Archive of Our Own ^beta

By the time Merlin shoulders the last load of firewood through the west gate, the sky has turned the color of old pewter. The drizzle that started at noon has thickened into a downpour that soaks through cloak and shirt and skin until even his bones feel wet. The hooves of the cart horses churn the courtyard mud into a sullen, sucking mire, and Arthur’s voice—sharp, exasperated, familiar—still rings in Merlin’s ears from the afternoon’s “one last” errand.

One last saddle to oil, one last practice sword to sand, one last note to deliver to Sir Leon because apparently the prince’s feet cannot be trusted with stairs today. Then Sir Kay had mentioned the kitchens were begging for dry wood, and somehow that had become his problem too, and—

“—hh—H’KSHh!—” The sneeze pitches him forward, hands braced to keep the stack of split logs from spilling. His throat scorches. His nose has gone numb and raw at once, an impressive contradiction. He blinks against the rain needling his eyelashes and stumbles, boots slurping in the mud, toward the physicians’ tower. The bundle of wood knocks against his shoulder with each step. His head is a bell someone keeps striking from the inside.

When he pushes open the door to Gaius’s chambers, warmth wobbles toward him: the low, steady hearth fire, the spiced ghost of tisane in the air, lamp oil and parchment and that particular comfort of home—clutter that means someone cares if you come back to it.

Gaius looks up from his ledger. “Good heavens, boy.” His eyebrows vault, then thunder down into a scowl. “You’re drenched! And dripping on my floor.”

Merlin tries for a grin and manages something like a grimace. “That’s because I’m… dripping.” His teeth chatter on the last word as if they’ve decided to start a fight with his tongue.

“Put those down before you flood the place. No, not by the linen—by the door—oh for—” Gaius vaults to his feet with a speed that belies his years. He all but wrests the wood from Merlin’s arms and drops it by the threshold, then steers Merlin inward with a firm hand between his shoulder blades.

The sudden loss of weight makes Merlin sway. The room tilts. He catches himself on the worktable, breath hitching, and has just enough time to drag his sleeve up before another fit broadsides him. “Heh—hih—! H’KSHhh!—KSCHh’uh!” His nose protests, stinging like someone’s scraped it with a visor. His eyes water. He sniffles and regrets it; his head spikes with pressure, ears ringing.

Gaius’s scowl softens into worry. “Sit.” It’s not a request. “Cloak off, shirt too—no, don’t argue, Merlin, you look like a river rat.”

“’M a very dignified river rat,” Merlin mumbles, and fumbles with the clasps. His fingers feel stupid, thick as sausages, and he’s halfway to tangling himself in the wet wool before Gaius sighs and peels it away for him. The shirt is worse: cold fabric clinging to cold skin, peeling like bark. Gooseflesh leaps over his arms. He shivers so hard his teeth clack.

“Honestly,” Gaius mutters, bustling like a storm himself. Towels appear, a blanket thumps onto the foot of the bed, a clean shirt lands on Merlin’s knees. “Out in this weather after running yourself ragged all week. What did I say about pacing, hm?”

“That I’m very good at it?” Merlin hazards, voice gone hoarse. “Hh—heh—don’t—” He scrabbles for the towel and buries a desperate, “H’TSCHH!—TSCHh!” into terry. The second sneeze drags a cough with it, deep and rasping, tearing along the edges of a throat already rubbed raw by the day.

Gaius tuts and swaps the damp towel for a dry one, brisk hands gentle at Merlin’s nape. “You’ve not slept properly since Tuesday, by the look of you. And all these missions for Arthur—side quests, he calls them? I shall start charging the prince for the privilege of his obliviousness.”

Merlin huffs something like a laugh, like a plea. His nose threatens to drip again; the towel becomes a grateful refuge. “It’s not his fault,” he says through cotton. “Just—just a lot.”

“And yet,” Gaius says, steering Merlin toward the bed. “When there is too much to carry, it is no sin to say so.” He presses a hand to Merlin’s forehead, then his cheekbone, then his neck where the pulse skitters. “Mm. Warm. Not high, not yet.”

Merlin wants to say I’m fine. What comes out is a strangled, “I’mb—” followed by a congested, “Hh—hih—! H’KSHHh!—KSCHh!—” each sneeze tugging at the tender muscles between his ribs. The room blurs at the edges. He swallows a groan and lets Gaius strip away the damp shirt, lets the older man haul a blanket around his shoulders like armor made of wool. The dry fabric is a benediction. He exhales as if it’s the first warm thing he’s had all day.

