Archive of Our Own

“—And don’t forget the speech for the Cartwright Guild!”

“Yes, sire, of course sire,” Merlin said as he pulled the door to Arthur’s chambers firmly shut in an effort to keep his King from adding anything else to his never-ending to-do list. Honestly, the prat was getting worse, not better.

That was, perhaps, unkind and a bit uncharitable, and definitely untrue. Arthur wasn’t a tyrant, and he wasn’t unreasonable. He didn’t mean to overwork Merlin, and if he knew how much of a slavedriver he really was, he’d probably be utterly horrified. And, in his defense, the entire castle was busy; there had been a delegation out of Mercia last week, and a lot of their usual duties had been pushed back while everyone scrambled to make the visiting nobles comfortable and more amenable to Arthur’s requests.

So, really, it wasn’t a surprise that there was a good deal of make-up work to get through.

The problem was that Arthur didn’t understand how long it took to do chores, and didn’t care to learn. And why should he? He was a King, and Kings weren’t exactly known for doing grunt work.

But as far as Arthur was concerned, you could polish the silver just by wiping it a few times with a cloth and setting it aside, and cleaning the floors was as simple as running a wet brush over them and moving on, and laundry meant dunking shirts in hot, soapy water before wringing them out and calling it a day. He didn’t understand that you had to put in real effort to clean properly. Merlin had often fantasized about forcing Arthur to shadow him for a day so he could learn what really went into a servant’s duties, but Arthur had his own responsibilities and pulling him away from training, Council Meetings, and the various and sundry nobles who constantly wanted “just a moment of his time” was a lot harder than it sounded, and Merlin already knew Arthur wouldn’t believe him without proof. He’d just think Merlin was complaining again if he didn’t show him how hard his duties really were.  

One day, Merlin promised himself for what must have been the thousandth time.

But one day was not today; today, he would just have to work through Arthur’s list of demands as best he could, even though it would take an entire team of servants to get through them all.

And that, of course, was why Merlin delegated.

Merlin made his way to the servant’s quarters and collected a following, then made his way up the stairs towards the laundry with his helpers in tow. He, of course, would have to do the laundry personally— Arthur was really particular about the way fabric felt on his skin, and Merlin doubted the regular laundresses would remember to use his special soap, or manage to scrub them long enough to get them properly soft—and he wouldn’t ever let anyone else handle Arthur’s weapons and armor, but the dusting, the deliveries, the mopping, the running about, the shopping, and most of all the stables could all be done by someone else.

And so, Merlin gave out his orders as they walked.

“…I think that’s it. Any questions?”

The other servants had none. Merlin smiled, thanked them graciously, and sent them scurrying off; he made a quick mental note of who he’d managed to rope into helping him, making a silent, private promise to return the favor later— commanding the other servants might be his right as the King’s Manservant, but it certainly wasn’t a right he took for granted— and turned to walk down the corridor leading to the laundry.

The basket he was holding hit something, and Merlin went down with a yelp, thankful he was standing far enough away from the stairwell that he wasn’t in danger of falling down them.

“You alright, mate?” Gwaine asked, his voice dripping with amusement.

Merlin plucked a stray sock off his head and glared half-heartedly at the knight. “Fine, fine; just overworked, as usual. You should have seen my list of chores for today!” Merlin stood and brushed himself off, sighing plaintively and staring up at Gwaine with wide, pitiful eyes. “It’s long even after I managed to pass most of them off to some of the other servants. It’ll be another late night for me, that’s for sure.”

Gwaine tsked sympathetically. “Want me to beat Arthur up for you next time we spar together? Because you know I will.” He tossed his hair back, brought his arm forward, and flexed as he made the most ridiculous expression Merlin had ever seen— complete with waggling brows and a come-hither stare.

Merlin laughed; what else could he do?

“Make sure I’ve got a good vantage point first; I’d like to watch. Does him good to be humbled every now and again. And if you wanted to pick a hot day so you could both do it shirtless, well, I certainly wouldn’t complain,” he added, favoring Gwaine with a mischievous look of his own and drawing a loud, startled guffaw from the knight.

