin’s hair and he leans just close enough that Merlin knows Arthur still needs the contact more he does.
“You’re right, I do feel a bit woozy. I think I might need help getting to the bed,” he says.
Arthur snorts, but his hands are gentle and he holds Merlin close as they make their way across the room. Merlin leans back, feeling Arthur’s solidity and lending his own. They settle under the counterpane, side by side, not touching but Merlin feels Arthur’s presence, his warmth; his very skin opens to it.
“I just hope he doesn’t remember,” Arthur says, almost inaudibly.
Merlin rearranges the blankets around his own shoulders, moving a little closer to Arthur as he does so. It’s as if they’re floating on water, on warm safe water, and the bed moving under Arthur as he moves is a little eddy of a stream bobbing him this way and that.
His face presses into the pillow and a moment later he’s asleep.
Pairing: Arthur/Merlin (preslash)
Rating: PG
Author:
andraste_oz/vanessaramaLength: 1400 words
Summary: Distress and comfort. A missing scene from ‘The Tears of Uther Pendragon’. Sometimes the giver and receiver are both one and the same.
Warnings: wee bit o’violence and owieness, nothing permanent.
Notes: This was originally written as a bit of distraction for the lovely
lolafeist. It’s a physician’s job to tend and comfort as well as to heal; Merlin knows this well, has been lectured by Gaius often enough about the effect of the mind and soul on the body. A patient without hope will waste away, and when despair is itself a symptom the need for comfort is all the more urgent.
Merlin’s hands do not tremble as he pulls the covers over the King’s shoulder. He is even tender as he tucks the rich heavy cloth around Uther’s sweaty neck. This is not the King, the man who loathes and fears everything Merlin is, the tyrant with death on his hands who could order Merlin’s death at will, were he given reason to do so.
The man trembling and sobbing before him is none of those things. He is Arthur’s father. Merlin will comfort him as best he can, for Arthur’s sake.
As he smooths his hand over the bedding, a hand snakes from under the covers and grasps his wrist hard. Given the pitiable state the King’s in, the strength is surprising.
“Help me,” whispers Uther. He pulls, pulls with surprising strength until Merlin’s half-kneeling on the bed.
“What do you need, sire?” asks Merlin.
“Help me.”
Uther pulls him down. Merlin lands, one foot still on the floor, trying to brace himself with his free hand, but he ends up twisted on his side with his head on the King’s pillow. This close, he can smell the sourness of old sweat, leavened with little billows of lavender when the sheets are disturbed.
Uther’s eyes are closed, but his hands nose and push over Merlin’s skin like moles, feeling their way. He rolls half onto Merlin, displacing the bedclothes, and buries his head in Merlin’s neck; Merlin hears him sniff and gasp.
He has no idea what to do. Uther’s face is pressed into his neck, his head butting at Merlin’s jaw. He’s breathing wetly and heavily with the occasional little half-gasp. He is a hard weight on Merlin’s chest and his shadow is giant and trembling on the wall, on the canopy, in the candlelight.
“Don’t,” Uther mutters.
“Sire?”
“You mustn’t. Please. Mustn’t call me that.”
Uther is slurring and then sobbing, heavily, from the pit of his guts. The bed and Merlin shake with it.
“Shhh,” whispers Merlin. “Shhhh.” His arms are trapped, one beneath him and one wrist still in Uther’s grip, so he cannot stroke and soothe. He wishes he could raise his arms. This is Arthur’s father, rocking into Merlin, his tears running hot into Merlin’s neck and moistening his scarf. He puts his mouth to Merlin’s jaw, his teeth smooth and bared against the flesh.
“Traitor,” snarls Uther. “Murderer.”
His hand, the one not occupied with gripping Merlin’s wrist, slams into his jaw from beneath and Merlin sees a dazzlement of light. He cries out loudly. Uther clenches and tears at his scarf and hits Merlin with his uncoordinated fist, and then there’s nothing Merlin can do but bear Uther’s weight and his pain and breathe.
It’s just a few moments more of Uther shoving and clawing at him, his breath close and hot and flecks of his spittle misting Merlin’s face; Merlin suddenly feels movement and then the King’s body is rolled off him, to the side. When he opens his eyes Arthur’s face is there, real and vivid in front of the looming shadow. It is as if there is colour in the room for the first time. Merlin’s heart surges in relief. He scrambles back, trying to get past Arthur and off the bed, and ends up on his arse on the floor. His lip is wet and he tastes blood. Arthur bends past him to tend to the King.
