SEE NOW this is what happens when you've got a midterm in five hours. YOU WRITE FIC. Or something like it, anyway.

Super belated EP1 codas. I've got some for EP2, but they're not done, so. SO. Those will happen tomorrow, THESE are happening now.

I'm Bolding This So It'll Look Like An Explanation (But It's Not, Really, It's Mainly Bullshit Hurray For Bullshit! \o/): okay, so, here's the thing. The new season? I do not know whether to laugh or go 'WHAT WHAT WHAT' a lot. CONFUSED YET AMUSED. SO! I have two codas. One accepting BBC's interesting take on both Merlin and Arthur's characterisations so far (ADMIT IT, secretly, you all LOVE IT. SUPER EMO MERLIN, GOD, we've been waiting that shit forEVER), and another slightly more redeeming one. Redeeming for whom, you ask? EVERYONE. EVERYONE GETS REDEEMED. AWESOME.

Coda 201a goes out to zarathuse, who promised to record a dramatic reading of this and publish it as a podfic. YOU HAVE NO IDEA HOW BAD I NEED THIS TO HAPPEN. PLEASE HARASS HER UNTIL SHE CAVES, FLIST.

201b goes out to, uuuuhhh, whoever wants it. Does anyone even wants it? It's GEN. RATED G. WHO WANTS THAT? leandergasped, I think this is perfect for you. GOOD, CLEAN FUN. PERFECT.

(Let it be known that this is the most gen thing I've written in three years. The last one was about Neville LBottom being stuck in a living bunker with Seamus, reading Nostradamus and decidedly not wanking. AND EVEN THAT ONE WAS AT LEAST PG13. SO. SO!)

Merlin 201a/b codas | G | M/A preslash | A) Emo Merlin, You Are Emo | B) Sit Down Child And Let Uncle Arthur Explain To You Why He's Such A World-Class A-Hole | Beta'd by the lady. YOU KNOW WHO. cherrybina. THE LADY.

201a – Emo Merlin, You Are Emo


Gaius had laughed, Merlin had laughed, and it really did feel like something good had just happened—the both of them still giddy with the ease of a day that was safer than the one before. Merlin couldn't keep the grin off his face, tried anyway by propping an elbow on the table and leaning into his hand—heel to his jaw, fingers covering his mouth, pushing his lips into an awkward angle. He looked up at Gaius with a minute shake of his head as if to say—Madness, this place. Madness.

Gaius raised his eyebrows in small acknowledgement. He nodded a salute, picked a plate off the table, fingers tapping the bottom as he turned back to the small cauldron. Merlin watched him, fond, then glanced down at the pile of armour before him.

It was rusty around the links, bits of mud and grass wedged impossibly in every groove and knick of metal. An oddly bent gauntlet slid off the top, making a half-roll onto the edge of the table—its broken fingers hanging off the end with a single sway.

Merlin's crazy grin slowly shrunk under his palm. His hand dropped from his face, elbow slipping onto the armrest.

I am the armour, he thought, suddenly. Then again, blinking, The armour is me.

He spent the afternoon in his room, cleaning under the ridges of welded iron with pathetic devotion, feeling increasingly sorry for himself as he continued to come up with comparisons between himself and the pieces he was holding.

I am sort of like this vambrace, he quietly concluded, flipping the thing over in his hand. Clingy.

Or maybe like this hauberk, came he thought later, miserably pushing a twisted bit of cloth between the links. Often an unnecessary weight.

Perhaps it's the helmet. He held it up, inspected its hollow eyes with a sad little noise. Hollow, and all . . . head-shaped. Crinkled his lip, sighed. I have a head. I am this helmet.

Placing it on his pillow, Merlin carefully lined it to the puzzle of armour spread over his bed—bits of it put together like a shell of a person resting on the thin mattress. Arthur doesn't care about the helmet, he thought. Arthur lets anyone have a whack at the helmet.

Flicking at the material with a dull echo of a sound, Merlin muttered to himself. "Sure, why not, go right ahead. Bang on the head, really, see no reason why not. I mean it's not like the bloody thing is trying to do a job or any—"

"Merlin," Gaius called from the other room. "Are you coming down for dinner, boy?"

"No," Merlin replied after a beat, staring at the armour.

"No?"

"Not hungry." And then, flustered unable to help himself, "I hate dinner."

"You hate dinner?" The comment was given with short chuckle, quickly followed by a dryly delivered, "Again?"

"Yes. Again." Merlin nudged his bedside table with his foot, blew some air into his cheeks—puffed it out. "I hate dinner again."


201b – Sit Down Child And Let Uncle Arthur Explain To You Why He's Such A World-Class A-Hole


It's not a hot day, the light a greyish yellow where it filters in through the cracks in the roof of the loft—the air clammy between the hay stacks, and what little heat remains deeper in the mounds of wheat is of no use to Merlin who can only lie back and burrow into the crook of his folded arms.