Merlin bent and started picking up the scattered laundry, tossing the bits and pieces back into the fallen basket.

Gwaine, bless him, dropped into a squat and helped. “Merlin, don’t take this the wrong way, but you look exhausted—”

“Thanks, Gwaine, that’s exactly the look I was going for,” Merlin deadpanned. “Don’t tell me you can’t see the appeal?”

He even went so far as to flutter his eyelashes for effect, earning him another inelegant snort for his troubles.

“—when’s the last time you took a day off?” Gwaine finished.

Merlin dropped the laundry basket again. He was distantly thankful that Gwaine caught it, but he was barely aware of it; he was too busy clutching his sides and laughing, and his cackling was only slightly exaggerated. “That was a good one, Gwaine,” he gasped, swiping a stray tear from the corner of his eye. “Me, taking a day off! Gods! As if Arthur would ever let me!”

His good humor dried up a bit when Gwaine’s face darkened. “Do you mean to tell me,” Gwaine said, low, “that the Princess has you doing the job of at least three servants— on a good day— in addition to your duties with Gaius and taking you out on patrol, and he doesn’t give you time off to recover every now and again?”

“I also help out in the kitchens, the stables, the armory, the forge, and I write his speeches,” Merlin drawled. “Oh, and I check his food for poison.”

“How have I never noticed this before?” Gwaine muttered, as if to himself. A moment later, he narrowed his eyes, turned, and set the laundry basket gently on the ground. Then, after another moment’s thought, he said, “Mate, I’m sorry for this, but it’s for your own good.”

And then he kicked the basket hard enough to send it flying past Merlin; Merlin turned and watched the basket land, turn on its side, roll several feet, and start bouncing down the stairs, spraying Arthur’s socks, shirts, and smalls every which way. He turned back to favor Gwaine with the hottest glare he could dredge up, but before he could ask him what the hell he was thinking, Gwaine leapt.

In no time at all, Merlin found himself tossed over Gwaine’s shoulder with his own neckerchief stuffed into his mouth and his hands tied up in a loop made from Gwaine’s belt. He thought about struggling for a second or two, then decided against it; he wouldn’t be getting free without using magic, so it was pointless, and even if it wasn’t… well, he was rather curious to see where Gwaine was going with all of this.

And, he thought dryly, as he stared down Gwaine’s back and watched his trousers slip down to ride a little lower on his hips, it’s not as if the view’s bad.

* * *

Gwaine deposited Merlin in an empty chamber so seldom-used that Merlin had long since forgotten its true purpose and stood with his hands on his hips. “If I tell you to stay put, will you?”

Merlin spat out his neckerchief. “Sure,” he shrugged. “If only because I kind of want to see where this is going.”

“Good sport!” Gwaine said, grinning. “I’ll need that!” Gwaine plucked Merlin’s neckerchief up off the ground, balled it up in his fist, tossed it in the air, and caught it with a broad sweep of his arm, flashing a winning smile that Merlin mistrusted on principle. He pulled a flask from… somewhere… and tossed it to Merlin, who somehow managed to catch it in his still bound hands. “Entertain yourself for a minute, yeah? I’ll be back.”

Merlin stared at the closed door for a while after Gwaine stepped through it, then looked down at the flask, opened it, and sniffed warily, hoping for cider but prepared to find the sort of liquor that would be better used stripping rust off old chainmail— you never knew with Gwaine; the man had a stomach of pure cast iron and an inadvisable opinion that only the weak looked down on strong booze— and came up with more questions than answers; the flask might have been filled with plain cider, but it smelled rather hard, so it also might have been scrumpy or, gods forbid, applejack. He really couldn’t be sure.

But Merlin was thirsty, and there wasn’t that much in the flask, so really, how much trouble could he get into if he only sampled it?

Merlin took a careful sip and came no closer to determining what it was, other than delicious; it was sweet, a bit sharp, and a little hot along the back of his throat when he swallowed— which admittedly wasn’t the best sign— but it went down smooth enough and he was thirsty and bored, so he took a few more mouthfuls before Gwaine returned.

