Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

~ Arthur ~

“Are my boots polished?” Arthur said, watching Merlin yawn and stumble his way over to where the boots were kept. 

Merlin grabbed the boots and came back over. He glanced at the shoes, saw just how muddy they were from Arthur’s riding session today, and sighed in disappointment. “No,” he said through another yawn. 

“Polish them, then,” Arthur replied. He folded his arms over his chest, giving his friend an impatient look. “I’m supposed to be down in the banquet hall in fifteen minutes.”

“Maybe you should get ready by yourself while I polish your boots.” Merlin was already starting to work on the shoes, rubbing the still-wet mud off with a cloth Arthur hadn’t seen him grab. 

Arthur groaned, glancing down at his clothes. He wore a loose white shirt and dark trousers, completely unfit for tonight’s banquet. 

What would be worse—getting dressed in the princely regalia for the banquet without any help, or being late and facing his father’s wrath?

It was hardly a choice at all. 

“You owe me,” he said irritably before striding over to his wardrobe. 

“Why?” Merlin said, looking up from his polishing. “I’m the one doing all the work here.” 

“I don’t have to make sense to you,” Arthur said, turning his nose up at Merlin as he grabbed the fanciest outfit he owned. 

“‘Course not, you’re a prince,” Merlin said. 

Was that an eye roll?

Even if he’d imagined it, Arthur couldn’t hide his grin. Infuriating, disobedient Merlin, always annoying him and making him laugh. 

“Why’re you yawning so much, anyway?” Arthur said as he pulled off his shirt. 

“I was… uh, busy last night.” 

Arthur glared at the wall, irrationally jealous all of a sudden. Had Merlin been busy with someone? The thought made him want to throw something. And (stupidly) also to slam Merlin into the wall and demand who it was. In that order. 

“Gaius sent me to gather herbs again,” Merlin continued, mollifying Arthur’s fears somewhat. 

“Oh,” Arthur said, nodding to himself and buckling his belt. “You were at the tavern, then.”

“No!” Merlin yelped. “The herbs only grow at night! I wasn’t at the tavern, I swear!”

“Mm-hm,” Arthur said. “Maybe you should talk to Gaius about your drinking problem.”

“For the love of—I don’t have a drinking problem, Arthur!”

Arthur stole another glance at him over his shoulder, pleased to see that his friend was fighting off a smile. He was seized with the sudden desire to march over, take the boots out of his hands, and kiss the living daylights out of him. Maybe bury his fingers in Merlin’s pretty, soft-looking dark hair; trace his fingers over those sharp cheekbones… 

Well, his father certainly wouldn’t approve of that.

Arthur breathed out, pushing all those thoughts from his mind. He couldn’t afford to be distracted tonight. He had a feast to host. 

~ Merlin ~

Merlin wasn’t sure if it was the best security for him to be the one helping check the guests in, but at least this way Arthur couldn’t give him any pointless orders. He liked the chores sometimes, it was always entertaining to see what he could mess up to annoy Arthur, and the prince was awfully fun to be around, even when he was threatening to put Merlin in the stocks again. Good times, those were. 

Last night, he had not in fact visited the tavern, despite what Arthur believed. Instead, he’d sought out Kilgharrah’s advice for the third time this week and had ended up spending half the night talking about Prince Arthur. Kilgharrah had seemed awfully smug about something; Merlin couldn’t figure out what. 

“And you are?” Merlin said, glancing up at the latest pair of nobles waiting to get into the feast. 

The taller woman introduced herself and her companion, and Merlin forgot their names as soon as he’d checked them off the list. On the other side of the hall, Gaius stood with his own list of names and titles. The nobles had divided themselves into two lines (or, rather, a mockery of two lines) to help speed the process along, and by now the processions had dwindled almost to nothing. 

Merlin’s final guest was a tall, slender man with handsome features and shoulder-length fiery red hair. He was dressed in extraordinarily tight black trousers, snakeskin boots, and a flowy black shirt under a charcoal-colored vest. Dark glasses obscured his eyes, making his expression hard to read. 

“Name?” Merlin asked him, already scanning his parchment. 

“Crowley, is that you?” someone else said before he could respond. 

The speaker stood on Gaius’s side of the queue. Merlin actually recognized this man—he was Sir Aziraphale, a part-time knight. (Merlin didn’t exactly know how one could be a part-time knight, but that wasn’t his problem.) His clothes, all shades of cream and sepia, seemed to be a decade or so out of fashion, but he pulled it off. A sword hung from his belt, do doubt the one representing his service to the Crown. 

The redhead, Crowley, nodded at Sir Aziraphale and gave him a little wave. “Yep,” he replied. 

“Where have you been?” Sir Aziraphale said, a delighted smile on his face. 

“Y’know,” Crowley said vaguely. “Fomenting, ah, annoyance and wickedness. And such.”

“Right, Crowley,” Merlin murmured, his eyes flicking back to the list. “Um, it looks like you aren’t on here.”

Both men looked at him, Crowley with a frown somewhere between panicked and annoyed. Aziraphale looked pale and rather nervous. Gaius, on the other hand, just seemed impatient at the delay. Since these two men were the last of the guests, Gaius and Merlin could claim seats of their own as soon as they finished up with Aziraphale and Crowley. 

“He’s supposed to be on the list,” Sir Aziraphale said hurriedly. “He’s a—oh, what was it again?” 

There was a long moment in which Merlin, Gaius, and Aziraphale stared expectantly at Crowley. The other man gazed at Aziraphale, seeming utterly lost to the world at the sound of the part-time knight’s voice. Merlin could tell that Crowley’s expression was uncharacteristically soft and gentle, even behind those peculiar sunglasses. 

Then Crowley blinked out of whatever trance he’d been in as he realized that he’d been asked a question.

“I’m, uh, a duke?” Crowley said once he’d powered through his stuttering. 

That was less than reassuring.

“Duke of what?” Merlin said, checking over the list again to see if he’d missed something. 

“Duke of… Mallardville?” he said experimentally. “Yeah, Mallardville.”

“Oh, for the love of—” Aziraphale sighed loudly, but when Merlin glanced up at him, he was smiling at Crowley again. 

Yeah, Merlin thought. There’s something going on between these two.

Merlin frowned when he saw that sure enough, Anthony J. Crowley, Duke of Mallardville was listed at the very bottom of the column of names. He knew it hadn’t been there before. And he’d never even heard of Mallardville! What was going on? A vague memory came with the name Anthony, though. Hadn’t he overheard Lancelot and Aziraphale talking about someone a few weeks ago? But that wasn’t important right now.

“Great, you found me,” the apparent duke said. “I’ll go in now.”

Merlin narrowed his eyes as the two of them walked off. There was something off about them, and he intended to find out if that something meant that they were going to kill Arthur. 

I’d die for him, Merlin thought immediately, reflexively. But that was nothing new. 

“Did you notice something off about those two?” Merlin said to Gaius, mostly to clear his head of any and all thoughts of bossy, annoyingly handsome princes. 

“No, did you?” the physician replied. 

“I just…” Merlin trailed off. “I dunno. Something about the way they looked at each other.”

Gaius glanced toward the doors of the feast hall. “I know what you mean. But perhaps they are just very close friends.” He gave Merlin a wink. “Or, they’re in denial, much like you a—”

Merlin coughed loudly, cutting off what surely would have been a jibe about how he felt toward Prince Arthur. “Sure, sure,” he said, forcing a smile. “Let’s get in there before all the food is gone.”

Confiding in Gaius about his silly crush had been a mistake. It had happened at three in the morning a few weeks ago, after Merlin had just saved Arthur’s life yet again. His emotions were out of control after having seen his best friend almost die, and his sanity had taken a much-needed holiday from all the stress. He’d sobbed at the little table in the main room of his and Gaius’ chambers, feeling more burnt out than any candle he’d ever seen. The whole time, Gaius had seemed remarkably calm, hardly even surprised as he’d cooked Merlin’s favorite stew and comforted him while Merlin bared his soul. Had he known that Merlin’s feelings for Arthur went beyond friendship?

Even if Gaius had known, it wasn’t as if it would help. 

Not only was it unheard of for a royal or a noble to marry someone of the same gender—at least under Uther’s rule, anyway; other monarchs were far more accepting—the class difference between Merlin and Arthur made it absolutely impossible. On top of all that, Merlin didn’t even know if Arthur was interested in men, let alone a servant like him. Even with all the times they’d saved each other’s lives, even with what Merlin knew of Kilgharrah’s prophecy… there was no way to know if Arthur could ever return his pesky little feelings.

Feelings. What an inadequate word. Feelings were things like annoyance or sadness, not this all-consuming something that had taken root in Merlin’s heart and soul. 

But despite his best efforts to be rid of them, the feelings remained, like the sheen of oxidation that just wouldn’t come off of an antique coin. 

“Right,” Merlin said brightly, gesturing for Gaius to sit down. “Does right here look okay?”

“It seems perfectly fine to me,” Gaius said, taking the offered chair. “Are you sure you don’t want to sit closer to the head of the table?”

Merlin blinked. “Very sure, Gaius. He doesn’t want me there, and I’d only make a fool of myself anyways. I’m sitting here.” To prove his point, he plopped down in the chair and folded his arms over his chest. 

“If you say so,” Gaius replied. 

He willed himself not to look towards the head of the table, where Arrthur was chatting with some of the knights. 

Merlin could be normal, couldn’t he? He could do this. He’d survive this stupid birthday celebration feast thing Uther was throwing for Arthur. (Merlin didn’t understand why all the pomp was necessary; Arthur had already come of age, hadn’t he?) 

Not telling your best friend that you were in love with him—how hard could it be? 

~ Crowley ~

The great hall of the castle was, well, greater than Crowley had expected. Uther’s intimidating wooden throne had been pushed to the back wall, but it still cast a (mostly metaphorical) long shadow. Banners and bouquets of flowers adorned the walls, all in Camelot’s red and gold. 

There was only one table, pushed near the wall so there would be enough room for dancing after. There must have been fifty places on each side of the massive table, though, each set with gleaming silverware. A variety of meats, stews, and steamed vegetables were piled high in various bowls for everyone to serve themselves when the time came. Dessert would likely be served later, but Crowley could already smell something sugary wafting in from the kitchens after he briefly flicked his tongue out. 

“Any idea where we’re supposed to sit, angel?” Crowley asked, standing as close to his best friend as he dared. 

“I suppose we could ask someone,” Aziraphale suggested, his hungry eyes already locked on the extravagant feast set at the table. The unspoken question was clear: Crowley, my dear, won’t you please ask someone?

Crowley gladly obeyed. “Hey, um, my lady?” he said, waving to a dark-haired young woman dressed in purple. 

She came over a second later, her eyes flicking between him and Aziraphale in a manner he found much too calculating. “Yes?” she said, all polite smiles. 

“Is there assigned seating?” Crowley asked. 

“No, sit wherever you’d like,” the noblewoman said, her voice laced with a lilting Irish accent. 

There was an implied except for the places reserved for royalty, of course, but that was no problem. If Crowley was going to be dining next to Aziraphale, he’d better be more interesting than whoever else tried to capture the angel’s attention, and that meant no boring royalty to pay respects to. (Especially not Uther Pendragon—blegh.)

“Thank you, Lady Morgana!” Aziraphale said brightly, giving the young woman an elaborate bow. 

“Nyeah,” Crowley agreed. His bow wouldn’t have been possible with a human spine, but that was part of the fun. 

“It was my pleasure, Sir Aziraphale, and…” Morgana trailed off, a questioning look in her eyes. 

“Duke Anthony Crowley,” Aziraphale said, beaming. 

A bit over-excited about my fake title, are we, angel? Crowley thought with some amusement. 

“Pleased to meet you, my lady,” Crowley said, slouching further in Aziraphale’s direction.

After giving them one last cunning glance and the barest hint of a curtsy, Morgana turned and left. 

“So that was the king’s ward,” Crowley mused. “She seems promising.”

Aziraphale gave him a look. “Don’t you dare corrupt her.”

Crowley arched an eyebrow at him. “Come on, angel, you know I don’t actually like corrupting people. I was thinking more along the lines of some mischief and some overturning the status quo. Maybe a bit of tomfoolery.”

“You would be an expert in the tomfoolery department,” Aziraphale said dryly. “Do you still insist on gluing coins to the cobblestones?”

Crowley gave him a halfhearted glare. “Oi! It’s really annoying when I do that,” he said stubbornly. This particular argument of theirs was older than this little kingdom. “It causes all sorts of Wrath when people can’t pick up free money.”

“If you say so,” Aziraphale replied. “Let’s go claim a place at the table, yes?” 

With that, he placed a hand on Crowley’s arm and guided him forward. 

Crowley barely managed not to squeak from surprise at the sudden contact. He also barely managed to make his legs work properly the entire ten meters to the table. (A weird, feral part of himself that he kept locked up most of the time insisted that this was a momentous occasion and that he should grab Aziraphale’s hand or something. With great effort—no, not that kind; get your mind out of the gutter—he ignored it.) 

“Where?” he said breathlessly when they reached the table. Most of his brain felt as if it had been liquified at Aziraphale’s touch. 

Aziraphale smiled at him, and the rest of Crowley’s mind gave up, leaving him stuttering and blushing like an absolute idiot. 

“How about across from Merlin and Gaius?” Aziraphale suggested. 

Crowley had no idea who those people were, but he nodded eagerly and let Aziraphale lead him to an empty seat around fifteen places down from the King’s seat. To add to Crowley’s mounting shock, Aziraphale had the audacity to pull out a chair for him. He sat down, feeling at a complete loss for words. 

Aziraphale sat on his right, and all at once, the world was perfect again. As long as I have my angel—

No, no, no, he wasn’t Crowley’s angel. That was absurd. 

But… wasn’t he kind of Crowley’s angel, in a way? No other pair of celestial beings had ever spent this much time together. Besides, there was the way Aziraphale looked at him sometimes, like Crowley was actually worth being around. It lit up his whole world. 

He might not be my angel, but I’d be his demon, if he wanted me, Crowley thought. 

“Hello again,” the apothecary from before said, offering Aziraphale a smile. “Enjoying your time off, Sir Aziraphale?”

“Indeed I am, Gaius,” the angel said, returning his smile. “Have you met Duke Crowley?” 

“Is he the Anthony you’ve told all the knights about?” the boy, Merlin, said apropos to nothing. 

Crowley’s eyes went wide behind his glasses. “Y-you told the knights about me?” he said, turning to the stunned angel. You think about me enough to talk about me? he thought, his heart doing a weird swelling thing in his chest that probably wasn’t good for his corporation. 

“Ah—well, I mean—” Aziraphale cleared his throat, staring resolutely at his goblet of wine. “Yes, I suppose I have. But I don’t see what’s so important about that.”

If he’d had any less self-respect, Crowley would have burst into delighted tears. 

Gaius smartly changed the subject, asking Merlin something about how his studies were going. Aziraphale seemed interested enough in the boy’s answer, though Crowley couldn’t catch a word of it through all the joyous squiggly static in his brain. 

Crowley was still reeling when King Uther Pendragon sat down at the head of the table. 

“Starting tonight, for the next three days,” the King said, “we celebrate my son’s birthday.” 

Polite applause greeted his statement. Probably, they were confused why Uther was doing this now, instead of when Arthur had turned twenty-one. 

“He will, of course, be looking to find a wife,” Uther continued, spreading his hands to indicate the table, many seats of which were occupied by young women. Most of them would be from different kingdoms, but there were probably some especially rich ones from Camelot. Prince Arthur, it seemed, would marry for money or political favor or not at all. 

Seated on Uther’s right, Prince Arthur’s smile looked forced, even from this far away, and he resolutely did not look at any of the guests. Crowley catalogued his sudden hunch into the Think About This Later section of his brain. (It had once been a box, until about 3500 B.C., when the contents overflowed and took up over twenty-five square feet. Or whatever that was in terms of brain space.) 

With that, Uther sat down and took a bite of pork, and the banquet truly began. He must have had servants prepare him a plate before he sat down, because Crowley hadn’t seen him touch the food himself.

Crowley examined the food nearest to him with a critical eye and took whatever he thought Aziraphale would like. Normal friendship behavior, that was. Humans gave food as offerings at the metaphorical altar of their undying devotion, didn’t they? And friends had undying devotion toward each other, right? So yeah, Crowley reasoned, feeling very proud of himself, this was normal.

How exactly am I going to explain my presence here? Crowley wondered, taking a tiny bite of a roll. (Wait, that was good. Nice and buttery, crispy on the outside and melt-in-your-mouth soft on the inside. He snatched another to nibble on.) Technically, he was here on a mission from Hell to stop Prince Arthur from marrying Guinevere, one of the servants. Seemed easy enough, so he’d accepted it. Besides, he’d already known that Aziraphale was here—they’d run into each other a few years back when Crowley was playing the part of the Black Knight—and that had motivated him just a little bit. 

Unfortunately for him, the question arose before he had a chance to come up with a lie. 