All the same, Arthur is flustered and sweaty when he appears at the top of the ladder, still in full armour and grunting his frustration as he clambers his way onto the loft, cursing, clanking and wobbling as he goes.

Merlin watches disinterestedly, eyebrows raised and chin tucked into his scarf. He makes no move to help.

It takes Arthur a bewildered moment of glancing about before he notices Merlin's huddled form against the hay, and the sight brings him to a long, staring pause. He blinks, hisses out a breath. Then, "Where the hell have you been?"

Merlin slowly glances sideways, then back to Arthur. There's a slight shrug to his shoulders before he mutters a small, "Here?" into his chest.

Arthur looks at him, mouth twitching in an attempt to fight back an ugly sort of scowl. One of his hands comes up, pointing a finger at Merlin as he bends forward a little—as though ready to say something, mouth opening and closing, at a loss. But he deflates quite quickly, as he often does, and instead casts a glance up to the ceiling with a tight sigh—then sets to taking off his armour, vaguely indignant still.

He's clumsy. He fumbles with the straps, the hooks, and ends up pulling and pushing a lot—apparently figuring that taking off his own arm in the process can't be half as bad as displaying any kind of patience.

Eventually, with a hauberk half over his head and its hem hooked on his shirt, he manages a strained and muffled, "Well, are you going to help me or what?"

"What," Merlin says.

"What?"

"Help you or what." Merlin lifts his head a little, looks at the tufts of Arthur's hair peeking through the hauberk links. "I'm going with the what. Besides," he adds, voice dropping back to a mutter, "wouldn't want me to accidentally chop off your head or anything, what with my servant skills and all. Right."

Arthur doesn't move for a moment, arms half up in an awkward angle. Then, "Oh, for—" He starts wriggling out of the hauberk, frantically, ripping his shirt in the process and undoing a small circle of links. He tosses the bundle of metal away as quickly as he can, annoyed and flushed, fringe matted to his forehead.

Merlin looks away, shifts against the prickly hay. There's a crack between the floorboards where he can catch glimpses of the horses beneath, backs and ends of flicking tails, so he keeps to that—looks down, watches intently and ignores Arthur as he flops down beside him.

"Knighted one of my men today," says Arthur after a short pause, sounding somewhat cheerful. It's a blatant peace offering leaning back into the hay out of the corner of Merlin's eye, and he won't acknowledge it at all.

"Would you like to know how it went?" Arthur continues, propping one arm under his head. "Sure you would. I'll tell you how it went, Merlin. Listen. Here it comes: it went fine. The man's a knight, blissfully happy, there were no attempts for anyone's life—unless you count the dancing that ensued not a moment after I made my ultimate escape—and I believe the greater part of the castle remained intact so all in all," –he stops, takes a breath. "All in all, a jolly successful day in Camelot."

One of the horses sighs loudly, shakes its head. Its breath is visible in the cold stables below, and Merlin thinks that it was easier to not notice the temperature when Arthur wasn't there, a bulk of heat close to his shoulder.

"Isn't that right, Merlin?"

Merlin says nothing. He sets his jaw, stares at the floor.

"Merlin." An expectant pause, another, "Merlin." Then, on getting no reply, a quickly exhaled, "Well at least tell me how long you're planning to be like this so I have the chance to plan your sulking into my schedule, yeah?"

"You can't possibly expect me to know now," Merlin replies, voice low and humourless. "It's hardly even been a day."

"Oh honestly, Merlin, I don't even—" Arthur doesn't seem to know how to finish his sentence, laughs instead. "What are you being so prissy about? You've still got your job, haven't you. I could've had you fired ten times over for all the stunts you pulled, you know. You should be grateful, of all things, rather than . . . "

"I most certainly should not be gra—"

"You're my servant, Merlin." The statement hangs in the silence that follows, awkward, and Merlin tenses—blushes a little—still stares at the wooden planks.

"You slack off appallingly for a week without so much as an excuse," Arthur keeps on, quieter now. "Then somehow still find it in you to get so angry when someone manages a better job that you'd fabricate some story about them, just to get them in my bad graces, I'm sorry but that's just not—"

"I didn't want to be a servant!" Merlin turns to look at Arthur—arms falling from his chest, propping himself on his elbows, face red. He's angry, already embarrassed with what he's about to say though seeing no way around it, now. "I try, all right? I try but it's not easy, you're not easy and—well I wasn't meant to be a servant, was I? I wasn't born into it, wasn't trained for that sort of thing and you know that, you know where I came from, where I—grew up. You saw it. So I can't help that, yeah, but I'm here now which all right, it's fine, I accept it but—" He takes a shaky breath, releases it tightly through his nose. "It's not fair, Arthur. You've got to give me a break sometime. I mean . . . " A shrug, a small one. "What else am I going to do?"

Arthur keeps his gaze level for a while, fairly blank, then turns to look at the slanted ceiling. "You could always work for Gaius, I suppose."