“Gwaine… why is my neckerchief soaked in blood?” Merlin asked, sounding— and feeling— extremely tired all of a sudden. He was beginning to regret going along with Gwaine’s antics, but he was also feeling just a bit floaty and wasn’t particularly motivated to stage any real protest against whatever nonsense Gwaine was getting up to. It seemed like too much effort, really, and it probably wouldn't even work. All things considered, it'd probably be easier to just let him have at it and pick up the pieces after.

“Don’t worry, it isn’t human blood!”

“Because that’s what I was worried about,” Merlin grumbled.

“It’s all part of my latest and greatest plan! We’re going to get you your days off,” Gwaine said, brightly. He dropped to the floor, sitting cross-legged in front of Merlin, and tossed the neckerchief carelessly aside before making grabby hands in the direction of his flask. Merlin took another, longer drink, mostly out of spite, then passed it over. Gwaine took an even larger swig before the flask, too, was set aside. He reached into his tunic and pulled out a few rolls of parchment and a quill, then took a tightly sealed inkwell from a belt pouch.

“See, the way I figure it, you can’t be the only person in this castle who deserves better treatment, right? And some people aren’t going to keep their heads down and roll with the punches just because they're a masochist who likes the way their boss fills out his trousers—”

“Oi!” Merlin protested.

“—so, really, it isn’t outside the realm of possibility that someone might decide to do something about it!” Gwaine finished triumphantly.

Merlin blinked. Then blinked again. “And? What’s that got to do with you abducting me and keeping me in a spare room?”

Gwaine grinned and tapped his nose. “Abducting sounds a lot like kidnapping, don’t it? And nobody but us knows that you’re in a spare room. So, if we write out a ransom note and I run into the Council Chambers screaming that my best friend in the entire world has been kidnapped by a vengeful ex-servant hellbent on righting the wrongs he experienced while he was working in the castle, and give the note and your bloody neckerchief to back my claim, well, then we can convince Arthur to give all the servants fair pay and regular holidays! It’s foolproof!”

“It’s foolish,” Merlin said, flatly. “That is the stupidest idea you’ve ever had! It’ll never work!”

“When have I ever led you astray, Merlin?”

“Four dozen pickled eggs, fourteen quarts of mead, three flagons of wine, five quarts of ale, and several hundred boots to polish after ring any bells?” Merlin shot back.

Gwaine winced and rubbed the back of his neck. “Alright, fair point, but I’m telling you, mate, this will work!”

“It absolutely will not!”

* * *

“Sire, think of the treasury,” argued Lord Jameson, a rotund, deeply unpleasant man with heavy moustaches and a general predisposition towards disdain for anyone he considered lesser— which absolutely included servants in general and Merlin in particular. Gwaine hated him, and thought often about punching his stupid face until it knocked some sense into his empty noble head. He knew Arthur hated him, too; it was a wonder he was still on the Council. “If we gave every servant a raise, well, we’d all feel the pinch, wouldn’t we? I certainly don’t think my servant is worth this,” he added, thumping the ransom note. “I don’t want coin like this flowing out of my coffers!”

In the corner, his servant crossed his arms and glowered. Gwaine was sure he was thinking about punching the man, too.

“And besides that, it sets a bad precedence,” Lord Henric put in, “giving in to a servant’s demands like that. They’ll be impossible to live with if you do! Everyone knows they’re little better than uneducated serfs. They might work in the castle, but they’re still peasants, and you can’t reason with peasants. They can have some base cunning occasionally, I’ll grant you that, but no real brains.” Lord Henric’s servant— and, indeed, every servant in the hall, clenched their fists and looked as if they were plotting to sneak spit and worse into his food; the smug bastard didn’t appear to notice, though, because he went on as if nothing at all was wrong. “Don’t bother placating them, sire; simply send your men to the drop point that letter indicates and arrest whoever shows up.”

“Bad idea,” Gwaine said, shortly. “Whoever wrote this might not be working alone; arrest one, and who knows what they’ll do to Merlin?”

Lord Jameson shrugged. “He can be replaced. There are other servants who would give their left arm to serve as the King’s manservant,” he said, almost casually, “and who would probably do a much better job than that idiot ever has!”