“So,” Merlin said, his blue eyes flicking back and forth between Crowley and Aziraphale. His tone was carefully dry. “What are you guys doing here, if this is a ball to help Prince Arthur find a spouse?” 

Crowley froze, having stuffed an entire roll in his mouth just seconds before. 

Aziraphale, on the other hand, was completely unfazed by the question. “I was invited because of my knighthood,” he explained, “and Crowley here is my plus-one.”

Crowley choked on his roll. 

“Are you all right?” Aziraphale said, instantly concerned. After dithering a moment, he patted Crowley on the back. 

Crowley coughed and took a gulp of wine, which finally did the trick and unclogged his stupid windpipe.  

“‘M fine,” he said, his voice strained. 

Aziraphale withdrew his hand, and Crowley mourned the loss of heat. (Ugh. He wasn’t sure if he’d acted this pathetic around Aziraphale in years.)

Gaius seemed to be fighting a smile off his lips. “How long have you been together?”

“Uh—” Crowley rasped, his face heating up despite his best efforts even as his heart sank within his chest. “N-no, it’s not like that. We aren’t…”

Aziraphale was nodding along with Crowley’s rambling. “We don’t even know each other.”

This again? Seriously?

“Angel,” Crowley muttered, shooting him a glare. 

Aziraphale blinked, realizing his mistake. “Um, actually, we know each other quite well, we’re just…”

“Friends?” Crowley said tentatively. Please don’t say no, he silently begged. You just told them I’m your plus-one. We’ve known each other for over two millennia, we’ve gone to dinner and gotten drunk and rambled about philosophy together, I love spending time with you, we have to be friends…

Please tell me we’re friends, angel.

“We’re friends,” Aziraphale agreed, a small smile on his lips as he took a sip of his wine. 

Relief flooded through Crowley’s body, but it didn’t last.

Friends, Crowley thought, the pain of it like a dagger to his heart, is all we’ll ever be. 

~ Aziraphale ~

“Here,” Crowley murmured about half an hour later. He held out his plate, still mostly full of food. “‘M not hungry.”

“Oh—” Aziraphale protested. “You have to eat something, my dear.”

“I ate four of those rolls and one carrot,” Crowley said stubbornly. “I’m full.”

That certainly didn’t sound like enough, but this wasn’t an argument for when they were in public. 

“If you insist,” Aziraphale said, finally accepting the plate. He offered Crowley a smile. “Thank you.”

“Ngk,” Crowley grumbled, slouching even further in his chair. “Made sure it was stuff you like.”

Aziraphale took a bite of the honey-glazed ham and tried not to moan. “That was terribly considerate of you.” He resisted the urge to call Crowley sweet or kind, as he knew just what sort of squabble would result from a compliment like that. 

Still. The poor dear was awfully sweet. He rescued children from the Flood, he hadn’t destroyed Job’s goats (come to think of it, he saved those children, too), and he was always so mindful of whatever Aziraphale might want, no matter how trivial. 

Whatever this feeling was in Aziraphale’s chest, it was warm and soft and it had been there for a very, very long time. 

“I’m not considerate,” Crowley argued. He started to say some nonsense about Gluttony temptations, then seemed to remember that they weren’t alone. 

“How did you meet?” Gaius asked, a knowing look in his eyes. 

Blasted humans, too clever for their own good. Gaius was especially intelligent, persistent as anything, and so was dear Merlin.

“I was technically on apple tree duty,” Aziraphale began. 

“In a garden,” Crowley blurted at the same time. 

“But enough about us,” Aziraphale said hurriedly before he or Crowley could blow their cover as Normal Humans. “Are you going to dance with anyone tonight, Merlin?”

The boy’s cheeks turned pink. “Well, I don’t actually know how to dance. But if I did… maybe Gwen, or… Gwaine?” He paused, fidgeting with his napkin. “Well, not Gwaine. Uther doesn’t like men dancing with other men, or women dancing with other women.”

Not for the first time, Aziraphale wished he could shake some sense into the king. What was the matter with dancing with someone—or falling in love with someone, for that matter—who presented their gender similarly to you? It certainly didn’t affect Uther, but he chose to complain about it anyway. 

Let people love whomever they choose, Aziraphale thought fiercely. 

…Why had his eyes drifted to Crowley? 

Whatever the reason, it didn’t matter right now. Aziraphale’s eyes lit up as he saw the servants entering the feast hall carrying platters of dessert. 

“You just wiggled,” Crowley said, raising an eyebrow at Aziraphale as he took a sip of wine. 

“Did I?” he said absently, oddly pleased that Crowley had noticed and thought to remark on his excited fidgeting. 

“M’yeah.” Crowley’s expression was inscrutable behind those blasted tinted spectacles. “It was your I’m Starving And I Smell Dessert wiggle.”

Aziraphale wasn’t aware that he had different wiggles, but Crowley always had been terribly observant. 

The dessert turned out to be cake. Decadent chocolate, topped with rich swirls of cream—it looked wonderful. (Chocolate technically wasn’t supposed to be in Europe yet, but Aziraphale had begged and pestered a certain darling fiend enough that he’d given in and performed a demonic miracle a few years back. And it was only in Albion right now, anyway, so Aziraphale reckoned Upstairs wouldn’t notice.)

Aziraphale thanked the servant that handed him a slice on a little plate, while Crowley just acknowledged his own server with a nod. 

Across the table, Gaius and Merlin were engaged in their own conversation, so Aziraphale determined he could get away with making Crowley flustered. (Getting the demon hot and bothered had been one of his favorite pastimes for centuries now.)

He took a bite of his cake, closing his eyes and sighing happily. After a second, he let his eyes drift open as he chewed to better gauge Crowley’s reaction. 

Ooh, there was a hint of pink hiding among the freckles dusted across Crowley’s nose and cheeks. Feeling satisfied but confident that he could do more, Aziraphale had another nibble of cake. 

“Do you have to do that?” Crowley said after three more bites and three more angelic moans. 

“I haven’t the faintest idea what you’re talking about,” Aziraphale said, daintily pressing his napkin to his lips. 

Crowley scowled. “You know what I mean, you insufferable—” He cut off with a strangled “ngk!” as Aziraphale finished his cake with a noise that would have been better suited to a bedroom. 

Aziraphale smiled at him sweetly, then took another sip of wine. “So,” he said, enjoying the sight of Crowley’s deepening blush. “You simply must tell me about Mallardville.”

The demon looked confused for a second. “Wot—ohhh, Mallardville. Where I am, uh, a duke.” He rested his hand on the table, and Aziraphale noticed that his fingernails were painted glittering black. “We… um, it’s… it’s not bad? Prosperous. Lots of, uh…”

“Forgive me for asking, but is duck your main export, my dear?” Aziraphale said innocently. 

There was that sweet, adorable scowl again, the one Aziraphale so adored. “Shut up, angel,” Crowley muttered. 

In response, Aziraphale stole his slice of cake. 

~ the Once and Future King ~

Soon, much too soon, it came time for the part of the night Arthur truly dreaded. The dancing. He had tried to waste as much time as he could by eating slowly, but that only got him so far before his father got fed up with him and he had to finish. 

At the conclusion of a melodramatic little speech about courting and ancient traditions and other nonsense, Uther declared, “Let the dancing begin!”

Most of the guests practically leaped out of their seats in their rush to get to the dance floor. In a corner near the King’s throne, a minstrel troupe struck up a tune with their flutes and lutes. Arthur thought he saw a set of bagpipes by one of the performers, but unfortunately, no one picked them up yet.

Slowly, Arthur got to his feet. After barely five seconds, he was swarmed by a group of young women in extravagant gowns. 

“Will you dance tonight, Prince Arthur?”

“What did you think of the food, Prince Arthur?”

“Ooh, I didn’t realize your shoulders would be so broad, Prince Arthur!”

“Sorry,” Arthur said, trying in vain to find an opening in the group to slip through. “I need to, um… sorry.” He gave up on the fake politeness and shoved his way through. 

“He touched me!” one girl exclaimed to the others as he left. “I’ve always dreamed of touching a prince!”

Arthur’s eyes locked on a familiar figure lingering near the other end of the table. Merlin, he thought, latching onto the thought of him like a lifeline. 

He was accosted by three more packs of young women on his way there, but he made it. His friend was in the middle of a conversation with Gwen and Morgana. Nearby, Gaius was talking with Sir Aziraphale and a handsome nobleman Arthur didn’t recognize. The redhead pretended to be aloof, but Arthur could tell that he was hanging on Aziraphale’s every word. 

In Arthur’s opinion, though, Merlin was even better looking than this sunglasses-wearing stranger. He got a daring thrill from the realization. 

It was bad, according to his father, for princes to find other men attractive. But Arthur was nothing if not stubborn, and these feelings had persisted for years even after Uther tried to  drown Arthur’s preferences with lectures on “the right way of things” and “the virtues of the traditional family.” Traditional families were great, Arthur thought, but they weren’t for everyone.

And it wasn’t that Arthur didn’t like women—for a while, he’d been sure he had feelings for Gwen. Recently (or maybe not so recently, he wasn’t sure when it had happened), however, his heart had given itself to another. 

“Are you alright?” Merlin asked, his brow furrowing as he took in Arthur’s tight expression. 

“Yeah,” Arthur said, ignoring the rush of joy Merlin’s presence brought him. “Just…” He waved toward the horde of girls that had followed him here. Thankfully, they had the decency to keep their distance for the moment. “Too many questions of who I’m going to dance with.”

“Who are you going to dance with?” Gwen said, offering him a smile. “It’s your party, Arthur.”

“Yeah, I know,” he said. “I was hoping to dance with one of you, actually.” 

Gwen blinked, looking shocked. Merlin’s eyes went wide, and he seemed to choke on the very air he was breathing. Arthur’s heart sank at his reaction. 

Of course he doesn’t want to dance with me, I should have known better, what am I even doing over here— Arthur swallowed the panic and not-rejection. (How could it be rejection? He hadn’t even asked, not really, so it shouldn’t have been such a big deal.)

“I mean,” Arthur said with a laugh he didn’t feel. “There’s only one of you I would dance with.” 

He forced himself to meet Gwen’s eyes. 

“Guinevere,” he said, his voice tight, “would you do me the pleasure of dancing with me?”

She stole a glance at Merlin, who had a slightly-off encouraging smile on his face. “Of course,” Gwen said, taking Arthur’s outstretched hand. 

The song was blessedly short, and overall, Arthur didn’t hate the experience of dancing with Gwen. It was fun to make her laugh at his stupid jokes, and she was genuinely one of his favorite people to be around. It was just that he’d rather be dancing with a certain gangly young man with clever hands and mischievous smiles and a biting sense of humor and— no! Come on, Arthur was above mooning after Merlin like a pathetic schoolboy, wasn’t he?

After the song ended, Gwen went to find Morgana, leaving Arthur unprotected and alone. With a flurry of skirts and excited giggling, the horde of noblewomen from before descended upon him again. 

Arthur tried to say something about being very flattered by the attention but not feeling up to dancing at the moment, but his words were either drowned out by the chatter or completely ignored.

“Don’t you think the two of us would look lovely in a portrait together, Prince Arthur?”

“I’m a princess, you know. It would just work; don’t you agree, Prince Arthur?”

Enough, Arthur decided, was enough. Making some excuse about feeling ill, he extricated himself from the gaggle of noblewomen and made for the facilities. Mercifully, no one followed him. 

Arthur took a deep breath, staring at his reflection in the mirror above the washroom sink. (The indoor plumbing was one of the castle’s greatest mysteries. Arthur suspected that it was operated by magic, but he wasn’t about to tell his father, who probably would have ripped it out and left them using more primitive methods.) He dragged a hand down his face, wishing he were anywhere else. 

Most parts of being a prince, he could handle. Politics and warfare came naturally to him, and he’d been an athlete all his life, so he even enjoyed some of the missions his father gave him. This, though… the endless niceties, the self-serving lies, even the noise level of these stupid parties—it was horrible. 

He found himself wishing that Merlin were here with him. 

“No,” he said aloud, turning and striding from the washroom. He wouldn’t go down that doomed rabbit hole again—he was a prince, Merlin a servant. Besides, they were both men. Uther would never allow it for a multitude of reasons. (Seriously, though—even Cenred wasn’t against gay marriage.)

Arthur knew that he shouldn’t have been thinking about his friend like this. He shouldn’t have been constantly imagining those sharp cheekbones and bright blue eyes, framed by long lashes; he shouldn’t have been haunted by the sound of Merlin’s laugh whenever he tried to fall asleep. He shouldn’t have counted each time he saw Merlin smile every day, or catalogued each of them and treasured the ones bestowed upon him. 

This was absolutely absurd.

“Oi, Your Royal Highness,” an unfamiliar voice came out of the shadows across the hallway. 

Arthur let his hand rest on the sword at his belt. Ornamental or not, he could bash someone’s head in with it if he needed to. “Who’s there?”

A man stepped into the torchlight, and Arthur recognized him as the one who had been hanging off of Sir Aziraphale’s arm earlier. “I’m… um, a duke, Sire. Duke Crowley. Here to offer you some advice.”

“And what would that be?” Arthur asked, raising an eyebrow at him. 

“Maybe you should dance with someone unconventional tonight,” Crowley said, leaning against the wall. 

“Why?” 

Crowley shrugged. “In case you wanted to make a point. Or if, for some inexplicable reason, you were displeased with your father.” Arthur got the impression that the man winked at him behind his tinted glasses. “Don’t know why you’d be displeased, though.”

Make a point? Arthur thought, warming up to the idea immediately. He nodded, already fighting back a grin. “Thanks for the suggestion.”

“Don’t thank me yet, Sire.” Crowley bowed, then slunk back into the feast hall. 

Arthur squared his shoulders, then went to find himself another dance partner. 

~ the Young Warlock ~

Merlin considered himself to be an expert eavesdropper. Tonight, his targets were next to a large potted plant, slouching against the wall and standing with perfect posture, respectively. Merlin had carefully concealed himself within a nearby floor-length tapestry, just close enough that he could overhear their conversation. 

“What brings you to Camelot?” Aziraphale said, his tone polite as ever but more relaxed than he’d been while talking to Merlin and Gaius.

Merlin could hear Crowley shrug in response. “Temptations, wiles, the usual. Have to prevent a wedding this time.”

“Between whom?” Aziraphale asked, sounding worried now. 

Prevent a wedding? Merlin thought, his whole body tensing. What if it had something to do with Arthur—were they trying to hurt him somehow? And what was this about temptations? He peeked through a hole in his tapestry to see Crowley lean closer to the knight and mumble something, his voice too quiet for Merlin to make out. 

“Ohhh,” Aziraphale said, gazing up at Crowley with wide eyes. “Do you need my help?”

“M’yeah, that would be great,” Crowley said. If Merlin wasn’t imagining things, then the oh-so-cool Duke of Mallardville was blushing.

Aziraphale rested his hand on Crowley’s arm, his smile like a ray of pure sunlight. “I have some suggestions of who he could court instead, if you want to hear them. There’s one suggestion that I really like and a few others that aren’t completely terrible.”

“I’d love to hear ‘em,” Crowley said, stuffing his hands into his comically small pockets. 

“Jolly good!” Aziraphale said, his smile getting impossibly brighter. “Listen close, my dear boy…”

Dutifully, Crowley obeyed, slouching down further so Aziraphale could easily whisper into his ear. 

“Ooh,” Crowley said delightedly. “Yeah, that first one sounds perfect.”

“You really think so?”

Merlin waited until the pair of them had wandered off before exiting his tapestry. He folded his arms and tapped his finger against his sleeve, trying to decide what to do next. They don’t seem all that threatening, he thought. Still, he’d been wrong before. 

For now, he decided that it would be incredibly heartless of him not to help Aziraphale and Crowley confess their love for each other. (Because seriously—Merlin could see Crowley’s longing looks even through those tinted spectacles, and Aziraphale was as transparent as glass.)

Making a snap decision, he followed after Aziraphale and Crowley, having to dodge three different cliques of swooning noblewomen on the way. They all seemed to be distraught over whatever was taking place on the dance floor, but Merlin didn’t bother to look. He was on a mission. 

Before he could catch up to the not-couple, though, he nearly crashed into none other than Prince Arthur himself. 

“Merlin!” Arthur exclaimed, his eyes alight with laughter and a heart-stopping grin on his lips. “I’ve been looking everywhere for you!” 

“Um” said Merlin, fighting back a blush. “Do you need me?”

“Of course I need you, you dolt,” Arthur said, grinning harder. “You’re the only one of the Round Table I haven’t asked to dance yet.”

Merlin gaped. 

“I’ve danced with all the knights,” Arthur continued. “Even Gwaine.”

“You want to dance with me?” Merlin squeaked. 

“Come on, idiot, it’s the last song of the night.” 

Merlin barely had a second to register the peculiar fondness in Arthur’s voice before the prince grabbed his hand and tugged him toward the dance floor. 

“Arthur, I don’t even know how—” Merlin said. 

“Percival didn’t either, but that didn’t stop us!” 

Without another word, Merlin let Arthur take his hands and guide him into the correct stance. They weren’t standing terribly close to each other, but it felt intimate all the same. 