“That’s better.” Gaius eases him onto the mattress and tucks the blanket more fiercely than any nursemaid. “Under, not just around, or I’ll stitch you to it.”

“Threat noted,” Merlin mumbles, dizzied by the simple relief of horizontal. His head throbs less when he’s not holding it up. His sinuses, unfortunately, take the opportunity to throb more. He drags the blanket up under his nose and blinks, heavy-lidded, at Gaius’s bustle.

Glass clinks. The mortar sings against stone, a low, grinding lullaby. Gaius hums something tuneless under his breath as he pinches herbs into the bowl, pours water from the kettle, coaxes flame and steam and scent. “Elderflower and thyme for the catarrh,” he narrates for Merlin’s benefit—Gaius always narrates, as if naming the care makes it stronger. “Horehound for the cough. A bit of willow-bark, since you’re aching whether you admit it or not. Honey because you’re a child and will make a face otherwise.”

“I’m seventeen,” Merlin objects, then instantly proves Gaius right by making a face at the first bitter mouthful of tisane. The honey does its best to disguise the bark’s bite. The steam fogs his eyes and teases a tickle up behind them. He scrubs at his nose, but the itch blossoms, shameless and impossible to negotiate with. “H—hh—heh—! H’TSCHHh-uh!—Hih’KSHH!—”

“Bless you. And again,” Gaius adds, because he knows Merlin always has one more. Merlin scowls at being so accurately read and promptly sneezes a third time, surrendering into it with a defeated, miserable sound. Gaius’s mouth tilts. “There we are. Drink, then breathe this.” He sets a steaming bowl on the low table and drags it close, drapes another towel over Merlin’s head like a tent, and guides his face over the fragrant cloud.

The heat strokes his cheeks, saturates his breath. Mint and thyme sting pleasantly; the itch eases. Tears leak from the corners of his eyes and feel oddly cleansing. For a breathless moment, Merlin surrenders to the simplicity of it: in, out, hold, the same rhythm as a spell but without the consequence. His thoughts unspool. The relentless list of tasks loosens in his grip. He is not a servant or a sorcerer or destiny with muddy boots; he is a boy with a cold and a guardian who loves him.

He sniffles. The towel shifts. “Gaius?”

“Yes, my boy.”

“’M sorry.” The words fog the steam. He isn’t entirely sure what he’s apologizing for. Everything. Nothing. For being late, for being careless, for not being able to be everything at once.

Gaius’s hand settles on his shoulder, warm and steady, a pause shaping itself into kindness. “There is nothing to be sorry for that a good sleep will not mend,” he says. “You do not have to prove your worth by outpacing your limits.”

Merlin’s laugh is a wet, broken thing. “Tell that to Arthur.”

“I intend to.” The hand squeezes. “After you’re asleep, and before he decides that the best way to cure a cold is to make you run messages to the kitchens and back until you sweat it out.”

A sputter from Merlin signals either disbelief or agreement. He’s not sure which. The steam curls around him like a cat seeking his warmth. “He—he doesn’t know,” Merlin adds, a stubborn loyalty rising even through the cotton-wool in his head. “He’s just—he expects—”

“Much,” Gaius finishes, with more sympathy than reprimand. “And you give it. That is no small thing. Now, out from under there before you poach yourself.”

Merlin emerges blinking, hair damp and curling at his temples. The room is softer somehow, less sharp at the edges. His next breath doesn’t rasp. He blows his nose obediently into a square of linen Gaius provides and then slumps back against the pillows, boneless.

“Good,” Gaius says, satisfaction tucked in his tone. He presses the back of a hand to Merlin’s cheek again, then to his wrist. “The heat’s helping. Keep sipping.” He sets the cup within reach and turns to the workbench, where he measures a darker draught into a small vial.

Merlin’s eyes track it with the wary suspicion of a man who has lived with Gaius long enough to know that anything dark is unlikely to taste of honey. “What’s that?”

“Something to open your chest if it tightens overnight,” Gaius says. “A pinch of hyssop and a whisper of—”

“Magic?” Merlin offers, sly through the fog.

Gaius’s mouth quirks. “Wisdom. From an old man who has seen too many boys pretend they are not cold until they collapse.”

It takes Merlin’s muzzy brain a second to realize Gaius is aiming this at him and not some general category of boys. He manages a sheepish smile and then ruins it with a wracking cough that pulls at the ache in his shoulders. When he settles, Gaius is already there, fingers steady between his shoulder blades, grounding.

“I’ll stoke the fire,” Gaius says, rising. “And warm a stone for your feet.”