The entire hall froze. Slowly, Arthur rose to his feet like some vengeful god rising up from hell.

Lord Jameson looked at him, and gradually paled, realizing too late that he’d made a rather terrible mistake. “What I mean, sire, is that— ulp!”

Arthur’s hand darted out before Lord Jameson could finish his excuse. The King’s fist struck first his throat and then his temple, and the fat man went down with a heavy thump. Gwaine stared at Arthur and decided Merlin’s regard for the man might not be inflated after all; then, of course, he realized he was horribly jealous that Arthur was allowed to punch Jameson when he wasn’t, which reminded him that Arthur really was a prat of the highest order and brought him back to something approaching his usual equilibrium where the King was concerned.

“A man’s life is at stake,” Arthur growled, “and that man is worth ten of you!” He glared at Lord Jameson’s collapsed bulk, then at Lord Henric, and waved a hand. Guards appeared to drag the unconscious Jameson away and then, at Arthur’s urging, to remove Henric, too. “Does anyone have any real ideas?”

Geoffrey cleared his throat. “We could probably tweak the budget a bit, sire, if you agree that the staff could use a raise.”

The other Lords rather abruptly decided they agreed with Arthur and Geoffrey when the former cracked his knuckles and adjusted his sword belt, in spite of the fact that they had been, only moments before, nodding along with Lord Henric— although no one else had been stupid enough to agree with Lord Jameson’s stance on leaving Merlin for dead, at least.

“And,” the Steward said in a thin, small voice, “it probably wouldn’t hurt to make a counter-offer. Just to feel them out! And… and to buy us some time to decide how to move the funds around! Maybe they’ll negotiate!”

“I can deliver it,” Gwaine offered, possibly too quickly. “Everyone knows I’d never, ever put Merlin in danger; no one will think twice about me being the go-between.”

* * *

Merlin stared open-mouthed at the proposal in front of him. “I can’t believe that worked.” He shook his head and looked back to Gwaine, who looked altogether too smug for Merlin’s liking. “I don’t feel good about this at all,” he said, warningly, “but… well… I suppose it isn’t really hurting anyone, so I guess you can write back an acceptance, and we can arrange for my reappearance, and—”

“We’d really rather you didn’t. Not yet anyway.”

Gwaine and Merlin’s heads whipped around, staring at the open door and at Owen, Sarah, and Morris, who were coming in with more parchment and several bottles of ale and a large tray of food. The other servants kicked the door shut, set the trays and bottles between Gwaine and Merlin, and loomed over them. “The Council has already bent more than we ever thought they would! This is an opportunity! It’s our best shot at getting one over those utter bastards we work for,” Morris growled. “Maybe even our only shot! You might’ve fixed Arthur, for the most part— he’s loads better than he ever was when I was his manservant; he even thanked me the other day when I helped him into his armor when you were out picking herbs— but the rest of them are still awful.”

“We want the right to speak out against our masters if we’re being mistreated, or if they get handsy with us,” Sarah said snappishly.

“And the right to ask for a change in position,” Owen said. “I’ve been working in the stables for years, because that was all the castle had openings for when I asked for work, but I always wanted to work in the kitchens, and I’m a damned good cook! We should be told when there’s other positions open, and given a chance to fill them first, before they go looking for someone fresh who doesn’t even know how things in the castle are meant to run!”

“That’s right!” Morris cried. “We shouldn’t be trapped in one position until we’re fired or get fed up and quit!”

* * *

Gwaine’s mouth worked soundlessly as he stared at the servants who had, apparently, followed him back to his and Merlin’s temporary hideout, and considered their demands. They weren’t unreasonable, not at all, but… well, this whole thing was starting to feel a lot more like treason than it did when he was only trying to get Merlin a few days off and a raise that Merlin hadn’t asked for but definitely deserved.

“Um…”

“Still think your idea’s foolproof, Gwaine?” Merlin asked dryly.

Gwaine cut him a glare, but Merlin chose that exact moment to finish off Gwaine’s flask of triple-proof apple brandy— which, now that Gwaine thought about it, was probably affecting Merlin a lot more than he realized it was, and was probably the only reason Merlin had gone along with his plan for as long as he had— so he probably didn’t even notice it.

