#crossover!

Arthur's left hand is fisted at Derek's tie, and his right hand is frozen near his waist, crooked fingers looking for purchase. Weirdly, Stiles likens this action with looking for a sword in its scabbard, tightened securely near hips.

On the flip side, Derek's got his right hand centimeters from Arthur's nose, while his left one must be aiming to intercept Arthur's sword-hand or whatever.

And their faces. Oh Jesus Christ, their faces.

Red with anger. Mouths open in a feral cry of war. And eyes? Stuck on Stiles and Merlin, fear melting their rage.

Both him and Merlin stride towards them, Merlin's glass of questionably purple drink handed to one of the catering staff, and it's as if their movement reminds Arthur and Derek that they're caught. They jump apart, though they do share a look of commiserating grief over being caught.

Bastards. United against spousal anger.

Merlin and him don't say anything in this hall with interested ears and human eyes and multitudes of equipment ready to immortalize this scene; they simply take their respective husband's hands in their own and drag them out towards the parking lot, which happens to be mostly empty. Still, they go in deeper towards a secluded corner.

Once there, Stiles stares their Derek down, hands back at his sides. Merlin does the same.

"So? Care to elaborate what the fuck that was about?" His question is met nervous breathing and another commiserating look. "Oh, so now you're both buddy-buddy, but inside the hall you two were — what, enemies?" He snorts. He can't help it; Derek and him have faced literal monsters, and yet Derek was about to fight a posh, young man for... some reason?

Before either of them can speak, Merlin narrows his eyes. "Wait. Was this a ruse?"

"A ruse? What do you mean, Merlin?"

"Your royal pratness, by that I mean a very elaborate scheme to leave that dull place with questionable drinks and—"

Arthur's face goes from confused to dull. "Did you not like the Favor?"

"Favor?" Merlin question's, and Stiles shoots Derek a look to shush. Why the hell is he finding this so funny?

"That's what the drink was called. And it was purple. It wasn't nice? So I..." Arthur's gaze turns wide. "And you still drank it all! I even brought you a second glass of it, why didn't you tell me you didn't like it?"

Merlin rubs the back of his neck, a sheepish gesture. When no answers seem forthcoming from him, Stiles steps in.

"It was thoughtful, I guess, since I'm gonna assume purple and that name means something to you both?" They nod in assent. "Right. See, thoughtful gifts are nice... but not always. Like, maybe you like it, but Merlin wouldn't. And it's not a bad thing at all, you just need to communicate."

Merlin rolls his eyes. "Says the man who hates the diamond ring gifted to him."

Stiles hisses, "Hey!" at the same time Derek asks, voice small, "Stiles?"

He turns towards his husband, moves closer. "Hey, it's nice. It's a very good gift."

Arthur says, weirdly with glee, "Which you don't like!"

"I love the thought behind it though!"

"But you don't like it," Derek repeats, eyes on Stiles', daring him to lie again.

Stiles cups his face, rubs his thumb against his stubble. "No," he admits. "I don't."

"I think we have gone a bit off-track here," Merlin says, after a while. Stiles turns to see the other couple in a similar position: in an almost-embrace, an intimate moment shared. "Why were you two at each other's throats?"

A third look is shared between Derek and Arthur. Then, Derek says, "It was about what that lady asked us."

"Yeah."

Merlin and Stiles wait for further elaboration, one which doesn't come. Now they share a look, and take a step to move away from their respective embraces. That, apparently, does the trick, and Arthur continues from his monosyllable answer, neither of the men letting Merlin or Stiles leave their personal space in the process.

"She asked us, 'What's the most expensive thing you've ever eaten?' and we told her. We disagreed at each other's answer, though."

"This was done over a trivial question? Derek. What the hell."

"I wonder how bigger your head can grow, Arthur. Really?"

Derek leans in close to him and tells him, in almost his Alpha voice, "My answer was you."

Stiles blinks. Huh? "Huh?" And then, "Oh my god—"

"And I said you," Arthur adds. "Of course, my Merlin is more expensive than your husband."