“I can—” Merlin begins, habit’s reflex. The poker lifts from its stand of its own accord as if eager to answer, and Merlin flinches, the half-formed spell still buzzing on his tongue. He clamps his lips shut and coughs instead.

Gaius lifts an eyebrow at the hovering poker and then, without comment, reaches around it to add a log. “You can rest,” he says mildly, as if nothing had trembled in the air. “The castle won’t crumble for lack of you tonight.”

Merlin ducks his head. Gratitude pools warm in his chest, warmer than the fire. He tucks the blanket under his feet when Gaius slides the warmed stone in, and an involuntary sigh escapes him at the bliss of heat on cold toes.

He must drift, because time goes soft and then returns in pieces: the clack of the shutters as Gaius checks the latch against the wind; the gentle scrape of chair legs; the careful clink of vials being put away. The rain’s drumming becomes a lullaby. He snuffles himself closer to the edge of sleep.

Somewhere toward midnight, the door creaks. Merlin’s eyes slit open. A familiar silhouette hesitates in the light from the hearth.

“Gaius?” Arthur’s voice, uncharacteristically quiet. “Is Merlin—”

Gaius is already between Arthur and the bed, an imposing wall of wool and disapproval. “Your manservant is abed, and so will you be if you have come with errands.”

Arthur straightens, indignant, then falters as he peers around Gaius’s shoulder. Merlin slumps down instinctively, as if the blanket might be an invisibility cloak. His nose chooses this exact moment to protest the draft with a treacherous tickle. He wrestles it, fails, and muffles a soft, “H’kshh—” into the blanket.

Arthur’s face changes—deflates, maybe, into something like guilt with a princely edge. “He’s ill?”

“He is overtired, rain-soaked, and full of cold,” Gaius says. “Which is what happens to young men who are worked from dawn to dusk and expected to be in three places at once.”

Arthur has the grace to look abashed. He drifts closer, ignoring Gaius’s glower, and his voice gentles. “Why didn’t you say?”

Merlin peeks over the rim of the blanket. “You didn’t ask,” he says, because even sick he can’t leave a quip unsaid.

Arthur huffs through his nose, torn between a laugh and a wince. “Fair enough.” He rubs at the back of his neck, suddenly awkward. “I’ll—I’ll send someone else to the stables tomorrow. And the kitchens. And you—you’ll stay. Rest. That’s an order.”

Merlin’s mouth tugs. “I thought you’d never say it.”

“Don’t be insolent,” Arthur says, with none of his usual bite. He reaches, hesitates, then taps two fingers lightly against Merlin’s blanketed shoulder—a soldier’s touch, brief and sincere. “Feel better.”

“Thank you, sire,” Gaius says dryly, shepherding him back toward the door. “You may contribute to that outcome best by taking your considerable noise elsewhere.”

Arthur huffs again, a little more like himself, and lets Gaius shoo him out. “I’ll check in tomorrow,” he tosses over his shoulder, and then the door closes softly, almost politely, on a final gust of damp air.

Silence widens into the space he leaves. The fire murmurs. Merlin blinks at the ceiling, the strange ache of being cared for settling into him like rain into parched earth.

Gaius returns with the draught. “You heard the prince,” he says, resigned fondness winning out over gruffness. “An order’s an order.”

Merlin scrunches his face and swallows. It isn’t as vile as it looks. The honey lingers. Warmth spreads outward from his stomach, unwinding knots. He sinks deeper into the bed as if it intends to keep him.

“Sleep,” Gaius says, smoothing the blanket one last time. His hand rests for a moment on Merlin’s hair, a benediction older than any herb. “I’ll be here.”

Merlin’s throat tightens around an answer that would be too much like thank you, too close to the bone. He lets his eyes close instead. The window rattles with wind; the rain softens. The ache in his head is a smaller thing, fenced by wool and warmth and Gaius’s watch at the bedside.

When he wakes in the grey wash before dawn, it’s to the sound of the fire still whispering, the taste of honey on his tongue, and Gaius dozing upright in the chair with his book open in his lap, spectacles perched perilously low. Merlin sniffs and immediately clamps the blanket to his face, stifling a tiny, inevitable, “H’k—kshh.”

Gaius doesn’t even open his eyes. “Bless you,” he says, and Merlin, who is not good at obeying orders unless they suit him, obeys this one without argument—tips into sleep again, safe in the knowledge that the day can wait. Tonight he is allowed to be a boy with a cold, with someone to fuss and scold and make the horrid tea taste sweet.

Tomorrow, perhaps, he will tell Arthur that even destiny is allowed a morning off. Tonight, he is merely warm. And that is enough