Gwaine thought fiercely for a moment, then cracked open a bottle of ale and shoved the tip of it in Merlin’s mouth so he would keep on being distracted while Gwaine tried to make the best of the situation. Merlin took it and drank almost a quarter of it before coming up for breath and saying, “Oooh, honey cakes!” and diving for the tray, which certainly proved Gwaine’s theory about how much the drink was already clouding his judgement.

“Right,” Gwaine said. “Let’s all stay calm and be reasonable about this, yeah? I’m sure we can come to an agreement, but we have to be realistic, and it would probably be better if we kept this just between u—”

The door opened. A maid Gwaine didn’t recognize stood in the doorway; several other servants peered over her shoulder, some of them standing on their tiptoes or jumping up and down just to see inside the room. “Is this where we’re deciding on the ransom, then?”

Gwaine let out a low, long groan. Merlin, the traitor, giggled.

* * *

“Healthcare?” Arthur cried. “What about Gaius? He takes care of everyone already!”

“Well, yes,” Gwaine said, sounding a bit flustered and hoping they’d all decide it was because he was worried about Merlin, and not because he just spent the better part of a half-hour being yelled at by servants and slurred at by an increasingly inebriated Merlin who seemed to have forgotten that he usually cut himself off after a two drink maximum, which was probably— alright, definitely— Gwaine’s own fault for not warning Merlin about the brandy, and for forgetting that while Arthur and his nobles might never find a semi-willing kidnappee who was spending the afternoon relaxing in a spare room getting completely soused, the other servants would without fail smell scandal and show up in droves. “But by law, he has to prioritize the nobles’ every whim over the servants’ needs without fail. They want him to prioritize cases by how urgent they are.”

Gaius sat up straighter and beamed, looking far more interested in the bargaining than he had been before; before, he just wanted to get Merlin back, same as Arthur. Now, he had a stake in the matter, and he rather agreed with the ransomers.

“Gaius,” Arthur said, sounding distinctly troubled. “Is that true?”

“Well, yes, sire,” Gaius said excitedly. “I’ve argued against the policy, but Uther—”

“Alright, fine, we’ll guarantee treatment for all based on need; is there anything else?” Arthur said, speaking rather quickly; Gwaine supposed he was a bit embarrassed that he hadn’t known about that policy so he could change it before now and rather ashamed of his father for putting it in place to begin with. The other nobles looked rather disgruntled, but they’d long since decided against arguing with Arthur when Merlin’s life was on the line.

Especially after Arthur punched out a second Lord who didn’t know when to shut up.

“Well, they have some opinions about meal times and being able to schedule time to eat during the day instead of being forced to skip lunch.”

Arthur’s jaw clenched. “I suppose that’s why Merlin always steals food off my plate.”

He didn’t sound at all happy about that realization either.

Some of the nobles made affronted noises at the idea that Merlin was stealing the King’s food.

Gwaine said, without thinking, “Actually, he does that because he’s testing for poison.”

The nobles closed their mouths with a snap of clacking teeth. Arthur stared at him like he’d started speaking another language for several long seconds, then said “What?” in a voice as high and sharp as a tea kettle whistling.

Gwaine was beginning to think he should have listened to Merlin when he said this was a bad idea. But, in his defense, how was he to know the servants of Camelot would have more grievances and better negotiating skills than the most recent Mercian delegates?

He was also wishing, rather devoutly, that they hadn’t already finished off his flask.

* * *

Gwaine stood stock-still and stunned in the doorway for longer than he should have before he slipped inside and pulled the door shut. This was not the dozen or so servants who wanted a say in his impromptu negotiations with the King earlier. This was… this was a crowd!

Gwaine pushed his way deeper into the room, looking around all the while. After a few moments, he spotted a familiar tan jacket and made for it. “Thank goodness I found you; I think this is getting entirely out of ha— oh no, not you!”