The music swelled, and then they were moving, Arthur taking the lead and leading Merlin through the unfamiliar steps. Merlin had no idea what he was doing. As the music picked up in tempo, Arthur pulled him closer, an intoxicating smile lighting up his features. 

“Ow!” the prince yelped when Merlin stepped on his foot, but he certainly didn’t look like he was in pain. In fact, his smile only got wider. 

“Sorry,” Merlin said, his face only burning hotter. “I don’t know what I’m doing.”

“Well, you aren’t doing as badly as I thought you would.” Coming from Arthur, it was a huge compliment. 

“Thanks for the glowing encouragement,” Merlin said, unable to stop himself from rolling his eyes. He nearly stepped on Arthur’s feet again, but he tripped to the side just in time.

Arthur laughed, a sound better than any bell or harp, and pulled Merlin closer, steadying him. 

Merlin couldn’t breathe. Sure, he’d just embarrassed himself by tripping in front of the crown prince, but somehow that seemed insignificant in the wake of Arthur’s reaction. 

“Enjoying yourself yet?” Arthur asked, casual as anything. 

“Yep,” Merlin said, surprised at how truthful his answer was. “And you?”

“Well. I’ve had better dance partners, sure,” Arthur said. Merlin blushed. “But I think you’re more fun.”

Merlin found himself grinning. “Fun? Really?”

And somehow they were even closer. 

“Really,” Arthur said, his blue eyes shining. 

All too soon, the song ended. After a second of standing awkwardly, scandalously close to each other, Merlin forced himself to step away from the prince, mumbling something about finding Gwen. 

He turned to leave, but Arthur caught his hand. The touch spread liquid fire through Merlin’s veins. Had the earth stopped spinning, or was it just his imagination that Arthur had become the center of his universe?

“Maybe we can… dance again?” Arthur said. His voice was surprisingly uncertain, almost bashful. “If you wanted to.”

“I wouldn’t be opposed to the idea,” Merlin breathed, his mind flashing to the schedule of the next three days. There would be two more dances—one informal, more like the village dances he was used to, and the last one something like this, but even fancier. A masquerade ball, if he remembered correctly.

Arthur smiled, genuine and open in a way that made Merlin’s heart lurch. He still hadn’t let go of Merlin’s hand. “Then… I’ll see what I can do.”

What was that supposed to mean? 

Regardless, Merlin realized, this weird (lovely) hand-holding moment had gone on for way too long to be considered proper. He released Arthur’s hand, even though it made his heart ache. 

“See you, clotpole,” Merlin said softly. 

Before Arthur could answer, he was gone. 

~ the Serpent of Eden ~

“Where’re we going again, angel?” Crowley said, walking by Aziraphale’s side through the outskirts of the ballroom. 

“I’m going to inquire about sleeping arrangements,” Aziraphale informed him, a determined little smile on his face. 

“I thought you didn’t like sleep,” Crowley said, sidestepping a serving boy whose tray was overloaded with plates and goblets. 

“We have to keep up appearances, don’t we? I plan on reading tonight, unless… well. I’ll probably be reading,” Aziraphale said. He came to a stop in front of a group of important-looking old humans dressed in fancy robes. 

Feeling bored, as he always did when the angel’s attention wasn’t solely focused on him, Crowley only half-listened to the conversation. 

“...hello, gentlemen…”

“...blah blah, courtesies and meaningless niceties…” 

(The men weren’t actually saying “blah blah,” but in Crowley’s opinion, they might as well have been.)

“...where I’ll be staying tonight?”

Then came the part that set Crowley’s world on fire.

“We have you listed in the East Wing, Sir Aziraphale, room sixty-six. And… oh, it seems like you’ll be sharing with Duke Anthony Crowley!”

…sharing…

…a room…

…with Aziraphale… 

“Oh!” The angel’s smile put rays of sunshine to shame as he turned to look at Crowley. “Well, that’s alright then. Thank you!”

“Uh—” Crowley said, his voice barely a croak. Sharing a room with Aziraphale. “Um, have to—demon stuff. Ciao.” 

Before he knew what he was doing, Crowley turned and bolted from the room. (Or, rather, sauntered very, very fast from the room, but that just doesn’t have the same ring to it.) 

Somehow, he ended up in the castle kitchens. The servants were still tidying up and putting most of the food away, but no one paid him any mind. Unable to even form a coherent thought, Crowley slithered over to the nearest wall and slumped down onto a sack of wheat, pulling his knees to his chest and burying his head in his hands. 

Sharing a room. With Aziraphale. 

Crowley’s miracle to get himself on the guest list had backfired—of course it had, everything he did backfired on him—and now he had to share a room with Aziraphale. He pressed his knuckles into his temples, trying to calm his racing heart. 

What if he bothered the angel? What if he snored all night long and made it so Aziraphale couldn’t focus on his book? (Bless it, he had no idea if he snored or not. And there was no way to know, either, not without embarrassing himself and asking a human to watch him sleep.) What if he was too annoying or too clingy or ruined things in a way he couldn’t even anticipate?

What if he cocked up and confessed his undying love or something and alienated his best friend forever? 

What if, what if, what if. Crowley couldn’t breathe under the weight of it all. 

“You seem like you need to get drunk,” a self-assured voice said from far above him. 

Crowley looked up to see a handsome human with broad shoulders, nice stubble, and shoulder-length brown hair carrying a bag of some sort. Bitterly, Crowley remembered that he’d been trying to make his hair look like that this morning, but he’d given up and let the weird halfway waves do their thing. He wasn’t interested in humans, not even close, but he could aesthetically appreciate one now and again. 

(There was only one being Crowley had ever been interested in—the one who had sheltered him during a sudden rainstorm and given away his flaming sword. The center of his universe, the light of his life, his angel.)

“Go away,” Crowley said tiredly. He didn’t have the spoons for this right now. 

“No,” the human replied, sinking down and sitting on a sack next to him. He extended his hand, offering Crowley a winning smile. “I’m Gwaine.”

“Crowley,” he muttered, giving the bare minimum of a handshake. 

From his bag, Gwaine produced a bottle of whiskey. He took a swig, then got out another one and passed it to Crowley with a satisfied sigh. “What’s on your mind?” he said. 

Crowley accepted the bottle, unsure if Gwaine was trying to flirt with him or not. Better make it clear he wasn’t interested, just in case. “Oh, the usual,” he growled. He tipped the bottle back, tasting the liquor that Camelot was so famous for. “I’m in love with my best friend, have been for my whole life, and I can’t confess to him without ruining everything between us, so. Y’know. The usual.”

Gwaine nodded sympathetically. “I have a similar dilemma, but it’s probably not as bad as yours.” He clapped Crowley on the shoulder. 

So… Gwaine wasn’t flirting with him after all? That was a relief. Another pull of whiskey, and Crowley’s bottle was half empty, but it looked like Gwaine had brought plenty more. 

“What’s your dilemma?” Crowley drawled, letting his long legs flop out in front of him. 

“I need,” Gwaine said, “to seduce a man.”

Now that sounded like a great idea. 

“I need your help thinking of ways to seduce him, if you’re willing,” Gwaine continued. 

“Got a specific man in mind, or just… men in general?” Crowley asked, finishing off his bottle. Without him even asking, Gwaine handed him another. 

Gwaine grinned, staring off into empty air. “Percival. Knight of the Round Table.”

“What does this man of yours like?” Crowley asked, already concocting a plan. 

“We’ve practiced sword fighting and wrestling together before—no, not like that, just… regular wrestling— and he saved me from a ghost by falling on top of me. That was fun. And I catch him on his off-duty days giving kids rides on his horse.” By the end, Gwaine looked downright dreamy. 

“Alright, Gwaine,” Crowley said, letting his glasses slide down his nose. Gwaine didn’t seem troubled by his yellow eyes. “Here’s my idea. You get your knight, your Percival, and take him on a picnic. Nice and romantic. You bring all his favorite foods. You can even go horseback riding together if you like.”

Gwaine grinned. “I like the sound of that.”

They tossed a few more date ideas back and forth, both of them getting progressively more drunk. Crowley tried not to drink too much, to be fair to Gwaine, who had brought the whiskey in the first place. Being a demon, he could drink much more alcohol than a human could. 

“So,” Gwaine said after a while, his voice slurred. “Tell me about your man, Crowley.”

Crowley sighed, a stupid little smile crossing his face. “He’s brilliant. An absolute bastard, but sweet at the same time. And great taste in wine, too.”

“Are you talking about Sir Aziraphale?” Gwaine said, his eyes wide. 

Bless it, how had he known? Was Crowley really that transparent?

“What’s it to you if I am?” Crowley said. He desperately hoped that his blush was just in his imagination. 

“He’s mentioned someone before,” Gwaine said carefully. “Someone named Anthony. Says he’s very sweet, an absolute darling if I’m remembering correctly.”

If Crowley’s blush had been imagined before, it was definitely real now. 

“My first name’s Anthony.” He pointed at himself, wishing his voice wasn’t so high-pitched all of a sudden. “So. Guess he’s… talked about me.” 

Crowley had already known that. It shouldn’t have been such a big deal. Still— HE TALKED ABOUT ME, a part of his brain screamed before swooning into oblivion. 

And then there was the matter of the “darling” thing. What was he supposed to do with that? Already, he could feel his fantasies growing, taking on new life as they filled with Aziraphale’s voice calling him that stupid word. 

Darling. 

I’m absolutely pathetic, Crowley thought. 

“Have you tried romancing him?” Gwaine said, utterly fascinated by Crowley’s silent breakdown. He rested his hand on his chin and met Crowley’s eyes, the demon’s glasses long since discarded somewhere on the floor. Being a knight in Camelot, Crowley figured that Gwaine had probably seen weirder than yellow eyes. 

“Romancing,” Crowley muttered. “Yeah. Extravagant dates as often as I can, and rare books for his collection, and… ugh. I bend to his every whim and follow him everywhere like…” He snapped his fingers, trying to think of an adequate comparison. 

“Like what?”

“Dunno,” Crowley said. “But anyway. Got any ideas for me to try?”

Gwaine scrunched up his nose in thought. “Talk to him about it, maybe?”

“Nnngk, no,” Crowley said in disgust. “Nope, nope, nope.”

“But—”

Crowley lurched forward. “A duck!” 

“What about ducks?” Gwaine said, looking confused. 

“That’s what I am!” Crowley took another gulp of liquor. “I follow him everywhere like a pathetic little duck!”

“A… duck,” Gwaine said dubiously. 

“Yesss, a duck, what animal would you have sssaid?” Blasted snake sibilance. It always got worse when he was drunk. 

Gwaine finished off his second bottle. “Hmm… maybe a puppy? Or a cat.” He nodded to himself. “You seem kinda like a cat, Crowley, what with the eyes, and the grouchiness, and the procl… porlc… tendency to cling to your man. Your knight in shining armor. I saw the two of you together at the feast. You’re cute together, y’know?”

Crowley barely stopped himself from bragging that yeah, his angel was cute. “I like cats,” he said instead, feeling very wise.

“Indeed,” Gwaine agreed. 

“But enough about me,” Crowley said. “I’ve got a job to do.”

Gwaine squinted at him. “Huh?”

“Gotta make sure the crown prince and his servant fall in love,” Crowley said conspiratorially. 

Hmm. Maybe he was too drunk to be having this conversation. Actually, maybe he shouldn’t even have been having it in the first place. But that, like many other things, was a Future Crowley problem. Besides, Gwaine seemed trustworthy. He hadn’t freaked out over Crowley’s eyes, which was a huge point in his favor. 

“Which servant?” Gwaine asked, his eyes lighting up. He didn’t even question why this was Crowley’s job, or who had given it to him. Maybe he figured it was a Future Gwaine problem. 

Crowley waved his hand around, almost smacking his bottle of ale into the wall. “The scrawny one who always follows him around. Dark hair, lots of attitude.”

“That’s Merlin,” Gwaine said. He was slouched against the wall even more than Crowley was, which was a major feat. He leaned in closer, grinning widely. “Well, good news for you, he’s already got a thing for the prince. I can tell.”

Crowley grinned back. “D’you think I can finish my job, then? Get them to fall in love with each other?”

Gwaine shrugged. “Well, not with Uther in the picture.”

Crowley groaned and bonked his head back into the wall. “Blessed Uther.”

“Shh!” Gwaine said urgently, wagging his finger in front of Crowley’s face. “He’ll hear you!”

“Ohhh,” Crowley said, his eyes going wide. “Right. Forgot. Walls have ears.” He eyed the stone wall suspiciously. “Bricks have ears, maids have ears, ducks have ears.”

“What is it with you and ducks?” Gwaine said, his voice slurred. 

“Dunno,” Crowley said. “They’re… cool.”

Gwaine nodded, apparently satisfied. 

“You got a favorite animal?” Crowley said, taking another long pull of whiskey. 

“Bears,” Gwaine said with a little giggle. 

“Oh, yeah. Obviously,” Crowley said, nodding like he knew what Gwaine was talking about. (What was Gwaine talking about? What was so funny about bears?)

Things continued like this for at least another hour, until all the alcohol was gone and both of them were nodding off halfway through their rambling, slurred sentences. Eventually, neither of them were talking at all, and Gwaine was snoring loudly from where he still lay slouched against the wall. 

Crowley lay there, half asleep, unable to find it in himself to move. Where would he go, anyway?

Then, not much later, a person-shaped being might have come into the long-darkened kitchens. He might have been dressed in soft shades of cream and beige, he might have had pretty grey eyes and cupid’s-bow lips, and he might have had fluffy white-blond hair that seemed to glow in Crowley’s drunken mind. 

He might have gently picked Crowley up like he weighed nothing at all and carried him upstairs to an unfamiliar room. Then he might have placed Crowley on an impossibly soft bed and taken off his boots, pulling the covers over him and stroking his hair off his forehead. 

Crowley might have mumbled something like “angel.”

Then the person—the best person, our favorite person, the only brain cell Crowley had left said—might have knelt down close to him. 

“Sleep well, darling,” he might have whispered, before pressing a kiss to Crowley’s forehead. 

Darling. 

Crowley was out instantly. 

Chapter Text

~ the Angel of the Eastern Gate ~

Aziraphale blinked his eyes open, confused for a moment why reality felt so soft and heavy. Oh… he was in a bed. The decadent four-poster one in Camelot. Had he fallen asleep last night? Aziraphale had fallen asleep before, yes, but never for eight hours.  

The next realization was even better. 

Though he lay on his side, there was a weight coiled around him, all pointy elbows and bony ribs. Crowley, it seemed, hadn’t kept to his half of the bed after all. One arm was wrapped over Aziraphale’s torso, the other splayed across his chest, right over his heart. Crowley’s left leg was thrown over Aziraphale’s thigh. 

Aziraphale felt himself smile. Normally, Crowley’s skin was so cold, but right now he seemed suffused with heat. Crowley made a small, unintelligible noise and nuzzled into Aziraphale’s neck, his hair brushing Aziraphale’s cheek. 

He debated for a moment whether or not to wake Crowley up, but decided against it. The poor dear would probably have an awful headache after last night. 

“Zira,” Crowley mumbled sleepily, squeezing him tighter. 

The sound of Crowley saying his name, even shortened like that, filled him with delight. Aziraphale couldn’t move very much, not while Crowley had him trapped like this, but he managed to lift his arm and take Crowley’s hand. As soon as their skin touched, Crowley snuffled and his lips twitched into an almost-smile, and Aziraphale wondered what he was dreaming about. 

Aziraphale remembered other times he and Crowley had been this close. 

Once was a few decades ago, up in the North among the Vikings. Crowley had been so cold he could barely move. Aziraphale had shared his tent with him, holding him close all night until the poor dear finally thawed. 

Then, earlier in history, there was the time after the Flood, when an exhausted, drenched demon had fallen asleep in Aziraphale’s arms. They had both been aboard the Ark, in a secret little room with a group of children Crowley had saved. Aziraphale had kept watch the entire night, stroking Crowley’s hair and wiping away his tears. 

This time, there wasn’t the threat of divine wrath, the heavy weight of despair, the bitter shackles of cold, or the relentless pounding of a storm outside. It was just… them.

Aziraphale loved it. 

Sunlight drifted in through the drapes, painting the two of them in hazy gold and making Crowley’s auburn hair look as if it were a crown of fire. It felt so terribly domestic to lay in bed together like this. Crowley made another sleepy noise, and a second later his eyes fluttered open. So pretty, thought Aziraphale automatically at the sight of those golden serpentine irises. 

“Good morning,” Aziraphale said. He resisted the urge to brush Crowley’s hair off his forehead. Doing so last night had already been pushing his boundaries. “How are you feeling? You were quite deep in your—what was that, whiskey?—last night.”

“Yup, it was whiskey. Good stuff, too. Now I feel like a duck stomped on my brain,” Crowley groaned, squeezing his eyes shut. A second later, they shot open again, fully yellow this time, and he made a panicked noise in the back of his throat. “I’m too close, aren’t I—ngk, I’ve ruined everything—”

“Crowley, dear, it’s all right,” Aziraphale soothed, resting a hand on his shoulder as Crowley tried to slither away. “I don’t mind snuggling with you.”

