Title: Who is more foolish? The fool? Or the fool who follows him?
Summary: A trip to the tavern. Merlin really is a lightweight.
Word Count: 1000
Author's Notes: title is from Star Wars. :D
Merlin wasn't an idiot, no matter what Arthur said. All that talk of mental affliction and stupidity and not having enough brains to find his own backside when he was saving the clotpole's life yet again, well, it did get to him after a while.
Idiot, indeed. He knew he was the smarter of the pair, even if the prat was the king. Saved him enough times. Wrote his speeches, too. Even nudged him in the right direction about running the kingdom although he could be surprisingly stubborn at times.
But after a day of mucking the stables, polishing Arthur's armour, laundry, the back-break of floor cleaning, soot-covered after sweeping out the chimney (although he probably should have done that before cleaning the floor), getting things thrown at him, lifting and carrying and filling the prat's wine glass over and over at dinner because the king was too much a cabbage-head to do it himself. Never mind that he'd been up half the night before helping Gaius, he'd had enough.
Destiny be damned. He'd deserved a night off, didn't he?
Decision made, after that, it got all muddled. Fuzzy-brained, around him, the air was smoky with peat and the smell of mulled wine. People kept slapping him on the back and buying him mead and making the tavern weave a bit when he blinked.
His head did get spinny and after a while, the floor was kind of soft and he was resting his cheek against something he didn't want to think about but the rest of it was sleepy-warm.
When he opened his eyes again, there were boots in front of his nose. Boots he'd spent hours polishing.
That couldn't be right. Arthur was too busy being a clotpole to come find him.
He didn't think he said that aloud but a moment later, there was a disgusted snort from near the ceiling somewhere and he was getting yanked up and then whoa, hauled over a hard shoulder. A strong, solid shoulder, and there were muscles moving underneath Merlin as mystery man-not-Arthur stomped up the hill.
For a tipsy moment, he was worried, although not sure why but then he started to giggle when his upside-down face bumped near that firm arse. It looked familiar; he'd seen it before but he couldn't remember where. It was a wonder, that arse, so round, so eager to be played with and since Merlin was already there, he reached out and grabbed a handful.
For that, he got a firm smack on his own backside; he let go, flailing a bit as he rubbed at the hurt.
"Stop that. Not here, you idiot."
His brain was still fuzzy and all the blood rushing to his head made his eyeballs throb but he recognized that voice. Arthur's and he sounded quite put out and screechy, like a girl.
"M'not. Not… idiot."
"No, you are a drunken idiot. Quite a different thing." A hint of amusement. Then Arthur shifted a bit and Merlin's face was close to that perfect arse again.
"And you are… you… you are a clotpole." He wiggled a bit. His head was spinning and he was tired. "Put m' down."
"And have you fall on your face again? No, thanks." Arthur gave Merlin's behind another slap. "Just lie still."
Knowing that Arthur was as stubborn as a block of wood and wouldn’t let him escape no matter what he did, Merlin huffed out insults all the way back to Arthur's room. And if his hands happened to brush up against that perfect arse, so much the better. It did earn Merlin a few more smacks on his backside but if he didn't know better, he would have said that Arthur was enjoying it, just a little, sounds very much like pent-up laughter rumbling in his chest .
Still, when he landed hard on Arthur's bed, he was surprised. The room was whirling around but in the centre of it, the clotpole looked breathtaking. Candlelight did wonders, always had with the prat: his hair all golden, his gorgeous chest clearly outlined under his thin shirt, his eyes a perfect blue as he stared down at Merlin.
"Not fair… you… why?"
"You're drunk." Arthur still looked amused. Good thing, too. Otherwise, it would be the stocks in the morning.
"You're an… arse."
"You can't talk to me like that." Shaking his head, Arthur said, "Daffodil."
"'M not a daffo.. daffo.. dil." Merlin wanted to scowl at him but the clotpole was beautiful. All that glowy candlelight. It was just too much. He gave Arthur a sloppy smile instead.
"Yes, I can see that." Looking as if he was having a hard time trying not to smile back, Arthur said, "Do you mind telling me why you kept grabbing my bottom?"
"Wanted to. Perfect." Oh, hell, he didn't just say that. Horrified, he covered his mouth with both hands, making breathy I-am-going-to-die worried noises and shaking his head.
"Really? Perfect you say?" Arthur was preening like a peacock and Merlin didn't know if he was digging himself in deeper and deeper. He was so sleepy, too.
"Yeah, you… you prat. A perfect… clotpole. Perfect dollophead… perfect arse." Merlin closed his eyes. "Perfect mouth, perfect…."
When he woke, he was still in Arthur's bed. His head felt twelve times its size and Merlin was sure he'd said something wrong last night. All he could remember was that perfect arse and Arthur smiling down at him.
But as he tried to get up, hoping to escape before whatever he'd said earned him more time in the stocks, Arthur turned over. Leaning up on one arm, his hand holding Merlin firmly in place, Arthur said, "So I have a perfect arse, do I?"
Oh, hell, what had he said last night? "You are a perfect arse."
Arthur just laughed. "Never change, Merlin."
And then he kissed him and that was when Merlin knew. Perfect arses could be just perfect - as long as they were Arthur.