George turned around, shrugged, and said, flatly, “The castle needs better polish,” as if Gwaine would care and wasn’t still absolutely reeling over the fact that the dullest, rule-following stick-in-the-muck servant in the entire bloody castle had somehow gotten wind of his scheme and decided to insert himself into it instead of turning them in.

His words seemed to trigger a sudden influx of complaints, wishes, and requests, some more ludicrous than others. The noise was almost deafening.

Gwaine put two fingers in his mouth and let out a shrill, ear-piercing whistle before the servants could build up any real momentum. Into the silence that followed, he said, “Right, I need to see Merlin. Make a path, and give us some bloody space.”

The sea of servants parted to reveal a red-faced, giggling Merlin who, in contrast to his earlier trepidation and reluctant compliance, seemed to think all of this was great fun now.

Gwaine stomped over to him, listening against his will to the complaints as they started up again.

“I want extra pay if I have to work overnight!” someone called out.

“I don’t want to lose all my wages if I’m too sick to work; how’s it my fault if I fall ill? Why should I choose between starving and making myself sicker when I ought to be resting?”

“I want my master to provide a new uniform twice a year!”

“Well, I want—”

And, finally, Gwaine was at Merlin’s side and doing his level best to ignore the others. He opened his mouth to admit his failings and tell Merlin that he’d been right all along, and this really was a terrible idea, when Merlin looked up at him with misty eyes.

“Gwaine,” Merlin asked, his voice colored with the ghosts of bad decisions, “how many ales have I had today?”

“Not enough,” Gwaine said reflexively, before he could think better of it, because that was what he always said when someone asked him that question. He winced a moment later, regretfully, but it was too late.

Merlin nodded, his face set in a terribly solemn expression, and said, “Well, I suppose I ought to fix that, yeah?” before seizing another bottle and gulping down half of it before Gwaine could wrestle it away from him and replace it with a chunk of bread he hoped would soak up some of the alcohol in Merlin’s stomach. Merlin munched on it happily, but Gwaine could tell he was at least three sheets to the wind, which meant he probably wouldn’t be rescuing Gwaine from the consequences of his own actions the way he usually did when Gwaine found himself neck-deep in Trouble.

“New rule,” Gwaine said, in all earnest. “You aren’t allowed to drink when I’m being stupid.”

“Guess I’m never drinking again!” Merlin chirped.

Gwaine sighed bitterly; even with him sober and Merlin stone-drunk, Merlin’s wit was too quick for him. He put his head into his hands and let the constant stream of complaints and hopeful requests wash over him for some time, not bothering to listen to any one of them over another until a particularly absurd request was half-shouted quite close to his ear.

“You ought to make them repeal the ban on magic!” snapped an old woman who had somehow managed to push her way to the front of the cluster by way of sheer gall and sharp elbows. “It’s unjust!”

Before Gwaine could respond, Merlin sighed dreamily and said, “Gods, wouldn’t that be nice!”

The old woman visibly faltered, blinking in astonishment. “You mean you… you don’t hate magic?”

Gwaine was glad she asked; it would have been his next question, too, and everyone else probably wanted to hear Merlin’s response just as badly as he did, if the sudden hush was anything to go by.

Merlin stiffened, looked guiltily from side to side as he scanned the room and saw all the startled, staring faces, and said, unconvincingly, “What? No! Of course I do!” He paused, somehow reclaimed his ale, then said after another swallow, “Magic is bad, and… and… Oh, fuck it, I’m too drunk for this! I’d love a repeal!”

Then he hiccoughed, blinked bleary, suddenly golden eyes, and belched out a shimmering iridescent bubble that looked and smelled strongly of ale and reeked even from across the room if the wrinkling noses of the servants near the door were any indication.

There was a long, fraught silence.

“Merlin has magic,” the old woman said, flatly. “Merlin has magic! I should be terribly angry about that. Properly furious, really. I’ve every right to be.”

She sounded like she was trying to convince herself of that and failing, and like she was far too stunned to feel much of anything at all under the circumstances, though, so Gwaine rather doubted she was going to break out into a rage.

Merlin snorted. “You’d be less cranky if you weren’t so old, Morgana. Ageing spells are a bitch and a half to keep up, you know.”