Crowley looked outraged. “I am a demon. I do not snuggle!”

Aziraphale chose not to point out that for at least the last seven hours, they had been cuddling in bed together. Crowley was in one of his moods, and he wouldn’t listen to the truth no matter how Aziraphale presented it. 

“Shh, now,” Aziraphale said instead. “Come back here, you silly thing. I know your headache must be something terrible.”

His cheeks stained slightly red, Crowley scooted back over to him, hiding his head under the covers. 

“This isn’t snuggling,” Crowley muttered.

“Of course not.” Unable to resist any longer, Aziraphale gently stroked Crowley’s hair, eliciting a little growl from the demon. “I’m just helping you feel better.”

“Obviously.” Crowley tensed in his arms, weighing his words carefully. “Did you… I mean, I don’t remember walking here last night.” There was an odd note of something almost like hope in his voice. 

“I helped you up here from the kitchens, yes,” Aziraphale said, thinking back to his bravery, his stupidity, when he’d gathered a drunken demon in his arms and carried him upstairs. 

The way Crowley’s warm breath drifted across Aziraphale’s face as he had climbed the stairs. How he’d felt so limp, so trusting, and oh so vulnerable in Aziraphale’s arms. The heart-stopping moment after Aziraphale had slid a sleeping Crowley under the covers when he’d gathered enough courage to press a kiss to his forehead. 

Adversaries weren’t supposed to tuck each other in at night. They weren’t supposed to wander around town and dine together or call each other “dear boy” and “angel.” And, most of all, adversaries weren’t supposed to develop feelings besides hatred towards one another, platonic or… otherwise. 

(If Aziraphale’s feelings towards Crowley had ever been platonic, they certainly weren’t anymore.)

“What did you do that for?” Crowley mumbled. His head resurfaced from beneath the blankets, and he wiped the sleep out of his eyes. “Could have just left me in there, I would have been fine.”

“I wasn’t about to leave you blackout drunk in a kitchen,” Aziraphale scoffed. “I’m an angel. It was the right thing to do.” This, admittedly, was to reassure himself more than Crowley. “Besides, this way you won’t be as sore.”

“Nyeah, guess so.” Crowley rolled away from him and stretched, every muscle going taut, holding his arms above his head and arching his back a little. Aziraphale’s heart stuttered as he noticed the way Crowley’s shirt had ridden up just enough to expose a stripe of pale skin. Crowley held the pose for a moment before flopping back down onto the mattress with a little sigh.

Demons aren’t supposed to be so blasted cute, Aziraphale thought fondly, watching his friend shove locks of sleep-mussed red hair out of his face. 

Now there was space between their bodies again, unfortunately, but Aziraphale knew it was for the best. As much as he wanted to confess how he felt and hold Crowley close all the time and wake up every morning like this, he knew Crowley didn’t feel the same way. He probably didn’t have the same desire for touch that Aziraphale did, and he definitely saw Aziraphale as a friend and nothing more. 

Which was the same way he saw Crowley, obviously. They were friends, even though they definitely weren’t supposed to be. Friends with Crowley was fine. Aziraphale didn’t want to not be friends—that would be indescribably horrible—he just… 

No, friends was fine. It had to be. 

Paper-thin rationalizations, those were, but they still cut sharp as daggers. 

A grouchy “oof” and a loud thump startled Aziraphale out of his thoughts. 

“Crowley?” he said, sitting up to find that the other half of the bed was empty. He moved over to the edge and saw the demon sprawled on the floor, glaring up at the ceiling. “Are you all right?”

Crowley turned his yellow-eyed glare on Aziraphale, who was trying very hard not to laugh. “Yep,” the demon drawled. “I’m great.”

“You fell out of bed,” Aziraphale said, covering his mouth to hide his smile. 

“Did not,” Crowley scoffed, his voice rising in indignation. “Stupid legs malfunctioned, that’s what happened. And the mattress malfunctioned! Dumped me off like a sack of potatoes!” 

Unable to hold back his laughter any longer, Aziraphale offered his friend a hand up. Crowley accepted it, still scowling. 

“I did not fall out of bed,” Crowley repeated, enunciating every word. 

“Of course, my dear boy,” Aziraphale said through his giggles. 

With a wordless growl, Crowley stalked off towards the washroom, probably to miracle himself a new outfit. Aziraphale took this as an opportunity to get dressed in his usual attire—a flowy ivory shirt, a beige silk waistcoat, light brown trousers, and leather boots that had little wing-shaped buckles, with a loose tartan cravat at his neck for flair. He strapped his side sword on last, turning about in the mirror for a moment after he was ready. 

Miracling his teeth brushed might have been a “frivolous miracle” in Gabriel’s opinion, but Aziraphale couldn’t find it in himself to care. Humming to himself, he went back over to the bed and made it, not using a miracle this time. There was something satisfying about doing this the human way. 

A string of loud curses interrupted his morning routine. (With a smile on his lips, Aziraphale thought to himself that Crowley’s accent turned more Scottish when he was grouchy.)

“Crowley?” Aziraphale called, raising an eyebrow at the outburst. “Are you ready to leave yet?” 

“No,” came the growly response. 

With an eye roll, Aziraphale made his way over to the washroom’s door. 

“May I come in?” he asked, hesitating with his hand on the doorknob. 

“If you have to.”

Unsure of what to expect, Aziraphale opened the door. The sight that greeted him wasn’t one of disaster, unlike what the Gaelic swearing suggested. Crowley was glaring at his own reflection for a reason Aziraphale couldn’t fathom. The demon looked as stylish as always, with his scandalously tight trousers, snakeskin boots, low-cut black shirt, and dark maroon corset. 

Men didn’t wear corsets in this era, did they? Either way, Crowley pulled it off stunningly. He’d always been inventive and rebellious, fashion-wise, and Aziraphale adored him for it.

“What seems to be the matter, Crowley?” Aziraphale asked. (He tried to ignore the urge to stare at the way Crowley’s shirt hugged his lean frame, or the way the patterned corset accentuated his slim waist.)

“This,” Crowley said, pointing to where one section of his hair was wavier than the rest. “It’s being infuriating today. The only good thing is that it’s not humid here, like it was in America.” He shuddered. 

Aziraphale didn’t see the problem. In fact, he thought the unruly waves looked kind of cute. He guessed that “cute” wasn’t the response Crowley wanted, though. And speaking of America, the last time he and Crowley had popped over there (Crowley to spread foment among some of the native kingdoms, Aziraphale to erase the foment, which ended up being confusing and very counterproductive for both of them), Aziraphale did recall the way Crowley’s hair had responded to the humidity, curling erratically despite everything Crowley tried. Aziraphale had found it very pretty and very distracting. And last night, his centuries-old question had been answered—Crowley’s hair was just as soft as it looked. 

But this line of thinking was useless. 

“You can always put it up if it bothers you so much,” Aziraphale suggested. 

“Mm. Good point, angel.” Crowley seemed the tiniest bit less grouchy as he miracled a hair tie into existence and twisted his copper locks up into a simple bun. With that, he turned on his heel to face Aziraphale. “How do I look?”

Dashing, thought Aziraphale immediately, his breath catching in his throat as he took in the way Crowley’s cheekbones looked even sharper with his hair pulled back. Roguishly charming. Absolutely spiffing. Like a morally grey bandit who robs the nobility to feed the starving, who pretends to be villainous but really has the biggest heart in the world.

That was… oddly specific. And oddly literary. Bandits like that didn’t exist in real life, Aziraphale thought forcefully. 

“You look absolutely evil,” he said instead. 

Crowley grinned at him. A strand of hair escaped from his bun and fell to frame his face, and Aziraphale had to fight the desire to reach out and tuck it back behind Crowley’s ear. 

“Now, I do believe we’re supposed to depart for the picnic soon,” Aziraphale said to distract himself. He stepped back from the doorway and offered Crowley a smile. “Shall we, my dear boy?”

“We shall,” Crowley murmured, striding out of the washroom. 

He snapped his fingers, bringing a pair of dark spectacles into existence, and slipped them on. Aziraphale missed his eyes instantly. 

They walked side by side down to the courtyard in silence. Aziraphale kept wringing his hands, wishing he knew what, if anything, he should say. Once they were outside, everyone else from the feast last night was nearly ready to leave. 

Crowley grimaced. “We have to ride horses?”

“I’m afraid so,” Aziraphale said. “I’m sure we could share one, if you like. It might be more… ah, comfortable…?”

He trailed off at the shocked look on Crowley’s face. Hmm. Maybe that was going a bit too far. 

Aziraphale backpedaled immediately. “But I know it wouldn’t be, erm, proper…” He coughed into his hand, staring resolutely at the ground but feeling Crowley’s eyes slice into him like lovely golden daggers. “So… let’s claim a pair of horses.”

He started walking, and beside him, Crowley seemed to wilt, like a flower left too long without sun. “Sure, angel,” he said softly. “I can ride a horse, don’t worry, but I don’t like it.”

“Why?” Aziraphale asked, gladly latching on to this new, less awkward subject.

Crowley scowled. “First of all, they make me incredibly sore, which is reason enough not to like them. And don’t get me started about the way they look at me!”

“I’ve always thought they were rather cute,” Aziraphale said mildly. 

“Oh, you would. They’re too cunning to be cute. Always scheming about the best way to throw me off.” He gave the nearest horse a suspicious glare. 

Aziraphale couldn’t help but laugh. “If you say so, my dear.”

~ courage ~

Arthur resisted the urge to bounce up and down with anxiety as the stable boy handed him the reins to his horse. Beside him, his father glared, the pure disapproval of the look digging into Arthur’s soul and reminding him of just how inadequate he was. 

They were in the royal stables, nearly ready to depart for the picnic. Unfortunately for Arthur, they were alone save for a few servants, which meant that the king could speak his mind. 

“Do I need to tell you why I’m displeased?” Uther said, his voice low and just shy of dangerous. 

“No, Sire,” Arthur said, taking the horse’s reins and stroking the beast’s nose. 

“So please explain to me why I am displeased with you,” Uther said. “And apologize.”

Arthur took a deep breath and turned to face his father. “You’re mad because I didn’t dance with any noblewomen last night.”

“And just who did you dance with?” Uther spat. He knew; he had been there for the entire spectacle, but he wanted to make Arthur say it just so he could sneer at him. 

“I danced with Gwen and my knights,” Arthur said, allowing as little feeling into his voice as he could. 

“You danced with a servant girl,” Uther corrected, “and a bunch of men. Just how did you think I would react?”

“I wasn’t thinking,” Arthur said, his posture ramrod straight. 

“Clearly,” his father scoffed. 

Arthur couldn’t take it anymore. “I don’t see what’s so bad about me dancing with a man—”

“Bad?” Uther exclaimed, his face going red. “It’s not the right way of things!”

Maybe I don’t like the “right” way of things, Arthur wished he could say. Maybe I like women and men. 

Maybe I’m in love with a man. 

But Uther would never understand. If he found out how Arthur felt toward Merlin, he would probably banish Merlin from the kingdom. 

“I’m sorry,” Arthur lied. 

“Good,” Uther said. “Make sure it doesn’t happen again.” He got on his horse and rode into the courtyard, leaving Arthur alone. 

Breathing hard and blinking back the sudden tears, Arthur buried his face in his hands. 

“Are you quite all right, Prince Arthur?” said Sir Aziraphale from somewhere behind him. 

Arthur lifted his head and plastered a smile on his face. “Oh, I’m great. Why wouldn’t I be great?”

“Definitely,” Duke Crowley said, his voice dripping with doubt. “Do you need anything, Your Highness?”

“We could find anyone you want to see,” Aziraphale said with an exaggerated wink. “Your servant, perhaps—”

Crowley poked his arm, looking panicked. “Angel!”

“Crowley, I really don’t see the problem—”

“Angel! Subtlety is key!”

Arthur raised an eyebrow. “If you’re really offering to find Merlin for me, go ahead.”

Why are you being so weird about it, though? he wanted to ask. Did Crowley and Aziraphale know how he felt about Merlin?

“Perfect!” Sir Aziraphale said brightly. “Tickety-boo! We’ll go find him!” He gave Arthur another wink before exiting the stables, taking Crowley with him. 

“Tickety-boo?” Crowley stage-whispered as they left. “And don’t wink at him so much. He’ll think you’re weird.”

“Sometimes, weird is the best way to be perceived, my dear boy.”

Arthur shook his head. He couldn’t decide if those two were disgruntled not-enemies or if they were madly in love. Probably both, he thought wryly. His tentative smile fell as he remembered what Uther had said to him. Arthur closed his eyes, taking a shaky breath. He could do this. He could pretend he was fine. 

He could… find some noblewoman to marry. And spend the rest of his life miserable. 

Arthur couldn’t breathe. He sank to the floor of the stables, his heartbeat pounding madly in his ears. Seconds passed, or maybe hours. All Arthur knew was that he had doomed the man he loved; that he could never reveal to Merlin how he felt. Maybe he should just drown here, in these thoughts, and never come out. It would be better for everyone. 

“Sire?” a familiar voice said. He could barely hear it through his panic. “Arthur, are you okay?”

Then, a hand gently rested on his shoulder, grounding him through the last horrible tremors of the panic attack. All at once, Arthur could breathe again. Trembling all over, he lifted his head to see none other than Merlin gazing down at him with concerned blue eyes. 

“Arthur?” he said again.

“I’m fine,” Arthur said, wishing his voice didn’t sound so vulnerable. 

Merlin crouched down so he was at eye level with him. “Do you want to talk about it?”

Arthur shook his head, forcing himself to shake off the worst of the anxiety. “We have to leave anyway, Merlin. Help me get my horse ready.”

“Of course, Sire,” Merlin said. He hesitated. “I’m here if you need me, okay?”

Arthur offered him a cocky smile to hide how much his words affected him. “I already knew that. I need you to polish my armor every day.”

Merlin rolled his eyes. “Of course.”

I need you always, Arthur almost said. I would lay down my life for you.  

I love you, Merlin. 

Twenty minutes later, the group (which consisted of nobles, various servants, and the people who actually lived in the palace) departed for the picnic meadow. Arthur, being the prince, rode at the very front, with Uther on his left and Morgana on his right. Blessedly, Uther wasn’t paying attention to them at the moment, instead having a conversation with Gaius. 

“So,” Morgana said to him from astride her grey mare. “Is there anyone you fancy?”

He gave her a look. “Like I’d tell you.”

“You’re probably over Gwen; she talked to me about it,” Morgana mused. “Maybe… oh.” She grinned and leaned in closer to him, her voice just loud enough for him to hear. “Is it a man?”

Arthur stiffened and spurred his horse a little faster. “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” he said evenly. 

“What’s his name?” Morgana said, smug as the cat that got the cream. “Do I know him?”

Arthur shrugged, too overcome with panic to think of a coherent response. 

“Is he one of the knights?” 

“Is who one of the knights?” Gwen said, joining Arthur and Morgana at the front of the procession. 

Arthur groaned. “No, he’s not a knight, and stop asking questions!”

“I’m trying to find out who he fancies,” Morgana said conspiratorially to Gwen. 

The other girl smiled. “Oh, fun! If he’s not a knight, who is he?”

Arthur shrugged again, his shoulders nearly touching his ears. “I’m not telling you anything.”

He stole a glance at Gwen and Morgana. The two girls were sharing a capital-L Look, both of them grinning ear to ear. 

“I know who it is,” Gwen said. 

“As do I,” Morgana agreed, her eyes downright sparkling with mischief. 

“You can’t possibly have guessed!” Arthur said. “You didn’t even say anything to each other!”

Morgana held up one finger and wrote an M in the air. Gwen mimed an E. 

And on they went until they had spelled out the name of the worst servant in the five kingdoms. Arthur’s servant. The one who he wanted to hold hands with and always have by his side, even as he teased and bickered with him. 

Merlin. 

Arthur froze. “No,” he said, his voice higher-pitched than normal. “No, you can’t have— how did you know?”

”It was obvious,” Gwen said. “You smile at him when you think no one else is looking.”

“And if he smiles back,” Morgana added, “you look as if someone has given you a star.”

Arthur swore. “This isn’t fair.”

Gwen and Morgana giggled. 

“Don’t be such a child,” Morgana said. “Gwen and I can help you.”

“Help me,” said Arthur flatly. “With what, exactly?”

“Why, confessing your undying love, of course!” Gwen said. 

Morgana smirked. “And perhaps getting him in bed—”

“No!” Arthur yelled, his face going bright red. 

It wasn’t like he’d never fantasized about it before (and what vivid fantasies those were), but it was very different to hear Morgana tease him about it.

“Alright, alright, Arthur dear,” Morgana purred, her green eyes positively glittering with mischief. 

“I wonder if any of the knights know,” Gwen said. 

“Don’t tell them,” Arthur groaned. Having the girls know was one thing, but if the knights found out, it was all over. 