"I said this, and I'll say this again: Stiles is literally wearing the most expensive set of clothes right now on this side of the coast, he's wearing two diaomond rings, and that's just today's outfit."

Both Derek and Arthur push him and Merlin behind them, and move closer to each other, gearing up for a fight. Again.

"Unappreciated gifts don't count, and my husband is wearing a neckerchief made of the most pure gold, and that's just one of them!"

Stiles and Merlin look at each other.

"I had no idea this suit was that fucking expensive," he tells the man, who is eyeing up his own neckerchief in betrayal.

"You said this was just the color gold!"

"Merlin, we're leaving. Let's go."

"Yes. They can duke it out between themselves, while we enjoy this evening with people who tell us the truth."

They turn around, and start walking back towards the ballroom. Behind them, the fight never occurs. Instead, pounding footsteps follow them, and really, this evening did not go how Stiles had envisioned it to be.

(Lydia tells them a week later that "Derek Hale and Arthur Emrys begging their partners for forgiveness in the charity gala" is still a solid opening hit for a conversation, and Merlin rolls his eyes before his eyes glow gold and his favorite chips appear in his hand.

Because apparently, they're the Merlin and Arthur: Magic itself, and the Once and Future King.

Stiles' own eyes glow a deep purple, and both him and Lydia now have their favorite drinks in their hands.

Meanwhile, Derek's authority and Arthur's ego clash over something else equally trivial in the kitchen. Hopefully their bickering won't get in the way of dinner.

If it does... oh well. A Spark and The Sorcerer can cook something, can't they?

"Charles" Max called, expression lined with steel, as if formed from the sword he held loosley in his hand. "What is this?"

An impish grin creased Charles' cheeks with hollowed dimples. He smirked with the kind of confidence only Max's own servant could muster in front of his King of Camelot. "What, sire?"

The words were drawn out and entirley seperated from the honour Max's title was designed to instill. Charles had never been one to follow the whims of his King, despite the endless devotion he practiced.

"This." Max's voice was deadpan, his left hand lifting to show a torn off piece of parchment. Signatures lined the paper, all in different shades of charcoal the people had mustered up.

"Oh!" Charles' brows raised in mock innocence. "Don't you care about the wishes of your subjects?"

Max sighed, exhaustion almost disguising the humour hiding beneath the surface. His expression didn't fool Charles. He was the one who had journeyed through several quests with him. Who had known Max since he was just a Prince living under his Father's thumb.

"Why did you get the townsfolk to sign this?" Max's grin tugged at the edges of his downturned mouth.

"I would never force anyone to do anything they didn't want to." His eyes danced as Max stared him down.

"Oh? Why did they sign for allowing a shirtless tourney, then?"

Charles shrugged, mouth perfectly polite. "The people want it, yes?"

"The people or you?"

Charles gasped, theatric and taunting. "Are you scared? The inveitable, unbeatable Max is scared of fighting with no armour?"

Max rolled his eyes, a moment from letting his eyes crinkle with humour, mouth breaking into a smile.

"Perhaps you want to get out of your duties, Charles? Of course there is no armour to clean in a shirtless tournament, is there?"

Charles let his hand fall to his mouth, hiding a bright smile. His eyes, however, betrayed him. "No!"

Max prowled forward, letting his sword clatter to the floor Charles had cleaned yesterday with swirls of magic. Max had commented on how clean it looked, for once. He would not have said this if he knew the power Charles used to do it, manipulating the sorcery that Max's father had outlawed years before.

Max let his breath drift over Charles' lips, so close he could taste the other. It was everything he could manage to look at Max's eyes, to not let his gaze drift lower, where a mere servant could never touch a nobleman.

"Maybe I should give you the hat again, in return for this-" the paper rustled in Max's fist, "-gift."

Charles blanched, memories of being forced to wear feathers and multicoloured robes in some parady of a servants formal wear. He had shivered in disgust that entire night, repulsed by the clothing.

Max, after seeing his expressoin, burst into vibrant laughter. And with that, the tension building between them was broken.

Charles wasn't sure if he should mourn the feeling or be glad for it. In the end, he chose to ignore it instead.