The old woman jolted, shocked again.

The other servants gasped and backed away defensively— some of them leaving the room outright— so they could put some significant space between them and her.

Gwaine moved to stand between her and Merlin and put his hand on his sword because… because… well, because that’s what you did when you were facing down a sorceress who usually tried to murder you whenever she saw you, but it didn’t feel right. He didn’t even have the heart to actually draw his sword, not when Morgana still looked like a sick old lady and sounded too surprised to do much of anything, let alone start casting wicked spells all over the place. There was something of a standoff, then, as she turned hard eyes in his direction, daring him to try something.

Merlin started laughing. No, not laughing: giggling. Apparently, that was a drunk Merlin’s default state.

Morgana turned her head again to look at Merlin, and Gwaine, in spite of the way his better judgement was screaming at him to not take his eyes off the powerful and probably still evil sorceress in front of him, turned too.

Merlin was blowing more ale-scented bubbles, and seemed to think it was a fine game indeed. Soon enough, the air was filled with them. One drifted gently over to George, landed on his nose, and popped.

Apparently, the fumes alone were enough to intoxicate a man, because George promptly fell over and started giggling, too. The tension in the room disappeared, replaced with a palpable sense of confusion, and then George started singing a tune Gwaine recognized as a very old and very bawdy drinking song in a startlingly deep baritone.

As if he’d been waiting for it, Merlin jumped to his feet and belted out a harmony.

His voice was enthusiastic, but… not particularly polished.

Morgana reached up and rubbed her temples so hard Gwaine simply knew she was seeing starbursts of color behind her tightly closed eyelids. “I’m just… going to… go,” Morgana said, gesturing aimlessly. “Good luck with… that.”

Gwaine and the servants who weren’t too busy staring at the duet of George and Merlin in horrified fascination turned to watch her hobble out the door. Then someone said, just as George and Merlin reached the chorus, “I think that last drafted agreement was good enough, actually, don’t let us keep you any longer,” and followed her out.

The rest of the servants seemed to think he had the right of it, and dispersed.

Gwaine firmed up his jaw, grabbed the latest list of demands, crossed out a few of the stupider ideas, and added magic ban repeal? before leaving the room with quick, sharp strides.

* * *

In the end, Gwaine’s efforts and several trips back and forth between the Council Chambers and the “kidnappers” only managed partial decriminalization. Arthur and the Council refused to allow sorcery outright, but what Arthur would allow— and what he managed to bully the rest of the Council into accepting— was the assurance that sorcery would no longer carry the weight of capital punishment.

There would be, at the King’s discretion, a fine, jail time, or time in the stocks for anyone found using magic without the King’s permission— that last bit was a provision Gaius had managed to tack on near the end of the Council’s discussion that Gwaine was rather thankful of— which was probably the best Gwaine could possibly hope for.

He was, truth be told, rather thrilled. The agreement meant Merlin would get regular breaks, days off, better pay, better working conditions, and above all, safety.

Unfortunately, it also meant the “kidnappers” would have to return Merlin safely to Camelot, and Arthur was quite specific that they would need to do so immediately for him to honor the terms of their agreement. He was also very specific that if Merlin wasn’t returned unharmed, he would track them down and tear them to pieces with his bare hands, and absolutely no one doubted that claim for a second.

The dark look on his face when he made that particular threat forced Gwaine to see a bit of what Merlin saw in him again, and he really wasn’t happy about it. Arthur was a lot easier to deal with when Gwaine wasn’t realizing how stupidly attractive his face was.

* * *

“On the bright side,” Gwaine told himself as he forced Merlin to drink more water in a vain hope that it might stop him from hiccoughing more magic bubbles when he took him back to the King, “I’m pretty sure whatever he says when he sees you like this will permanently ruin his appeal for me.”

* * *

Gwaine kicked in the doors to the hall, thankful that the Council had left and there was only the Round Table waiting to see Merlin’s safe return, and carried Merlin inside. “Good news, Princess! I’ve got him!”

“Merlin!” Arthur stood and sprinted for them, knocking over his chair in the process and nearly knocking Leon’s chair over with him still in it for good measure. “Are you alright?”