“Father,” says Arthur soothingly, his hands pressing into the King’s shoulders. “It’s all right, Father. I’m here. Sleep.”
Uther mutters and snarls, but his movements are uncontrolled and loose and he is no match for Arthur. Arthur firmly guides his arms back under the counterpane and tucks it tightly around him, and Uther turns his head slightly and nestles down into the pillows, obedient as a child.
Arthur puts a hand under Merlin’s arm, hoisting him to his feet and then strides past to the door, opening it and calling out. Merlin presses his shaking self against the wall and wills his breathing to slow.
Arthur is giving orders. “Tell Gaius the King is agitated and needs attending, and wait by him to assist. And until further notice, none of the maids is to come into this room.”
When he returns to Merlin’s side his face is set as stone; he takes Merlin by the elbow and steers him towards the door. Merlin lets himself be pulled along, his head slowly clearing away from the stuffy closeness of the King’s room. His face is burning. He has no idea what Arthur is thinking, whether Arthur thinks he did anything to provoke the King, whether Arthur heard his father call Merlin a traitor.
As they stumble into Arthur’s chambers, Merlin pulls away. Fear and worry and tension skitter like mice under his skin.
“I didn’t do anything,” he blurts out.
“What?”
“I didn’t. He just - I think he thought I was someone else.”
“That much is obvious,” scoffs Arthur. “Only delirium could lead to anyone dragging you into their bed.” But his tone is gentler than the words, and his hands are tender as he tilts Merlin’s chin up to examine the marks on his neck. He touches Merlin’s lip.
“He hit you?”
“He didn’t mean to,” says Merlin. It’s bravado; it hurts as much as if he had meant to, but Arthur seems cross and Merlin doesn’t want him crosser.
“You’d better sit down and have some wine,” says Arthur.
“No, really, Arthur! You can leave me alone. I’m all right.”
He looks into Arthur’s eyes properly for the first time and realises suddenly that while Arthur’s face is calm as stone his eyes are red-rimmed and swimming with pain. He feels the sudden tremor through Arthur’s body, right to the fingertips, as he realises Merlin has seen through him. Arthur pulls back instantly but Merlin follows, stumbling a little so that Arthur needs to steady him.
“Now that you come to mention it,” Merlin says carefully, “a drink would make me feel better.”
---
An hour later, they are sitting side by side, contemplating the sagging wineskin. The room has changed its colour; cold and dark when they entered, the edges seem softened and rounded now, deep and warm as a burrow. Merlin’s lip is hot and swollen, and his jaw throbs, but Arthur is a warm presence pressed all along his side. They have barely spoken, but the drink has made them loose, their limbs pleasantly heavy.
Arthur sighs and tilts his head back; the tension has been gradually ebbing from him, almost palpable, but concern is still evident in the unhappy twist of his mouth. Fuzzy with wine, Merlin feels a great tenderness rush out to envelop him.
“He’ll be all right,” he says. “Gaius will see to him.”
“Of course he will,” says Arthur. “It’s you who needs looking after.”
“I’m better now,” says Merlin. He lets himself sag against Arthur a little more, as he’s been doing for the past hour. He is very comfortable.
“You’ve had a head injury,” says Arthur. “You need to be careful.”
“I wouldn’t call it a head injury,” says Merlin.
“With a head as soft as yours, you need to be extra careful. In fact, I think you should stay here tonight.”
“Here?”
“I doubt you’d make the stairs.”
“But there’s only one bed.”
“That’s all right,” says Arthur. His breath is ruffling Merlin’s hair and he leans just close enough that Merlin knows Arthur still needs the contact more he does.
“You’re right, I do feel a bit woozy. I think I might need help getting to the bed,” he says.
Arthur snorts, but his hands are gentle and he holds Merlin close as they make their way across the room. Merlin leans back, feeling Arthur’s solidity and lending his own. They settle under the counterpane, side by side, not touching but Merlin feels Arthur’s presence, his warmth; his very skin opens to it.
“I just hope he doesn’t remember,” Arthur says, almost inaudibly.
Merlin rearranges the blankets around his own shoulders, moving a little closer to Arthur as he does so. It’s as if they’re floating on water, on warm safe water, and the bed moving under Arthur as he moves is a little eddy of a stream bobbing him this way and that.
His face presses into the pillow and a moment later he’s asleep.