“If you insist,” Morgana said. “We won’t tell.”

Arthur sagged with relief in his saddle. 

This was… not a good development, that was for sure. Maybe Gwen and Morgana wouldn’t tell anyone, but they could still very easily cause grief for Arthur. Having spent his entire life with her, he knew Morgana was a meddler to her core. 

Maybe she’ll leave it alone, he thought desperately. 

But he never had been good at lying to himself, so the thought did nothing to dispel his sense of utter doom. 

~ magic ~

Merlin spurred his horse just a bit faster, so he was right behind Sir Aziraphale and Duke Crowley. The latter looked extremely uncomfortable on his horse. 

“Alright, my dear boy,” Aziraphale said conspiratorially. “Tell me your plan to make you-know-who fall in love with each other.”

(Interesting nickname that was, my dear boy. Oddly sweet and possessive all at once. Merlin had a feeling that Crowley didn’t mind it one bit.)

Crowley grinned at the knight, turning to face him in his saddle. There was something odd about his eyes, Merlin noticed, especially from this side view, where the sunglasses didn’t cover them as much and he could almost see them properly. Come to think of it, had Merlin ever seen Crowley take his glasses off?

“I thought you’d never ask,” Crowley replied. He rubbed his hands together excitedly, dropping his horse’s reins. His horse took this as an opportunity to completely stop in the middle of the road. 

Merlin’s horse went around, and he desperately prayed that Aziraphale and Crowley wouldn’t think it odd that he had been so close to them. 

“Oi!” Crowley snapped, grabbing the reins and scowling. Merlin froze, until he realized that the duke was talking to his horse. “I didn’t tell you that you could stop, you idiot—”

“Don’t call your horse an idiot, my dear,” Aziraphale said, looking at Crowley with amusement and a hint of exasperation. He stroked his own horse’s mane. “We must have love for all creatures, great and small.” His eyes, of course, were on Crowley. 

(Merlin added this little moment to the “proof that the suspicious losers are in love” list he had been compiling in his head.)

“Maybe you should, but I don’t,” Crowley grumbled. “If anything, I should hate all living creatures.”

Merlin let Crowley catch up to his friend, resuming his place behind them. If these two really were spies or assassins, they were doing a terrible job. 

“But you don’t hate everything, do you, my dear?” Aziraphale said softly, reaching out and laying a hand on Crowley’s arm. 

Crowley flinched at the sudden touch. “Ngk,” he stammered.

Aziraphale just smiled at him fondly, and Merlin fought back a grin as he watched the two of them. Crowley was obviously head over heels, and Aziraphale clearly cared for the other man very deeply, much more than a simple “friend” would. Maybe all Merlin had to do was… nudge them together. 

But how?

“As I was saying,” Crowley said irritably. “Before my stupid horse decided to throw a mutiny—”

“At least it didn’t buck you off this time,” Aziraphale pointed out, seeming smug that he had no such problems from his own horse. 

Crowley bared his teeth at Aziraphale, which had Merlin fighting back a laugh. What a pair they made, the part-time knight and the fraudulent duke. 

“We need to get them wet,” Crowley said out of the blue. 

Merlin blinked. Was that… part of a spell to harm Arthur? What did getting wet have to do with anything?

Aziraphale seemed to be thinking the same thing. “…Wet?” he said dubiously. “What on Earth are you talking about?”

“So they’ll fall in love, obviously.”

What part of that was supposed to be obvious, Merlin had no idea. 

“It’s a well-known fact, angel,” Crowley continued. “If people are wet together, they are much more likely to fall in love!”

Aziraphale stared at him. “I have never heard of this so-called fact.”

Crowley coughed. “I did… a study. On it. Results were very conclusive.”

“What are you talking about, Crowley?” Aziraphale said, clearly jealous. “Why… oh, I suppose there’s no dissuading you. You’re terribly stubborn when you want to be.”

“Please just help me do this,” Crowley said beseechingly. 

“Just to be clear,” Aziraphale said, arching an eyebrow. “Your plan to make them fall in love is… to get them wet?”

“Well, they have to be alone,” Crowley said. “Otherwise other people could mess it up. But yeah, that’s the gist of it. We’ll get them wet, alone, and staring into each other’s eyes. And Vavoom.” He smacked his hands together with an air of finality. 

“Lovely,” Aziraphale muttered. “I suppose it’s a start.”

As Merlin watched, still confused by the whole exchange, Crowley grinned at Aziraphale. Well, I knew they were weird already, he thought. But this new interaction made them so much weirder.

Maybe Crowley had fallen in love with Aziraphale when they were both wet? Otherwise, Merlin had no idea where he would have gotten that idea from. It didn’t seem terribly romantic, but then again, most people wouldn’t consider eye rolls and insulting each other and fighting for your lives together romantic, either. To each their own, Merlin supposed, his mind wandering, as it always did, to Arthur. 

Arthur, yelling at him after Merlin deliberately got on his nerves. (Worth it every time. Even when he got something thrown at him.) Arthur, smirking at something dumb he’d said. Arthur, brave and selfless in the face of danger. Arthur, sleepy and yawning as Merlin helped him get ready for bed. 

Arthur, dancing with him last night, pulling Merlin closer as the music swelled around them, his blue eyes alight with laughter and his full lips parted into a breathtaking smile. 

Less than an hour later, the procession arrived at the picnic spot. It was a meadow, lush and green, perfect for laying around and doing nothing. In the southern corner, a riot of wildflowers bloomed in shades of purple, red, and white. 

Merlin got roped into helping set up the blankets, each of them large enough for around ten people. He placed a basket of food in the center of each, restraining himself from peeking inside and stealing a snack or two. He’d tried to do that once, and the head cook had yelled at him. 

Merlin placed the last basket of food, trying to decide where he should sit. He hoped he could get a spot with Gwen, maybe some of the knights if possible. 

“Are you done yet?” Arthur said from just behind him. 

Merlin jumped. “Arthur!” he said, knowing he was blushing like an idiot. “You can’t sneak up on me like that.”

Arthur smirked. “I need your help.”

“You need my help?” Merlin said, smiling back at the prince despite his best efforts. “With what?”

“My sword is missing,” Arthur said. “Now come on, Merlin, we have to get it back before everyone else starts eating.”

“Why—” he tried to say, but Arthur was already grabbing his arm and tugging him back towards the road. “Why do you need me specifically?”

Arthur shot him a look. “You were right there.” (Merlin was pretty sure he hadn’t been “right there,” but he didn’t say anything.) Plus, you’re…” He coughed, looking like his next words pained him. “You have a knack for finding things. I guess.”

Merlin’s heart did a strange, fluttery-glowy thing in his chest. “Now you’re complimenting me? What happened to ‘Merlin can’t even find his own backside’?”

“Shut up and help me find my sword,” Arthur said, his cheeks turning slightly red. 

Aww. On the rare occasions where Arthur wasn’t yelling at him while he blushed, Merlin thought he was pretty adorable. 

As they walked, Merlin didn’t bother freeing his arm from Arthur’s iron grip. The two of them got some confused looks from nobles and servants as they crossed the meadow, but no one dared get in the crown prince’s way, especially not when he looked like a grouchy stormcloud. 

“Where did you see it last?” Merlin said, easily keeping pace with Arthur’s determined strides. 

“I know I had it when we crested that hill,” Arthur said, nodding to where the road climbed a grassy knoll just outside the meadow. “I didn’t leave it at the castle, if that’s what you’re saying.”

“Right, okay,” Merlin said. 

They reached the hill, and Arthur turned to face him, folding his arms across his broad chest. Merlin swallowed, forcing himself to look away from where the prince’s shirt hugged his shoulders. (Wow, he was hopeless.) The fact that he’d helped Arthur put on that very shirt this morning did nothing to calm his racing pulse.

“We’ll split up,” Arthur ordered. He pointed to the left. “You search that side of the road.”

Before Merlin could say a word, he went to the right side of the road. With a sigh, Merlin went in the other direction, already casting a locating spell to find the sword. 

His vision swam ahead without him, and a moment later it came to rest on Excalibur sticking conspicuously out of a tree. Like, stabbed-into-the-trunk sticking out. 

With a groan, Merlin turned around to find Arthur. The prince was stalking through the trees glaring at everything, as he often did when Merlin wasn’t around. 

“You better have found it, if you’re already back,” he said grouchily, folding his arms across his chest again. 

“Yep,” Merlin said. “I’ll show you where it is.”

Arthur’s eyes lit up, and he smiled, so sweetly and excitedly that it made Merlin want to melt. 

“Why is your face doing that?” Arthur asked after a moment. 

“Doing what?” Merlin gulped, scrambling to think of an excuse.

“Never mind,” Arthur grumbled, stalking off towards the forest. 

Soon enough, they reached the sword in the tree. Arthur stared at it for a moment, his brow furrowed. 

“Did you put it there?” he asked eventually. 

“No— why would I do that?” Merlin said sincerely. “I’m not that kind of stupid.”

“I figured, but I had to check.” 

Was that… a compliment?  

Arthur strode over to the tree, and Merlin followed, his mind spinning. The prince reached up and grabbed the sword with both hands, then pulled as hard as he could. Merlin almost performed a quick spell to dislodge the weapon, but Arthur didn’t need his help. The sword came free easily, and Arthur’s momentum left him stumbling backwards. 

Without thinking, Merlin grabbed his arm to steady him, and their eyes locked. 

“Um—” said Merlin, quickly letting go of Arthur’s arm. 

“Merlin—” Arthur began at the same time. 

Without warning, thunder boomed overhead, and all of a sudden raindrops were soaking Merlin’s head and shoulders. Arthur glanced skyward, his face doing that cute, incredulous how dare you expression. 

Merlin almost rushed under the tree, but wasn’t that dangerous in a thunderstorm? Arthur didn’t move, either, so he just stayed put. The rain came down hard enough that within less than a minute, he and Arthur were soaked to the skin. 

“The sky was clear earlier!” Arthur said indignantly. 

Merlin looked up again, glancing back towards the meadow, and… What in the triple goddess’ name? The storm only covered the patch of forest where Merlin and Arthur were.  The rest of the sky was cloudless and blue. 

“It’s just raining right here,” Merlin said, pointing to the ominous grey spot overhead. 

Arthur glared at the sky even harder, shoving his dripping hair off his forehead. “Sorcery?” 

Merlin watched the sky, blinking reflexively whenever raindrops passed near his eyes. “Probably,” he replied, something about the situation gnawing at him. 

“It’s not worth telling my father about,” Arthur decided. “Weather sorcery isn’t worth bothering over, not when it’s this small of an area.”

Normally, Merlin would have celebrated this as a victory for magic-users everywhere. If the crown prince of Camelot wasn’t going to complain to his father, it was a momentous occasion indeed. How far Arthur had come, in the years Merlin had known him. 

But today, Merlin barely heard him, his mind occupied by the suspicious conversation he’d heard earlier. 

…we need to get them wet… 

…if people are wet together, they are much more likely to fall in love…

Was all of this Aziraphale and Crowley’s doing? Which one of them was the sorcerer, if not both? A more distressing question begged for attention, and Merlin knew if he dwelled on it, he would only find himself in a panicked spiral. 

Are they trying to make Arthur and me fall in love?  

Did they know how Merlin felt? Or was it some kind of cruel prank? Merlin already knew that Arthur preferred women, so maybe Aziraphale and Crowley knew as well, and this was a sick joke meant to drive him mad with longing. Perhaps they too had a vendetta against Emrys. 

“What’s wrong?” Arthur asked, snapping him back to the present. 

Merlin forced a smile. “Nothing! I was just thinking, uh, that we should head back now. You know, since you found your sword.”

“Right,” Arthur said suspiciously. After sheathing his sword, he started walking back towards the road, glancing back at Merlin impatiently. “Come on, Merlin. Don’t prove me right about how slow you are.”

Merlin followed him, still too dazed to banter with him. Duke Crowley and Sir Aziraphale are playing matchmaker. With me… and Arthur.

Just before they reached the picnic meadow, Arthur paused. “It’s sunny again,” he said. Without further ado, the crown prince of Camelot pulled off his shirt and squeezed it to wring out some of the water. 

Merlin had seen Arthur’s chest loads of times. Twice a day for the past few years, in fact, so it really shouldn’t have been anything noteworthy. This time, though, his heart stuttered at the sight of Arthur’s broad shoulders and taut muscles. 

He wanted, stupidly, to place his palm against Arthur’s chest, so he could feel his heartbeat without any clothing in the way. Merlin wanted to map Arthur’s every line and curve beneath his hands; to let him know just how deep Merlin’s devotion for him went. 

And wasn’t it remarkable, thought Merlin breathlessly, that the man he was in love with felt this comfortable around him? Arthur definitely wasn’t this comfortable around Gwen, that was for sure. 

Perhaps he could live the rest of his life like this, even after Arthur tied himself down to a queen. Merlin could love him from afar. It would be better than never loving the prince at all. 

Arthur scrubbed his hands through his hair, leaving it a wild mess. “Merlin, aren’t you going to try and dry off?” he said, arching an eyebrow at him. 

Merlin blinked out of the vivid fantasy unfolding behind his eyelids. “Nah, I’m okay.”

He was not, in fact, okay; these trousers were terribly uncomfortable when wet. (Even more so when they were tighter than usual in the front.) But he figured he’d be able to use a spell to dry himself when he got back to the meadow. He’d think of something to tell Arthur if he seemed suspicious. 

“Suit yourself,” Arthur said, before wringing his shirt one last time. “Hey, help me put this back on, will you?”

Merlin went to him immediately, taking the shirt from him. Their fingers brushed, as they often did during their morning and evening rituals. Then, willing himself to stop acting so weird, Merlin held out the shirt so Arthur could stick his head through the neck-hole and his arms through the sleeves. 

Arthur straightened, letting the shirt fall into place. “Ready to go?” he asked, apparently nonplussed by the whole thing. 

And why wasn’t Merlin nonplussed—they did this literally twice a day!

“Uh—one more thing,” Merlin said, before he could stop himself. 

He smoothed Arthur’s low-cut red shirt (seriously, why was it that low-cut?), erasing the worst of the wrinkles. He felt Arthur still under his touch, save for that wild heartbeat. The prince’s every muscle was impossibly tense. Their eyes met, and Merlin swallowed, wondering for the millionth time if he would drown in that breathtaking blue. 

Arthur’s lips parted, like he wanted to say something but wasn’t sure what. 

“Here,” Merlin whispered. “Let me just…”

Merlin reached up and carded his fingers through Arthur’s hair, smoothing it mostly back to normal. Arthur’s eyes were wide, his chest heaving as he leaned into the touch. 

They did this every morning, too, but it was always with a comb instead of Merlin’s shaking fingers. Even after all this time, he still wasn’t used to how infuriatingly soft Arthur’s hair was. He had to fight the urge to truly bury his fingers in it, to tousle it and fix it over and over again just to keep Arthur looking at him the way he was right now. 

Merlin imagined that the prince’s pulse was even faster now. He ached with the need to rest his hands on the sides of Arthur’s face, to pull him closer, to kiss him until neither of them could breathe. 

“Merlin,” Arthur said softly. “I—”

A low horn sounded from the meadow, signaling the start of the picnic. 

Merlin nearly jumped out of his skin, yanking his hands away from where they were absently stroking Arthur’s soft golden hair. 

“There you go, Your Highness,” Merlin said, his voice higher than usual. He awkwardly patted Arthur’s shoulder, then stepped away. 

Arthur cleared his throat, then started marching back towards the meadow. Merlin followed him, already losing himself in his thoughts again. 

If he and Arthur were being… matchmade? Whatever the word was. If someone was trying to get them together, it meant a whole world of drama. Merlin shuddered to think of what Uther might do if he found out. 

“Tell me what’s bothering you,” Arthur said out of the blue. 

He sounded so uncharacteristically considerate that Merlin tripped. Looking amused, Arthur hauled him back upright, and they ended up standing far too close to each other for Merlin’s sanity to handle. 

“I,” Merlin blurted, “have no idea who changed the weather.”

Arthur raised an eyebrow. “Of course you don’t; you’re far too simple.” A tiny ghost of a smile played on his lips, and it was nearly enough to make Merlin lose his balance again. 

Merlin blinked, dragging his gaze away from Arthur’s ghost-smile. (Really, the prince had no right to have such perfect, kissable lips.) “Um. Ha. So.”

“Merlin,” Arthur said indulgently. “Come on, you clotpole, spit it out.”

“That’s my word,” Merlin managed to say. “So. Like I said… no clue who changed the weather! But on an unrelated note,” he continued, his voice growing higher, “don’t you think Aziraphale and Crowley are in love with each other?”

Arthur stared at him. “I’ll take your word for it.”

At that moment, Merlin’s brain finally regained its full cognitive abilities. 

“Oh!” he said, stepping away from Arthur and clapping his hands together excitedly.

“What,” said Arthur flatly. 

“We should get them to dance together!”

“I’m too busy for your games, Merlin,” Arthur said, shooting him one last look and then walking towards the meadow. “If you want to play matchmaker, get Gwen and Morgana to help you.”