“I’m sho good,” Merlin slurred.

Arthur stopped and glared. “Merlin,” he said, in a low tone that had Gwaine wincing already, “have you actually been in the tavern this entire time?”

The King turned his glare on Gwaine, and Gwaine, unfortunately, felt himself starting to sweat.

Merlin reached up, hand flailing, and came very close to poking Arthur square in the eye; if the King’s reflexes were any worse, he surely would have. After a bit more flailing, Merlin managed to press his fingertips to the space between Arthur’s brows and rubbed at the crease he found there, saying, firmly, “No, no, no, thassh a bad furrow, I don’ like that furrow, go ‘way!”

Arthur’s eye started to twitch, but remarkably, he looked less stressed than he did before Merlin started pawing at him.

Gwaine realized then and there that he would never understand their relationship, and that he would be a lot better off if he stopped trying immediately.

“An’ I wasn’t at the tavern! I’m never at the tavern! I was with Gwaine! He ki-ka-kid… kid nuh… um… kidnapped me!” he said, sounding quite proud to have managed the apparently difficult word. He grinned, oblivious to Arthur’s bristling fury and Gwaine’s sudden despair and fresh understanding of just how terribly out of hand this had all gotten.

Merlin was right: this really had been his stupidest idea ever. He was doomed!

Oh, did he,” Arthur ground out, sounding inutterably dangerous and malicious and deadly.

Gwaine gulped. He was pretty sure that if he hadn’t still had an armful of Merlin, Arthur would have already had him on the floor bleeding.

“No, bad furrow!” Merlin snapped, prodding Arthur’s brow again. “It’s okay, he was jus’ being a good friend! But he did get me drunk, and that’s bad! I’m not s’posed to drink; I can’t hold it well.”

“Your liquor you mean?” Arthur asked, dryly. “I think we can all see you can’t hold that.”

“No,” Merlin said airily, “the magic.”

“The what?!”

Before Gwaine could stop him, and before anyone else in the chamber could get a word in edgewise, Merlin hiccoughed loudly, blinked hazy golden eyes at nothing in particular, and said in a small, maudlin sort of voice, “I wish Lance was here.”

And then he belched out another bubble. This one smelled a bit like a thunderstorm and was bright blue in color; it swelled as it drifted lazily through the air, growing until it was almost the size of a small cart. Everyone turned their heads, following it with their eyes, until it eventually drifted down to the floor and popped, and—

And a very naked, very confused Lancelot picked himself up off the ground, shaking off a river of blue sparks that faded into nothingness just before they reached the floor.

“How the hell did I get here? Wasn’t I dead two seconds ago? And where are my clothes?”

Merlin, in what Gwaine had long since come to realize was something of a signature move, giggled.

And then he passed out.

Gwaine looked around the chamber, considered his options, and shoved Merlin into Arthur’s chest. Arthur took him, reflexively, and Gwaine seized on the opportunity to flee as fast as his feet could carry him. He’d probably pay for it later, but not until after Arthur nursed Merlin back to health; and, really, it all turned out well enough in the end, right? Surely, he wouldn’t be too mad!

* * *

Several days later, Gwaine decided Merlin hadn’t complained enough about mucking the stables, or about washing Arthur’s socks, and deeply regretted that, as a knight, he wasn’t protected under the new agreements he’d helped the servants bargain for.

The worst part, of course, was that Merlin categorically refused to help him with his newly recognized magic in what Gwaine could only describe as a sick payback for his hangover the morning after, which Gwaine though was distinctly unfair.

* * *

Hours later, freshly scrubbed with water drawn from one of the pumps near the stables, Gwaine made his way to the training field and sidled up to Percival, who was taking a bit of a breather. He looked rather miserable in the heat, and Gwaine was suddenly struck by a rather wonderful idea.

“You know,” Gwaine said out of the corner of his mouth, keeping his eyes straight ahead, “if all of us knights got together, we could probably convince Arthur that—”

The sharp point of a sword tip at the back of his neck convinced him to stop talking immediately.

“Finish that sentence, Gwaine,” Arthur growled. “I dare you.”