“It’s… huge,” says Merlin when Arthur shuts the door leaving the wind and the rain behind them.
“Great observation skills, Merlin,” Arthur says absent-mindedly. The warm, soft air of the house makes his thoughts a bit foggy after twenty minutes under gusts of cold wind and thick lashing flows of water.
He muses it might have been really stupid to bring Merlin here – he’s always been so careful as not to reveal his true identity to anyone, but it feels unexplicably safe with Merlin gawking at the sour-faced portraits on the walls, the tremendous marble stairs leading to the first floor, the sheer size of the place. Water runs down from him gathering on the parquet in puddles and he’s still shivering with wet chill.
Arthur tugs his sleeve unceremoniously.
“Take it off before you die of pneumonia,” he orders and turns to the maid who has come to greet him upon his return but, as always, has not been able to make herself say a single word in his presence. Sometimes Arthur wonders why she is scared of him so but he never asks in order not to make her even more uncomfortable. “Freya bring us some dry blankets. And I want hot tea in my study as soon as possible.”
Freya nods which would be blatantly rude has it come uot of anything other than fear and hurries away to fetch a pile of blankets while Merlin shrugs off his soaked jacket and tunic. Arthur throws a couple of blankets at him earning a muffled “Prat” and starts climbing the stairs. Marble is a nightmare when you have to climb it while dripping and Arthur concentrates on that solely.
“Come in,” he shoves Merlin into his study and kneels in front of the fireplace to add a log or two to the small flames dancing inside.
“You’re writing all your plays here, then? Is it your study?” Merlin, a walking fresh-smelling pile of blankets, doesn’t pay attention to the fire – the shelves stuffed with books is what catches his fancy. Arthur looks at his head, slightly bent to the side for the sake of better view of the titles of the books and there is something small, warm and fond swelling in his chest as Merlin runs his blue-ishly pale fingers over the leather bindings.
“Yes, I am. And yes, it is.”
“Have you read all of these?” Merlin waffs his hand around indicating the whole book mass around.
“What makes you think I haven’t?”
“Right,” Merlin sighs and accepts a tea tray from Freya with a grateful smile; way too grateful if Arthur is asked about it. “I wish I had as many books. I like reading.”
“You do?” Arthur raises his eyebrows. That’s something he didn’t expect but probably should have considering that Merlin seems to be the only one at the theatre to not only learn his words but also think of the play on the whole. Irrespective of the fact that Valentine and Proteus in fact do not love each other like a man should love a woman – at least that’s not what Arthur had in mind initially – Merlin’s opinion can actually be grounded with some quotes and logical conclusions if you take a look at the play at a different angle.
Arthur doesn’t do that often. The looking at a different angle affair, that is.
“What makes you think I don’t?” Merlin gives Arthur a small smile before turning to the books again.
“Why do you like reading? It’s just that not many people actually enjoy this…” Arthur stumbles unsure how to finish this without making it sound even more offensive so he settles for pouring out the steaming tea. Rich herbal aroma hangs in the air hugging Arthur’s face with warmth and comfort.
“I dunno,” Merlin shrugs. “I guess I just like the words. How they sound, how they look, how they taste on my tongue. I like books about things that never happened better than the practical ones – it’s just, it’s kind of magic: when something so trivial like words that we use every day makes all kinds of things come to life, and have you sympathize, and linger with you for weeks after.”
Merlin looks a bit embarassed as if expecting Arthur to chastise him for having his head in the clouds like, most probably, someone else already did. But since Arthur is the one creating said clouds in the first place he’d be the last to consider this particular trait of Merlin’s character anything other than utterly, ridiculously endearing.
Re: Merlin/Arthur theater AU - Arthur sees Merlin changing out of his women's costume
* * *
“It’s… huge,” says Merlin when Arthur shuts the door leaving the wind and the rain behind them.
“Great observation skills, Merlin,” Arthur says absent-mindedly. The warm, soft air of the house makes his thoughts a bit foggy after twenty minutes under gusts of cold wind and thick lashing flows of water.
He muses it might have been really stupid to bring Merlin here – he’s always been so careful as not to reveal his true identity to anyone, but it feels unexplicably safe with Merlin gawking at the sour-faced portraits on the walls, the tremendous marble stairs leading to the first floor, the sheer size of the place. Water runs down from him gathering on the parquet in puddles and he’s still shivering with wet chill.
Arthur tugs his sleeve unceremoniously.
“Take it off before you die of pneumonia,” he orders and turns to the maid who has come to greet him upon his return but, as always, has not been able to make herself say a single word in his presence. Sometimes Arthur wonders why she is scared of him so but he never asks in order not to make her even more uncomfortable. “Freya bring us some dry blankets. And I want hot tea in my study as soon as possible.”
Freya nods which would be blatantly rude has it come uot of anything other than fear and hurries away to fetch a pile of blankets while Merlin shrugs off his soaked jacket and tunic. Arthur throws a couple of blankets at him earning a muffled “Prat” and starts climbing the stairs. Marble is a nightmare when you have to climb it while dripping and Arthur concentrates on that solely.
“Come in,” he shoves Merlin into his study and kneels in front of the fireplace to add a log or two to the small flames dancing inside.
“You’re writing all your plays here, then? Is it your study?” Merlin, a walking fresh-smelling pile of blankets, doesn’t pay attention to the fire – the shelves stuffed with books is what catches his fancy. Arthur looks at his head, slightly bent to the side for the sake of better view of the titles of the books and there is something small, warm and fond swelling in his chest as Merlin runs his blue-ishly pale fingers over the leather bindings.
“Yes, I am. And yes, it is.”
“Have you read all of these?” Merlin waffs his hand around indicating the whole book mass around.
“What makes you think I haven’t?”
“Right,” Merlin sighs and accepts a tea tray from Freya with a grateful smile; way too grateful if Arthur is asked about it. “I wish I had as many books. I like reading.”
“You do?” Arthur raises his eyebrows. That’s something he didn’t expect but probably should have considering that Merlin seems to be the only one at the theatre to not only learn his words but also think of the play on the whole. Irrespective of the fact that Valentine and Proteus in fact do not love each other like a man should love a woman – at least that’s not what Arthur had in mind initially – Merlin’s opinion can actually be grounded with some quotes and logical conclusions if you take a look at the play at a different angle.
Arthur doesn’t do that often. The looking at a different angle affair, that is.
“What makes you think I don’t?” Merlin gives Arthur a small smile before turning to the books again.
“Why do you like reading? It’s just that not many people actually enjoy this…” Arthur stumbles unsure how to finish this without making it sound even more offensive so he settles for pouring out the steaming tea. Rich herbal aroma hangs in the air hugging Arthur’s face with warmth and comfort.
“I dunno,” Merlin shrugs. “I guess I just like the words. How they sound, how they look, how they taste on my tongue. I like books about things that never happened better than the practical ones – it’s just, it’s kind of magic: when something so trivial like words that we use every day makes all kinds of things come to life, and have you sympathize, and linger with you for weeks after.”
Merlin looks a bit embarassed as if expecting Arthur to chastise him for having his head in the clouds like, most probably, someone else already did. But since Arthur is the one creating said clouds in the first place he’d be the last to consider this particular trait of Merlin’s character anything other than utterly, ridiculously endearing.