Merlin grinned, easily catching up to Arthur’s strides. This, he thought, already anticipating how much help Morgana would be, is going to be fun.

“Race you there!” he said, shoving Arthur’s shoulder and running up the path. 

“Oi!” 

Merlin glanced backwards just in time to see Arthur crash into his shoulder and run ahead, easily winning their little race. He decided, in a rare moment of good judgement, not to tell Arthur he had let him win. 

~ a professional midwife/cobbler ~

After he and Aziraphale (well, mostly Aziraphale) had finished eating from the picnic basket, Crowley stretched out on the blanket, shading his eyes with his arm. The two of them were the only ones on this particular blanket, thank Someone. The sun felt bloody wonderful on his skin, suffusing him with golden warmth and chasing away his perpetual chills and aches. 

“Are you going to take a nap, dear?” Aziraphale asked. 

“Mmph,” Crowley replied, too sunlight-drunk to think straight. 

Aziraphale tutted. “You’ll be all grouchy if I have to wake you up.”

“Don’t care,” Crowley muttered. He gestured expansively with his left arm, still covering his eyes with his right. “Sun is… good.”

“I suppose you are still a little hungover from last night,” Aziraphale said. Crowley felt the angel pat his shoulder. “Enjoy your sunlight, you silly old serpent.”

Crowley’s insides turned disgustingly fluttery and goopy, and he mumbled a vague threat that they both knew was empty. 

“Rise and shine, Duke Crowley!” an overly chipper voice came from somewhere above him. Reflexively, Crowley hissed at it. 

“Hello, Merlin,” Aziraphale said amicably. “What brings you to our blanket?”

“It’s time for the dance,” the obnoxious voice said. 

Sure enough, Crowley could hear a minstrel troupe tuning their instruments and a congregation of people talking excitedly. Ew. 

With a growl, Crowley uncovered his eyes and shoved his sunglasses back on. He straightened until he could properly glare at Merlin. “Go away. I’m napping.”

“Nope!” Merlin said, grinning. “Come on, you two, aren’t you going to join us?”

Aziraphale stole a glance at Crowley, his grey-blue eyes wide with excitement.

“No,” Crowley said firmly. 

“Please?” Aziraphale and Merlin said simultaneously. 

“No!”

“Come now, my dear,” Aziraphale said. (If Crowley’s heart lurched at the sight of those cupid’s-bow lips twisting into a criminally adorable pout, that was irrelevant.) “You owe me.”

“From when?” Crowley scoffed. 

“When I got you out of that duck-soap cult situation ten years ago.”

“Oh, come on, they weren’t half bad,” he muttered. “Absolutely insane though. We understood each other, in a way. So I didn’t really need your help that time.” 

“A cult?” Merlin exclaimed, looking more interested than scandalised. 

They both ignored him. 

“Please, Crowley?” Aziraphale implored. 

And at last, the angel pulled out the big guns. (Big swords? Guns weren’t around yet, were they?) To be precise, he put on his signature Save Me, Dearest™ expression—heartbreaking desperation in his eyes and a pout on his lips. In all of human history, Crowley had never been able to resist it. Just the idea of his angel being in danger awakened something ferocious and daring in Crowley, who normally tripped over his own feet when he tried to run, avoided physical confrontation like the plague, and didn’t even know how to hold a sword. 

But if Aziraphale asked, he’d face down Cenred’s entire army by himself; he’d pummel a mountain to dust; he’d rip one of his own stars from the sky and lay it bleeding at Aziraphale’s feet. 

“Fine,” Crowley snapped. “I’ll join the stupid dancing.”

Aziraphale beamed at him, making Crowley nearly dizzy with pleasure. “Oh, thank you, my dear boy.”

Merlin looked as if he were about to cheer. “C’mon, you two,” he said, already walking toward the crowd of people. 

Aziraphale helped Crowley to his feet, and they started after the mouthy, dark-haired servant. 

“What sort of dance is it?” Aziraphale asked Merlin. Crowley, who fought the urge to constrict Aziraphale’s arm like a Boa Imperator, just grunted menacingly and lurked close to Aziraphale’s side. 

Merlin turned to them, his eyes positively sparkling. “It’s informal, like what I had back in Ealdor. More of a country dance. It’ll be fun, I promise.”

“How does that sound, Crowley?” Aziraphale said, giving the demon a long-suffering look. 

“Horrible,” Crowley groaned. 

“Oh don’t be so dreary,” Aziraphale tutted. 

When they reached the trampled part of the meadow where the dancing would take place, Crowley already regretted saying yes. A grouchy-looking woman directed everyone to stand in two lines, facing each other. Thank Someone, he ended up across from Aziraphale. 

Crowley fought the urge to bolt and find a rock to hide under. (He’d done that more than once over the years in his snake form.) 

“One, two, three!” 

With that, everyone else started moving. Crowley just stood there, frozen in place, having forgotten how to think or move or even breathe. 

“My dear?” Aziraphale said, looking unbearably concerned. “Are you alright?”

Crowley shook his head, his unnecessary heartbeat pounding in his ears. It was just too bloody overwhelming. The crowd of humans all around him, the pressure to not make a fool of himself in front of Aziraphale, even the way his sleeves felt against his skin.

“Angel—” he managed to squeak. 

Instantly, Aziraphale moved forwards and grabbed his hands. Crowley gasped, suddenly able to breathe again, and felt the tension melt out of him. Somehow, Aziraphale’s touch had eased his anxiety; freed him from its awful claws. Of course it did, Crowley thought. He’s the best angel in all of Heaven; of course he made me less anxious.

But… it wasn’t about his angelic status, not if Crowley was being honest with himself. It was about who Aziraphale was: a soft, posh bastard whose very presence made Crowley’s day brighter. 

He still held Crowley’s hands, rubbing soothing circles on his skin. 

I love you, angel. The words burned his very soul. His lips parted of their own accord, but he fought the confession back. He couldn’t say it now.

“Is there anything I can do?” Aziraphale said, his grey eyes soft. 

“No, you’ve already—um.” Crowley swallowed. “I’m fine now. I’m okay.”

Aziraphale beamed at him, and Crowley’s heart nearly gave out at the sight. Before he could stop himself, he smiled back. 

Crowley let the minstrels’ music wash over him, feeling the steady drumbeat. Without really registering what he was doing, he extracted his hands from Aziraphale’s gentle grip and struck a dramatic pose, right as the lute hit a powerful chord. 

What followed could be called the invention of disco. 

Crowley strutted around, reveling in the absolute ridiculousness he felt, posing and slithering along to the music. 

“What are you doing?” Aziraphale asked, watching Crowley in morbid fascination. 

“Dancing,” he replied, throwing the angel a wink. 

“Are you sure that your… movements can be considered dancing?” 

Crowley twirled and moved closer to Aziraphale, dragging his fingertips along the angel’s sleeve in a moment of insane bravery. Aziraphale whirled around to stare at him, a tiny smile on his lips. 

“Yep,” Crowley drawled. “Expert dancer, me. I’ve invented a whole new kind. You’ve gotta try it, angel.”

“I don’t know if my spine can do that,” Aziraphale said, eyeing Crowley as he arched his back in time with the music. 

“Make up your own kind of dancing, then,” Crowley suggested, pantomiming pulling Aziraphale closer as if by a rope. 

Aziraphale stepped closer to him, smiling harder. “Like this?”

The angel stuck a pose of his own (slightly off-beat, but who cared), putting his hands on his hips and sticking his foot out. 

Crowley was smiling so hard, his face hurt. “That’s it!”

They strutted in circles around each other, both shaking with laughter and striking increasingly stupid poses. Around them, the humans performed the dance the way it was meant to be. Crowley got more than a few weird looks, but again, who cared? 

The music rose to a crescendo, and before he knew what he was doing, Crowley was moving scandalously close to Aziraphale. He lowered his sunglasses and gave the angel another over-the-top wink, grinning like an absolute idiot. 

Aziraphale, in turn, blew him a kiss. 

If he had thought his heart was in danger before, that was nothing compared to now. Crowley nearly swooned. 

He blinked and snapped his mouth closed, then managed a shaky bow along with the rest of the dancers. Aziraphale’s bow, of course, was flowery and overly formal, and it made Crowley fall in love with him all over again. 

“That was…” Crowley croaked when his vocal cords started working again. “Uh. Not bad.” 

“Indeed, dearest,” Aziraphale said, offering him another smile. “Now, shall we return to our blanket?”

Crowley nodded, but as they started walking, he couldn’t quite manage to wipe the lovesick grin off his face. 

~ the Southern pansy ~

As he and Crowley walked back to their picnic blanket, Aziraphale couldn’t stop replaying the moment at the climax of the dance, where they had been so close that he could count the freckles dusting Crowley’s cheeks. The sight of those mischievous yellow eyes, unobscured by the ever-present sunglasses; Crowley’s infectious grin as he struck a final pose…

…the way Aziraphale had to fight back the desire to kiss him right there…

Well. He would be reliving that memory for years to come. 

Beside him, Crowley yawned. 

“Still tired, are we?” Aziraphale asked. 

“Of course I’m still tired,” Crowley grumbled. 

The demon’s normally hypnotising saunter was less exaggerated than usual, a true sign of his exhaustion. Still, Aziraphale found himself sympathising with any prey that had ever fallen into a serpent’s swaying trap. Surely, human hips couldn’t move like that. 

This line of thought went nowhere good. 

“Did you hate it as much as you thought you would?” Aziraphale asked, mostly to distract himself. “The dance, I mean?”

“Nah,” Crowley said. He shrugged, stuffing his hands in his pockets. “You were there. It was fine.”

Aziraphale beamed at him, his heart fluttering like a captive bird in his chest. (Oh, the chaos if he let it free…)

“Here’s our blanket,” he said, daring to rest a hand on Crowley’s arm. 

The demon froze for a moment, glancing at his sleeve. Aziraphale snatched his hand away, feeling his cheeks turn hot with embarrassment. Then, with a sigh, Crowley sat down on the quilt, and Aziraphale followed suit, grateful his friend hadn’t said anything about the unsolicited touch. He was plagued by the fantasy of laying down next to Crowley, and turning to face him, and gently removing his glasses to gaze into those beautiful yellow eyes, and…

Oh, dear. Why was this happening again?

Swallowing, he pushed the daydream away and forced himself to think of other things, boring things, like paint drying and glaciers melting. 

“Mind if we join you?” 

Aziraphale looked up to see Merlin, Guinevere, and Morgana standing there, all rosy-cheeked and extremely suspicious. 

“Of course,” he said before Crowley could protest. 

“And what brings you three to our humble corner?” Crowley intoned. Aziraphale could see the annoyance in the curl of his lip, the set of his jaw. “Don’t you have some knights to woo, or something?”

“I’m not really into knights,” Morgana said, her green eyes alight with laughter. “Besides, Gwen and Merlin already wooed theirs.”

The other two humans spluttered indignantly at this comment. 

“Come sit with us,” Aziraphale said, utterly delighted. 

Merlin, Gwen, and Morgana sat down, all of them still very suspicious. 

“Ssso,” Crowley said. “Why are you here?”

“It was Merlin’s idea,” Gwen confessed, absently toying with a blade of grass. 

Merlin shot her a look. “Yes, it was my idea. I just… wanted to talk to you guys?”

“About what?” Aziraphale encouraged. 

“Love,” Morgana blurted. “Advice about love.”

Gwen and Merlin both glared at her. 

Crowley looked interested now. “Love, eh? I do consider myself an expert on that particular subject. Got any questions for us?”

Aziraphale wondered if Crowley had ever been in love. The very idea of the demon with someone—denizen of Earth or Hell, it mattered not—sent a dagger through Aziraphale’s heart. He took a deep breath and forced those thoughts elsewhere. He had no control over who Crowley fell in love with; this was futile. 

“How do you know if you’re in love?” Merlin asked, his blue eyes wide. Absently, he started gathering flowers, leaving the stems long. 

“You like spending time with them,” Aziraphale said immediately. “Even if it’s just doing mundane things together.”

“You think about them always,” Crowley said. His voice was unusually soft. “You don’t want to ever be without them.”

“They make you feel brave,” said Aziraphale, wondering if he’d gone too far. 

“You’d do anything for them,” Crowley said simply. “Put them before your own life, even.”

“There’s a warm fuzzy feeling in your heart—” Aziraphale began. 

Crowley scoffed. “Ew.”

Aziraphale raised an eyebrow at him. “I suppose you wouldn’t know anything about nice feelings, Mr. Don’t Ever Compliment Me.”

“Yeah, I don’t,” Crowley agreed. “I stab all my fuzzy feelings to death. I mean, I would if I had any, that is.”

“You’ve never stabbed anything,” Aziraphale said archly. 

“Oh, and I suppose you have, Mr. Holier-Than-Thou?”

“I did have a flaming sword, remember? I was given it for a reason, you fiend—”

“Gentlemen,” Morgana said, grinning widely. “We’ve gotten off topic.”

Aziraphale blinked, remembering the humans’ presence. “You’re quite right, Lady Morgana. Where were we?”

“Love,” Merlin supplied, plucking another flower. “I’ve got another question though.”

“Ask away,” Crowley said smoothly. 

“If you and…” Merlin hesitated, his eyes turning mischievous. “Well, if you and someone you cared about got rained on, what would you do?”

Aziraphale felt his cheeks turn scarlet as memories of Eden came rushing back. 

Yellow eyes, staring up at the rain in fear and apprehension. An instinct to protect rising in Aziraphale’s heart as his companion leaned closer. His wing, white against the stormy sky, curving protectively over the demon’s head. 

“That’s—ah,” Aziraphale stammered. “What a specific question.”

Crowley was blushing too, though it was harder to tell because of those blasted sunglasses covering his face. “I would… um. Find shelter.” He coughed. “Like an awning or something.”

“Obviously,” Gwen said, clearly fighting back a smile. 

“Would you look into each other’s eyes?” Merlin said, all innocence. 

“No,” Aziraphale and Crowley said at the same time. 

Aziraphale couldn’t look at him, he didn’t dare look at him. What if his love for Crowley was on full display in his eyes? There was a deeper fear, too—what if he looked at Crowley and saw only disgust in his gaze? 

Why would a demon ever deign to care for an angel, the very thing that cast him out and burned him?

I wouldn’t burn you, Aziraphale wanted to say. I would hold you, and love you, and give you my everything, if you only wanted me.

“Alright, enough about love,” Merlin announced, reading the room for once in his life. The dark-haired boy held up what he’d been fiddling with, which turned out to be a flower crown. “Ta-da!” he said, looking terribly proud of his creation. 

“Oh, that’s beautiful!” Gwen said. “How do you get them to stay together?”

“Show us,” Morgana agreed. 

Merlin grabbed more yellow, purple, and blue flowers and demonstrated how to weave them together. 

“Ooh,” Aziraphale said despite himself. 

“Meh,” Crowley muttered, and dramatically flopped down onto the quilt. 

Aziraphale watched Merlin for another minute, then decided to take a gamble. 

“Crowley,” Aziraphale sang. “I have an Idea.”

The demon looked at him, clearly exasperated. (But maybe a little endeared, too.) “What is it, angel?”

“What if,” he said with an excited wiggle, “I made you a flower crown?”

“My kind,” said Crowley deliberately, “do not wear flower crowns.”

Aziraphale pouted. “Please?” he said. 

He saw the exact moment Crowley's willpower crumbled. “Ugh— fine, angel.”

“Oh, I was hoping you would say yes!” 

“Ngk,” Crowley said, propping himself up on one elbow with his long legs stretched out on the blanket. Aziraphale tried not to notice what a striking silhouette Crowley made. (But good Lord, those hips…)

To distract himself, Aziraphale started gathering flowers. If he remembered correctly, these blossoms were lavender, periwinkle, and yellow daisies, respectively. And if he remembered precisely, these flowers all had meanings, too, all of them perfect for what he couldn’t say aloud to Crowley. 

Aziraphale hummed as he worked, sometimes glancing over at Crowley. He couldn’t help but notice how the demon’s hair had started to misbehave again, slipping halfway out of its neat bun. At some point, Gwaine came over and cajoled Gwen, Merlin, and Morgana into helping him play a prank on Arthur and Leon. It had something to do with spiking their ale with salt. 

The next time Aziraphale risked a glance in Crowley’s direction (the flower crown half-finished in his lap), he saw that the demon had miracled his sleeves away. 

“What?” Crowley asked. 

Aziraphale yanked his eyes away from the sight of Crowley’s bare shoulders. He wondered how Crowley would react if he placed a kiss against that fair skin. And, oh, those freckles scattered across Crowley’s shoulders were simply adorable, and—

Dear me, Aziraphale thought with a shiver, despite the warm sun. Did his neckline plunge that low before?  

“Nothing,” he said unconvincingly. “Absolutley tickety-boo, my dear.”

Crowley made a grouchy “ngk” and went back to watching Aziraphale weave the flowers together. It was much harder to focus now. 

“Alright, my dear, it’s finished!” Aziraphale said after he’d tied the last flower in place next to its neighbours. 