Merlin swallows thickly. He starts blinking, rapidly, and it takes Arthur a moment to notice and add an unnecessarily loud, "Oh don't give me that look! So someone came along and told you how to do your job for once, so what? It's not like you're not guilty of exactly the same thing." He frowns back up at the ceiling. "Don't do this, Arthur. Don't do that, Arthur. That's the wrong thing, Arthur. That's the stupid thing, that's the selfish thing, that's arrogant, that's foolish, that's too dangerous, that's not dangerous enough, don't go, go, stay, leave, arse, prat, git, clotpole!" He coughs up a harsh breath, inhales. "Clotpole," he repeats, making a flourish of a gesture to go with it, then heavily drops his hand back into the hay. His forearm brushes Merlin's.

"Between you, Morgana and my father it's no wonder I . . . " he trails off, makes a small sounds as though commenting on a thought. "It's just . . . Merlin, everything I do is for my people, and everyone just thinks I'm an . . . Well. You can hardly blame me for taking a liking to the one person out there who actually acknowledged the hardships of a prince."

Merlin stares at where their arms are almost touching for a quiet moment—Arthur's with his sleeves rolled up, a lot of muscle, some scars, hair and goosebumps; Merlin's covered by two layers, a shirtsleeve and a jacket, thinner even like that. He slowly lies back down, mimicking Arthur's stance—looking up at the ceiling. He touches his pinkie to the side of Arthur's hand, says,

"I don't think you're a . . . "

"Yes you do," Arthur cuts him off roughly. He doesn't move his hand away, though.

"I was only trying to help," Merlin says, sounding small, vaguely annoying even to himself.

"I don't always need your help, Merlin. You don't always know better than me, all right?" He glances at Merlin, just for a second, a brief and uncertain frown. "You think you're so clever. I know you do. Well I'll have you know that I do have a sense of judgement of my own, and that I don't . . . " But nothing follows. Arthur seems to be looking for more words, and that keeps on for a short minute, but in the end the sentence never gets finished. He sighs instead, closes his eyes. With a small gesture he catches Merlin's little finger for a heartbeat, squeezes it with his own. When he lets go he does so completely, sitting up with a grunt, resting his elbows on his knees—blinking at the change in gravity.

Merlin stares at his back, at the protruding line of his spine. He curls his fingers into his palm, worries the corner of his lip with grazing teeth.

"I heavily dislike this conversation," Arthur declares, pulling at a blade of wheat from the edge of the stack.

Merlin gives a breathy laugh, almost a snort, says, "Yeah."

"I don't even know why we're having it," he continues. "I've always been most adverse to the expressing of one's . . . " A quick, indistinct motion of his fingers. A small roll of his eyes.

"S'all right, Arthur." Drawing up his knee, Merlin nudges Arthur's side. He makes a bit of silly voice when he adds, "I won't tell anyone."

Arthur gives him a look over his shoulder, unhappy but not entirely serious, and rather than give a retort he just glares for a moment—then just looks, no specific expression to it, eyes flicking distractedly to Merlin's mouth. It takes Merlin a second to realise he went back to chewing his lip. He stops and Arthur looks away—down.

"Right," Arthur says, eventually, and gets up. He makes his way towards the ladder, only to stop when he turns in his descent down to the stables—taking in the state of the loft. He sighs, scowls.

"Oi, Merlin, when you go back, you wouldn't mind . . . " he gestures at the mess of his armour, pieces lying scattered in wayward corners where Arthur threw them in his frenzy.

Merlin raises an eyebrow, unimpressed.

"What?" Arthur asks, already defensive.

Merlin raises two eyebrows.

"That's not—!" Arthur stops. Looks away, licks his lips. Takes a breath. "Fine," he says, then stomps the two steps back up the ladder. He picks up his hauberk and two vembraces, makes a show of settling them under his arms as he starts back down the ladder. "Half," he tells Merlin, head disappearing below the level of the loft. "I did half. You do the rest."

"That was so not half of it," Merlin tells him in a mutter that probably goes unheard. He sits up just when Arthur's voice calls back a distanced,

"Before dinner, Merlin!"

Merlin laughs quietly, mostly to himself, closing his eyes as he shouts back an easy, "You got it, Arthur."

Arthur's laughter is louder than Merlin's, not a trace of inhibition, and it echoes off the stables walls—off the wood and the mud and the tar. Merlin keeps his eyes closed, his smile private, and toys with a pluck of hay—pulls at it, breaks some of it, peels off the leafy layers. His hands are dusty with it, warm, even as the chills run up the back of his neck.

In the meanwhile, this. I recommend going through those pictures while listening to this song, then gazing a good fifteen minutes at that last shot. WHILE PLAYING THAT SONG ON REPEAT.

If you don't see the love by then, baby, you're a lost case. LOST.

OKAY. Now I'll go spend a while pretending to study even though I won't process any of it, and then fall asleep on my notes. DROOLING. ~*THE GOOD LIFE*~

ETA:

♥ Merlin/Arthur Kiss Meme ♥

Go *_*