wow.

“Do you want stew? I made stew. Well, too bad if you don’t, actually, because that’s what we’re having, and you need to get your strength back, so this will help. It won’t be as rich as what you’re used to back in Camelot, but it’s hearty; it’s got venison, so…” He had moved, much like his tongue, without thinking, and found himself back over by the hearth, ladling stew into bowls before his brain had caught up with him. It was much easier, it turned out, to look down into the bubbling brown sludge than it was to look upon the face of a man you’d not seen for nine years, particularly when he was conscious.

When he turned back, Arthur was still looking at him, a little furrow between his brows, as if Merlin were a riddle and Arthur a particularly dim-witted mountain troll. The look was so familiar, it could have elicited a smile, were it not for the nervous energy thrumming in him, turning all his synapses to something reminiscent of the stew in the pot.

Then Arthur said, weakly, “I’m—where are my clothes?”

“Oh. Ah. Yeah. Sorry. I had to cut your tunic off to get to your wound, but it was so covered in blood, there was no saving it. The rest are drying.” He shifted so Arthur could see the trousers, socks and boots set by the hearth. “They were caked in mud, so I washed them.”

“Right.”

The silence was that uneasy sort, full of staring and a decade’s worth of things unsaid. Merlin stood with the stew in his hand, and his heart lodged somewhere up around his jugular.

“Are you cold? I can get you something of mine—”

“You’ve not slept at all?” Arthur said, at the same time.

“No.”

“Ah. No, I’m okay. The fire.”

“Okay.”

There was another agonising moment of The Silence, then: “Is that for me?” Arthur said, indicating the stew.

“Oh, yeah.” Merlin went to him, and took up the chair he’d sat vigil in all that long night, where he’d waited to see whether he’d be friendless again, by God’s hand this time, rather than his own.

Arthur reached out for the bowl, his arm trembling with the effort of raising it.

“No, I can do it,” Merlin said, and lifted the spoon to Arthur’s lips.

Arthur made a face as he swallowed down the stew. “Your cooking’s just as I remember it.”

“Oh, nice to see you haven’t changed at all. You’re still an ungrateful, arrogant prat. Comfort to know.”

“You haven’t changed either,” Arthur said defensively. “Still prattling on as usual.”

“You would too if you hadn’t had anyone to talk to for nine years.” He had said it like a joke, but the smile quickly left his face; he looked away, while Arthur looked deeply troubled.

“I—we did—that is to say, we sent out a search party, after… but—we never…”

“I put up wards.”

“Oh.”

“Look, we don’t have to talk about this,” Merlin said, and forced that smile which is not really a smile but a plea for the hurt not to be seen.

Arthur looked down, and then at the spoon which Merlin was still driving at his mouth, as if he could prevent any further heartache by means of stew alone. He nodded, and then, finally, after swallowing the latest spoonful, slowly said, “Okay. If that’s what you want.”

“It is. What I want is for you to heal, so you can get back to Camelot. They’ll be missing their king.” Merlin stood to leave, but Arthur reached for his wrist. Merlin felt the trembling touch on his skin, and closed his eyes. He had touched Arthur; in saving his life, he had had to, but he hadn’t been touched by Arthur, by another, since that day he had been sent away. And though it was only that meaningless thing, a quick grab for his attention—Arthur likely hadn’t the strength nor the desire to hold him any tighter—it still was like a balm for one so long alone.

“I—” Arthur said, and Merlin lifted his eyes to him. “I guess you have changed. A little bit,” he said finally.

“Really?”

“Yeah,” he said, and dropped his hand; Merlin tried not to mourn the loss too much. “Your hair’s longer, and you’ve got that—ridiculous stubble.”

Merlin felt, for the first time in a long time, the dimples hidden by the stubble grace his scratchy cheek. “You’re just jealous you can’t grow any.”

“I am not jealous.”

“Sure sounded jealous to me.”

“Well, you need to get your hearing checked, then.”