“Do I still have to wear it?” Crowley said.

Aziraphale rolled his eyes and moved closer to him. “Obviously.”

“Well, let me put it on, then,” Crowley replied, extending his hand for the flower crown. 

“Hold on,” Aziraphale said before he could stop himself. “It’s just…”

Crowley looked at him expectantly. 

“Can I fix your hair first?” Aziraphale said, wringing his hands together. (The flower crown, thankfully, rested in his lap again so it didn’t get crushed.) 

“Um,” said Crowley, one hand going up to his tangled red hair. “I guess so, yeah, if you want to?” His cheeks had turned bright red. 

Aziraphale fought back a grin, then moved closer to him. “Tell me if it hurts,” he said. 

Crowley nodded nervously and removed his sunglasses, refusing to meet Aziraphale’s eyes. 

The hair tie Crowley had used earlier had halfway fallen out, getting stuck in those long red curls on the way. Carefully, Aziraphale removed the band, securing it around his wrist for the moment. He ran his fingers through Crowley’s hair, smoothing out all the tangles that had accumulated over the day until it fell over Crowley’s shoulders in glossy waves of fire. Crowley held perfectly still the entire time, a rare occasion indeed, and he didn’t make a sound. 

“There,” Aziraphale murmured, slipping the hair tie into Crowley’s hands when he finished. His fingers still remembered the silky texture of those auburn tresses against his skin. 

Crowley swallowed, finally meeting Aziraphale’s gaze. The corner of his mouth lifted into a tiny smile. “Are you gonna put that crown on me, or what?”

Aziraphale blinked, remembering the whole reason he had gotten the pleasure of touching Crowley’s hair in the first place.

“Right,” he said, nodding vigorously. 

With that, he placed the flower crown on Crowley’s head. The effect was stunning; the yellow daisies made Crowley’s eyes seem even brighter, and the lavender looked spectacular with those lovely red curls spilling around his shoulders. The evening light softened Crowley’s sharp features just so and brought out his freckles. He was, without a doubt, the most beautiful being Aziraphale had ever seen. 

Aziraphale was gone, gone, helplessly fallen, and he wouldn’t have it any other way. 

“Look at you…” he breathed. Cowardice made the last two words stick in his throat and escape as a sigh. 

…you’re gorgeous.

Maybe Crowley heard him anyway. His eyes went wide, and a fetching red blush darkened his cheeks. 

“Angel,” Crowley said quietly. 

“Yes?” 

“D’you really think our sides would approve?” His voice was pained, and he squeezed his eyes shut. Like he was forcing himself to say this. “Of… anything we’ve done in the last twenty-four hours?”

Once, Aziraphale would have reeled back and fled the entire kingdom. Now, he stayed close. 

At long, long last, he was coming to realize that if Heaven had cast Crowley out—lovely, sweet Crowley, who loved being around children and gardening and painting nebulas in the sky—then maybe Heaven didn’t have the best taste after all. 

And maybe pride was a sin, but Aziraphale knew that his own taste was excellent. 

He rested his hand on the blanket, inches from Crowley’s own. The demon’s eyes were still wide and more than a little scared, and Aziraphale’s heart ached at the sight. 

“I don’t think they care all that much,” Aziraphale said. “Otherwise I’d have been fired years ago.”

“In Eden, you mean,” Crowley said. His lips curved into a smile, hopeful and a little daring. “After you gave your sword away.”

Aziraphale beamed at him. “Precisely.”

Feeling terribly brave, he reached out and tucked Crowley’s hair behind his ear so he could see his face. The demon stilled at his touch, his eyes turning completely golden. 

“I think we’ll be just fine, my dear boy.” 

And for once, it wasn’t a lie. 

Chapter Text

~ a prat-in-training since birth ~

It wasn’t fair. 

Well. A lot of things weren’t fair, in Arthur’s experience. But what really wasn’t fair was finding the manservant putting your armor on extremely attractive. This had been unfair for a while now, but it felt especially unfair today. 

Merlin was standing so blasted close to him, and that paired with the thoughtful, deliberate way he moved was doing strange things to Arthur’s heart. No one had ever been so attentive with him, not even Gwen. No one else had ever dared to get this close to the crown prince. All his life, he’d been kept at arm’s length by everyone, even his own father, until Merlin came along. Merlin, with his playful shoves and sarcastic remarks, each one a gift to Arthur’s guarded heart. 

“Everything feeling okay, Sire?” Merlin said, tightening the strap on Arthur’s pauldron.

Arthur forced himself to stop staring at Merlin’s lips. (Oh, how he longed to pull Merlin that tiny inch down so they were the same height and kiss the living daylights out of him—) He flexed his gloved hand and swung his arm a bit, testing out what he already knew would be a perfect fit. 

“Not bad,” he said. “I hardly ever have to give you directions anymore when you’re putting it on.” He froze, wondering if that was too much. 

“I’m glad I’m not completely useless,” Merlin replied, his blue eyes sparkling. 

Despite his best efforts, Arthur found himself smiling back. 

“Prince Arthur?” a shrill, feminine voice said from outside the tent. 

Arthur and Merlin leaped back from each other, breaking eye contact immediately. Arthur willed himself to stop blushing, and then called, “Come in.”

A second later, a noblewoman stepped into the tent, dressed in a gaudy green gown. She was blonde, and fair-skinned, and actually, Arthur didn’t care that much about what she looked like. Merlin was prettier anyway.

“Oh, I’m so glad I found your tent, Your Highness,” the woman gushed, wearing a predatory smile. “I was hoping to give you… something.”

Arthur realized in horror that he couldn’t remember her name. Had he even met her before? He had no idea. 

“Er, hello,” he said awkwardly. “I’m afraid I didn’t catch your name…”

“Lady Heather of Mercia,” she said, stalking towards Arthur with that same leer on her face. 

“Pleased to meet you,” Arthur said with a nod. (Now, how to get her out of here as fast as possible…) “What was it you wanted to give me?”

From her bosom (yes, from within her bodice) she pulled out a green silk handkerchief. It was just as pretentious and sparkly as her dress, and embroidered with a massive silver H in the center. (Didn’t the sequins make it painful or itchy to store in her cleavage?)

“For luck,” Heather said, pressing it into his hand. “You should wear it today. As a sign that we’re meant to be.”

Arthur forced himself not to grimace. “Why, thank you.”

From the corner of his eye, Arthur noticed that Merlin was giving Heather the coldest glare he’d ever seen. 

“The prince really has to finish getting ready,” Merlin said, his voice sharper than most swords.

Heather gave Arthur one last look before finally leaving the tent. Both Merlin and Arthur slouched in relief as soon as she was gone. 

“What’re you going to do with that?” Merlin said, nodding to the handkerchief. “I could find somewhere to burn it, if you want.”

“Go ahead,” Arthur said, wrinkling his nose at the thing and holding it only with his thumb and forefinger. “It’s not like I’m going to wear it.”

Merlin took the handkerchief from Arthur, showing the same care to touch it as little as possible, and shoved it into the pocket of his trousers. He looked up and met Arthur’s eyes, already smiling again. 

“Are you ready, My Lord?”

Arthur swallowed. “There’s one other thing, actually. I’m expected to wear someone’s token into the tournament.”

“Should we go find Gwen?” Merlin said, something changing in his eyes. 

“No, no, that won’t be necessary,” Arthur said. “I was… well, I was hoping I wouldn’t have to play favourites among the nobility.”

“So whose token are you going to wear?” Merlin’s bright blue eyes were narrowed with suspicion now. 

This was… so, so stupid. Arthur shouldn’t even consider it. But he knew he’d regret it for the rest of his life if he didn’t ask, so he forced the words past his lips anyway. 

“Well,” he said with a shaky smile, “I could wear something of yours.”

Merlin froze. 

“Um, as—” (What were they to each other, exactly?) “As… friends? But I could tell people it was from a noblewoman,” Arthur said frantically, trying to salvage the mess he’d made. “You know what, never mind, I’ll just tell Morgana I need to rip up one of her dresses again—”

Merlin held up a hand to stop him, resting it on his pauldron. Arthur imagined he could feel prickles of heat even through the layers of metal and cloth separating them. 

“No, don’t rip up Morgana’s dress,” Merlin said, his lips twitching into a nervous smile. “You can wear this.”

He reached up and untied his neckerchief. It was dark blue, to contrast his red shirt. Then Merlin tied the square of fabric around Arthur’s upper arm. Arthur couldn’t stop staring at his hands as he did it—those long, nimble fingers, the calluses from hours of labor, even the way his wrists moved. 

He’d never really noticed someone’s hands before. Now that he thought about it, Merlin’s fingers looked perfect for intertwining with Arthur’s own. He realized with a sudden ache that he wanted those hands all over him. 

And oh, for the love of all that was holy, why were Merlin’s collarbones so pretty? He’d only seen Merlin without a neckerchief a handful of times in all the years they’d known each other. If Arthur had any less self control, he would have been planting kisses along Merlin’s slender neck at this very moment. 

Arthur met Merlin’s eyes. “Thank you,” he said, his voice raspier than he’d intended it to be. 

“I would say ‘anytime,’” Merlin said, “but this is definitely a one-time thing. Can’t let you get too full of yourself.” He patted Arthur’s shoulder with something alarmingly close to affection. 

Arthur snorted. “You’re the one who can’t even polish my armor properly.”

“Hey, I put a lot of work into this!” Merlin said indignantly. “Don’t you go messing it up in some jousting match.”

“Yes, Merlin,” Arthur drawled, rolling his eyes.

They grinned at each other for a moment, and Arthur let himself dream just a little. 

“You’d better go to the arena,” Merlin said, snapping Arthur out of his fluffy fantasies. 

“Right,” Arthur said with a nod.

He and Merlin exited the tent and went their separate ways, Merlin to wait by the other servants in case Arthur needed him, and Arthur to join his fellow participants. When he arrived, his knights were engaged in some friendly bickering (Gwaine’s seemed to be entirely focused on Percival, which was… unusual). 

“Arthur!” Lancelot greeted him with a smile. 

He nodded back, accepting the usual claps on his shoulders and back from the other men. Sir Aziraphale was there, Arthur noticed absently, though he hung back from the knights of the Round Table and stared into the stands of people. Looking for his duke, probably. 

“Who’s up first?” Arthur said, resting his hand on the hilt of his sword.

“Elyan and some bloke from Gawant,” Percival said. “I have my money on our man, though.” He shoved Elyan’s shoulder playfully, earning laughter from all the gathered knights. 

Sure enough, the trumpet blared a few moments later, and Elyan waved goodbye and went to fetch his horse. 

Arthur noticed Gwaine staring at him and fought down a surge of panic. (Why was he panicked? It was just Gwaine. It wasn’t like Arthur had anything to hide—)

“That’s an interesting token you got there, Princess,” Gwaine said with a devious glint in his eyes. 

“Oh, this?” Arthur said, his hand going up to where he’d tied Merlin’s neckerchief around his upper arm. “It’s… it’s nothing.”

“It doesn’t look like nothing, My Lord,” Leon said. 

“Who’d you get it from?” Gwaine pressed. 

“Um—” Arthur blinked. “It’s from a visiting noble.” 

For some reason, this made the knights laugh, even stoic Leon and Lancelot. 

“You really expect us to believe that?” Gwaine asked. “You haven’t even so much as talked to any of our visitors.”

“He’s been too busy mooning after someone else,” Percival said. 

Gwaine laughed. “Oh, yes. Someone else. Someone who serves all his meals and bickers with him constantly.” 

“Tall, dark, and mysterious,” Lancelot added. “With a serious drinking problem, depending on who you ask.”

Arthur fought back the urge to scream something unintelligible and run into the arena.“It’s from,” he said intelligently. “It’s from… Gwen.”

“Of course, Sire,” Lancelot said with an indulgent nod. “I’ve never seen her wear that shade of blue, though…”

“Maybe you should tie that cloth around your neck,” Leon said, as if it weren’t obvious already. “Then we could really tell who it’s from.”

“Alright, enough,” Arthur snapped, knowing his face was bright red. “Did Morgana tell you?”

“No,” Percival said kindly. “We’ve known for years, My Lord.”

Arthur buried his head in his hands. How was he so transparent? Maybe the only one who didn’t know how he felt was Merlin himself. 

When the trumpet signaling Arthur’s first bout came, he found himself nearly sick with nerves. He mounted his horse and raised his lance high, searching for anyone he knew in the crowd. His heart lurched in his chest when he spotted Merlin next to George and Gwen, all three of them waving crimson flags and cheering. 

With that, Arthur rode into the arena, feeling much better now. The blue cloth tied to his arm felt like an anchor keeping his anxiety at bay. 

He could do this. 

For Merlin.

~ the one and only Dragoon ~

“Merlin, look!” Gwen said from beside him, grabbing his arm in her excitement. “It’s Arthur’s bout!” 

Merlin grinned as he watched Arthur ride into the arena. He felt his face warm when he noticed that the prince was still wearing his neckerchief around one arm. 

“Do you think he’ll win?” Gwen asked, a sparkle in her brown eyes. 

“Oh, yeah,” Merlin said. 

Gwen grinned at him. 

“I mean, I took very good care of his armor,” Merlin said, knowing she saw right through him. “If he doesn’t win, I’ll be very cross with him.”

“Only you could be cross with the crown prince of Camelot and survive,” Gwen said with a knowing look. “You’re his best friend, you know. Back when we were courting, all he talked about was you, Merlin.”

Merlin stared at her. “Really?”

“Even when we were on outings together,” Gwen confirmed, her smile widening. “You’re his favourite person.”

And with that world-shattering statement, Arthur’s bout began. 

Merlin watched in a daze, distantly aware that there was a dopey smile on his face. Arthur was spectacular—he shattered his lance on his opponent’s shield on the very first pass, unseating the other man in the process. Maximum points, Merlin thought giddily, Arthur’s lectures on the art of jousting coming back to him. 

“You really did take good care of that armor,” Gwen said appreciatively when she and Merlin had stopped cheering at the top of their lungs. 

Merlin grinned, so proud of Arthur that he thought he would melt into a puddle right there. “I guess you could say that.”

It wasn’t Arthur’s final bout, since his opponent had been eliminated, so Merlin could stay in the stands a while longer. 

YOUNG WARLOCK.

Merlin nearly jumped out of his skin at the sound of Kilgharrah’s voice in his head. Can’t you see I’m busy? he thought back. 

HEED MY ADVICE, MERLIN.

And what is your advice? He didn’t bother keeping the sarcasm out of his words. 

THERE IS AN ASSASSIN IN THE CROWD, SENT BY THE KING OF ESSETIR. LOOK FOR THE ONE WITH AN EYE PATCH. YOU MUST… SAVE… ARTHUR… 

The dragon’s voice faded away melodramatically, leaving Merlin shocked and more than a little annoyed. Oh, Goddess, an assassin? It was just his luck. 

“I have to go,” he said to Gwen. 

She tried to stop him, but he was already lost in the crowd.

*****

Merlin found the assassin-to-be lurking between the knights’ tents, creeping around in the most suspicious way possible. The man didn’t even see him, being so preoccupied with his tiptoeing act. No one else was around, thank the Triple Goddess, so Merlin felt comfortable stopping this idiot with a spell. 

If he’d waited just a second longer, he wouldn’t have had to use magic at all. But unfortunately for the assassin, Merlin timed his paralysis spell just as someone else made a slippery yellow thing appear on the ground right in the man’s path. 

With a grunt, the eye patch-wearing assassin toppled over. 

“Wait, what?” someone said from behind a different tent. 

Merlin crept out of his hiding place to see none other than Crowley hiding behind the next tent over. It seemed that the duke was a sorcerer after all. 

“What are you doing here?” Merlin said suspiciously. 

“I could ask you the same thing,” said Crowley, staring at the twitching body of the assassin. The man seemed to be unconscious but alive. 

“So…” Merlin said. “You’re a sorcerer.”

“You could say that,” Crowley replied. “And you’re a magic user too; don’t bother lying to me.”

“What should we do with him?” Merlin said, nodding to the unconscious man. 

“Let’s have a good old-fashioned interrogation,” Crowley said, an unnerving grin on his lips. 

“Should we kill him after that?”

“What—no! We’ll just scare some sense into him. The poor idiot didn’t know what he was getting himself into,” Crowley said. 

Merlin felt a sliver of disappointment. “Right, okay.” He paused. “What did he trip on?”

“Oh, that,” Crowley said offhandedly. “It’s a banana peel.”

“Bana… what now?” Merlin said, wrinkling his nose. 

“They’re fruit from a different continent. Weird long yellow things, ya know?” He mimed a (slightly lewd) shape in the air with his hands.

Right. Okay. Merlin was… just going to ignore that. He nodded, then cracked his knuckles in what he hoped was an intimidating manner. “Let’s interrogate him, then.”

~ the flash bastard ~

“Right, how do we want to do this?” said Crowley, pacing in front of the chair where he and Merlin had bound the assassin. (They’d borrowed Aziraphale’s tent; Crowley knew he wouldn’t mind, and he was perhaps the least disastrous candidate to walk in on them.)

“How do you mean?” Merlin asked. 

“Well, I mean who’s going to be the nice one, and who’s going to be the mean one?” Crowley elaborated. “‘S an interrogation tactic I invented.” (With Aziraphale’s help, of course. Since they were in this sort of situation quite often.)

“You’ll be the nice one,” Merlin said with a nod. “Obviously.”

Oh, for Someone’s sake, Aziraphale had always made him play the nice one, too!

Crowley glowered at him. “No,” he said.

“I’m Emrys,” the human said, as if Crowley cared what that meant. “I’m in charge here.”

“Well, I’m a demon,” Crowley said, curling his lip and letting his glasses slide down his nose to reveal his eyes. “I’m in charge here.”

Merlin’s own eyes went wide. “Wait, you have yellow eyes all the time?” he said delightedly. “That’s so cool!”

“Erm, y-yeah, I guess,” Crowley stammered. Not exactly the reaction he’d been hoping for. 

“Does Sir Aziraphale like your cat eyes?” Merlin teased. 

Crowley growled at him. (Which probably didn’t help the feline allegations.) “They’re snake eyes, you idiot.”

“Ohhh, snake eyes. Still, I bet he likes them,” Merlin said, throwing his head back and laughing. 

Crowley threw him another glare, but honestly, he wasn’t that mad. The kid was alarmingly endearing. Besides, Crowley was used to people not taking him seriously. Came with the package deal of an angel (who made him act like a lovesick idiot) for a best friend. 

At that moment, the would-be-assassin started to stir in the chair. 

“Wh… where am I?” the man slurred. 

“Right where you belong,” Merlin snapped, his whole demeanor changing. He stalked over and tipped the man’s chair back with one hand, glaring right into his eyes. 

Crowley was more than a little impressed by his intimidation tactics. The warlock was almost as good at this as Aziraphale. 

“I didn’t do nothing!” the assassin yelped. “Yeh can’t hurt me for doing nothing!”

“Don’t worry, we won’t,” Crowley said. He offered the man a fake smile. “Why don’t you tell us what you were going to do, hmm?”

“Tell us or we’ll kill you!” Merlin added. 

“I— I was just, uh, casing the joint?” the man tried. “I weren’t going to do nothing, I promise.”

“Then why did I find this in your pocket?” Merlin hissed, producing a little blow gun from his pouch.

“That looks pretty bad,” Crowley sang, tossing the man a cheeky grin. “How’re you gonna explain this little problem?”

The assassin only lasted a second under the combined force of Merlin and Crowley’s stares. 

“Fine, I were told to kill your royal family,” he sobbed. “But I didn’t do it, no, I didn’t, so you can’t kill me!”

Merlin looked one second away from committing murder. 

Gently, Crowley guided him to the far side of the tent. “I’ve got an idea of how to deal with him,” he said, quietly enough that their prisoner couldn’t hear. 

“Does your idea include dismemberment?” Merlin said. 

“No,” Crowley said. “We’re gonna send him back to Cenred with a little present.”

Merlin narrowed his eyes. “Go on.”

Crowley grinned. 

One miracle later, the would-be assassin was back in Essetir, escorted by an entire platoon of His Evilness’ Crowley’s Wily Rat Army. (He’d come up with the name when he was drunk, okay?) The fuzzy little buggers knew what to do: make Cenred’s life hell by any means necessary. 

“So… how exactly did you get a rat army?” Merlin said after Crowley had explained it to him. The kid was clearly jealous. 

Crowley shrugged. “Did ‘em a favour with the whole Noah’s Ark business…” Merlin was staring at him blankly. “Ah, right, that part doesn’t matter. Essentially, I got them on a boat.”

“Huh,” Merlin said. “One more question.”

“Go on,” Crowley said tiredly. As much as he wanted to get back to Aziraphale, it was his personal philosophy to always answer questions, no matter how stupid they might seem. 

“What were you doing by the knights’ tents anyway?” Merlin said. 

“Um,” said Crowley. He blushed. “I was. Hnnngk. I was not sneaking off to Aziraphale’s tent to stress-clean it. That would be weird, and I don’t do weird, me.”

“Mm-hm.” The warlock’s eye roll reached near-Aziraphale levels of pettiness, an impressive feat for a mere human. 

Crowley coughed into his fist. “Right. Uh, I’ll be off then. Gotta make sure Sir Aziraphale hasn’t gotten himself into trouble.”

“I’d better check on Arthur,” Merlin agreed. (Not “the prince” or “his highness,” no, just Arthur. Merlin had the heir to the throne wrapped around his little finger.)

With that, they exited the tent and walked side by side to the arena. 

*****

Crowley’s lower lip was thoroughly chewed by the time Aziraphale rode into the arena for his first jousting bout. (Crowley was the one who had stress-bitten it. Not— not anyone else. No matter what he might have wished.) 

After knowing the angel for over four thousand years, he was able to tell that Aziraphale almost let the other man win. However, his pettiness triumphed in the end, so he moved on to the next round. 

Crowley had never cheered so hard in his entire life as when Aziraphale turned back on his horse and waved to the crowd one last time before leaving the arena. Afterwards, he vehemently hoped that Aziraphale hadn’t heard him yell “ANGEL!” and “YOU CAN STAB ME WITH YOUR LANCE!”

…He had nothing to say for himself.

While he waited for the next interesting bout, Crowley thought back to yesterday’s Incidents. 

Incident One: waking up in the same bed as Aziraphale. Crowley hadn’t ruined everything, somehow, and… Aziraphale might have enjoyed the nearness as much as he did? It had happened today much the same as yesterday; sickeningly domestic in a way that filled Crowley with false hope. Just the thought of sharing a bed again two more times Crowley’s hands tremble with things he didn’t dare name. 

Incident Two: the dancing. It just wasn’t fair, the way Aziraphale’s touch had calmed him down like that. 

Incident Three: the flower crown. Not only had Aziraphale stroked Crowley’s hair (ugh, the mere memory gave him shivers all over), but he’d also added fuel to Crowley’s maladaptive fantasies with those stupid flowers. 

Yellow daisies meant friendship, which was alarming enough on its own. (Crowley wanted to be friends with Aziraphale, wanted it more than anything, but sometimes it was hard to let himself have what he wanted. He wasn’t selfish enough in that area.) Even more terrifying, however, were the other two kinds of flowers. Periwinkle meant everlasting bloody love. Crowley had no doubt that it was just more of Aziraphale’s love for all creatures, blah blah blah, nothing romantic whatsoever, but that didn’t stop him from panicking anyway. 

And worst of all, for Crowley’s mental health at least— lavender. 

The less alarming meanings included loyalty and longing (the latter of which Crowley felt very acutely), but in some kingdoms, it symbolized love between two men or two women. He and Aziraphale weren’t men, not really, but they were both male-presenting at the moment. The meaning that made Crowley spiral the most, however, was love at first sight. 

Had Aziraphale chosen those flowers just to torment him? Or, as usual, was Crowley putting too much meaning into things?

He buried his head in his hands. 

Angel… please don’t tell me this is all in my head. Please don’t see us as just friends. And please don’t let me mess this up. 

~ the haloed bastard ~

Aziraphale wished he could see Crowley in the stands again. (He felt less anxious and fidgety whenever the demon was nearby. And the reason for that was… their long acquaintance. Obviously.) He’d spotted Crowley a few minutes ago, but then he’d lost track of him after getting caught up in talking with the other knights. Wringing his hands, Aziraphale decided to think about something else, for plausible deniability’s sake at least. 

“Watcha looking at, Lance?” Gwaine said with a grin. 

Aziraphale watched with interest as the other knight’s face turned red. 

“Nothing, Gwaine,” Lancelot replied.

“Aziraphale saw it, didn’t you?” Gwaine said, shooting him a look. 

Aziraphale smiled. “I won’t reveal anything if Sir Lancelot doesn’t want me to.”

“I’ll spell it out, then,” said Gwaine. “He was watching the lovely lady Guinivere.”

“She’s not technically a lady—” Leon began. Percival elbowed him in the side to cut him off. 

Lancelot’s face was undeniably flushed. “Maybe I was, Gwaine.”

“Oh, you would be one to swoon after fair maidens,” Gwaine teased. 

The other knights laughed, and Lancelot buried his head in his hands. 

“I’m not blaming you though,” Gwaine continued, elbowing the other man playfully. “Gwen is bloody amazing.”

“Isn’t she just,” Lancelot agreed, looking up with a smile on his lips. 

Aziraphale glanced back into the crowds of people, searching for red hair and dark glasses. And— there! His heart lurched in his chest at the sight of his best friend. 

It was so unnecessary, so human, for his heart to even beat at all, but Crowley (darling, sweet Crowley) made his heart thump and pound and patter at the most inopportune of times. Calm heartbeats when Crowley helped him feel less overstimulated with a word or a touch. Pleasant, happy heartbeats when Aziraphale and Crowley would go out to lunch and bicker the entire time. (Or, as of the past two days, when they woke up side by side.) And frantic, delighted heartbeats when Crowley called him “angel” or surprised him with a new book. Sometimes when they touched (accidental, always accidental), he could feel Crowley’s pulse, which was often at a pace matching his own.

Aziraphale supposed that maybe the Almighty had been on to something when She had given him and Crowley hearts. 

“Oi, Aziraphale,” Gwaine was saying. 

“Hmm?” Aziraphale said, blinking distractedly. He prayed he hadn’t been staring into the distance like an idiot. 

“How do you feel about fair maidens?” Gwaine wiggled his eyebrows suggestively. “Of any gender.”

Aziraphale felt his face turn bright red. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“That unmarried duke of yours is quite the catch,” Gwaine said, singsong and smug as anything. “Tall, dark, and handsome indeed.”

Aziraphale shot him a jealous glare. “Yes, well— I’m afraid I don’t know what you’re talking about.” He cleared his throat, staring anywhere but at the knights around him or Crowley off in the stands. “Ahem. Lovely weather we’re having today, isn’t it?”

“Of course,” Gwaine replied, a knowing grin on his lips.

The next bout began—Prince Arthur against someone from Caerleon. Arthur was clearly the superior jouster among the two, and so it was no surprise to Aziraphale that the young prince moved on to the semifinals a minute later. (Aziraphale had strategically lost to the heir of Camelot during his last bout. He had been getting hungry anyway.)

When the cheering died down, Aziraphale found that he didn’t particularly care about the next two competitors. 

Lancelot rested a hand on Aziraphale’s arm, capturing his attention. “I’d like to thank you again for helping Gwaine and I become knights. Merlin says he couldn’t have done it without your help.”

“Oh, it was a pleasure, dear,” Aziraphale said truthfully. “You two make wonderful knights, and what our king doesn’t know won’t hurt him.”

“Exactly,” said Gwaine with a wink. 

Perhaps it wasn’t virtuous of him to help Merlin commit mass identity fraud, but Aziraphale thought that the results were worth it. 

*****

“Angel! There you are—ow!” 

Aziraphale turned just in time to see Crowley crash into him. He must have tripped on something. They separated a second later, Aziraphale placing his hands on Crowley’s forearms to steady him. 

“Are you alright?” he said, his brow furrowing as he scanned his friend for injuries. Blessedly, all of Crowley’s sharp angles seemed to be accounted for. 

“Sorry—stupid legs are malfunctioning again—ngk,” Crowley stammered, a blush staining his cheeks. 

Oh, how he adored Crowley’s stuttering. Aziraphale just chuckled. “It’s quite alright, my dear. Your limbs don’t follow the laws of physics at the best of times.” 

“Yeah, guess so,” Crowley agreed. 

Aziraphale offered him his arm, and after a moment’s hesitation, he accepted the support. They walked along the path back to the castle side by side, out of earshot of the humans. 

“Did you see the final bout, my dear?” he said, offering Crowley a smile. “Prince Arthur was absolutely splendid.”

“Mm-hm,” Crowley said. He leaned into Aziraphale’s side just a bit. “You let him win in your fourth match, didn’t you?”

“I don’t know what you mean,” Aziraphale said. 

“You were hungry, weren’t you?” Crowley said with a grin. “Good thing it’s time for another feast.”

“Hmph.” 

“You were pretty good before that, though,” Crowley said. His blush was back now. 

“Flatterer,” Aziraphale accused, though he was smiling. 

Crowley jabbed him in the side with his unfairly pointy elbow. “Just take the compliment, you insufferable angel.”

“If you insist. I noticed you disappeared for a while—what was that about?”

Crowley raised an eyebrow. “You saw me leave?”

“I saw the absence of you, rather,” Aziraphale said. “Your lovely red hair is quite distinctive.”

“Hhhhngk—um, yeah,” Crowley replied. His blush had returned with a vengeance. (Aziraphale wanted to press a kiss to each of those sharp cheekbones, to that widow’s peak, to each of the freckles scattered under his eyes and on his nose, until Crowley’s blush was hellfire-hot.) “Not a lot of gingers ‘round here.”

Internally, Aziraphale triumphed that the compliment had affected him so much. “So where did you go?” he insisted.

“Well,” said Crowley. “Merlin and I had to stop an assassin.”

Aziraphale blinked. “…Of course.”

Crowley leaned just a touch further into his side. “Don’t worry, I’ll tell you all about my heroics.”

“See, I knew you weren’t all thorns and venom,” Aziraphale said. 

Crowley snorted. “Only for you.”

And isn’t that a thought, Aziraphale mused to himself, beaming at Crowley like he had when his best friend had hung all the stars in the sky.

~ dollophead ~

That night, their routine started normally enough. Merlin puttered about the room and snooped in Arthur’s things until Arthur threatened to start throwing pillows at him. 

“I was making sure there weren’t any rats,” Merlin said with a nod. 

“If there was a rat in here, you would go to the stocks for a week,” Arthur informed him. 

Grinning, Merlin came over to where Arthur stood by the wardrobe. He seemed more energetic than normal, which was saying something. At his most annoying, he reminded Arthur of a cat who had found the catnip at three in the morning. 

“You didn’t do half bad in the tournament today, Sire,” Merlin said, clearly trying to sound casual. 

Arthur held back a grin. “I won, if you didn’t notice. You have such bad luck, it’s shocking your token didn’t make me lose.”

Merlin snorted and rolled his eyes, but didn’t say anything. 

“Speaking of,” Arthur said, clearing his throat. “Your neckerchief. Do you want it back?”

“You can keep it,” Merlin said, his voice small. He was losing the fight to keep a smile off his lips. “I’ve got others.”

Arthur’s heart jumped in his chest, and he curled his fingers around the neckerchief still tied to his arm. 

“Right,” he said. He untied the square of sapphire-blue fabric and tossed it onto the bed, deciding to deal with it later. 

(Would he be keeping it somewhere private but close enough that he could hold it and breathe in Merlin’s scent whenever he wanted? Maybe. But that was irrelevant.)

That settled, Arthur nodded for Merlin to start helping him undress. Normally, he would have gone behind the changing screen for this, but he worried that he’d damage the expensive clothes somehow. (But if that was the case, why was he trusting Merlin of all people to help him?) His friend’s long fingers were as graceful as ever as they slipped off Arthur’s embroidered jacket and unlaced his fancy shirt. Arthur shivered at his touch, longing pouring through him in an endless tide. 

Merlin looked up at him, his blue eyes framed by his dark lashes. “Alright, Arthur?” he whispered. 

“Perfect,” Arthur replied. 

Seemingly unconsciously, Merlin stepped closer to him when he pulled Arthur’s shirt over his head. 

Arthur felt alarmingly vulnerable, standing there exposed before the love of his life. But it wasn’t a bad feeling, not at all. 

He would trust Merlin with his life, his body, his very soul. 

Unable to speak even if he tried, Arthur slipped into his soft, cotton breeches without Merlin’s help. He wore smallclothes underneath, so he wasn’t worried about modesty.

Does he know, Arthur thought, that our little morning and nightly routines are the highlights of all my bad days?

Did Merlin know how Arthur craved his touch like a starving man at a feast? Growing up under Uther, affectionate touches had been few and far between. They had to be earned, if given at all, and usually they were nothing more than a pat on the shoulder. Merlin, however, was so free with his touch, gifting Arthur playful shoves and resting his hand on Arthur’s arm and straightening Arthur’s clothes for him, seemingly without even realizing it. 

The whole thing left Arthur yearning for something he couldn’t even define. 

When Arthur was in his nightshirt, Merlin stepped away, and Arthur’s heart ached suddenly with a pain that nearly sent him toppling over. 

“Wait, Merlin,” he said softly, grabbing his hand. “Don’t go yet.”

“What, do you want me to read you a bedtime story?” Merlin said with a nervous smirk. 

“No,” he said quietly. 

Arthur pulled him close again, drinking in the sight of his wide blue eyes, the way his ink-dark curls spilled across his forehead. The way the pulse in his wrist felt under Arthur’s fingers, jackrabbit fast and feather-soft. The way Merlin’s lips silently formed his name: Arthur, Arthur, Arthur.

What are you DOING? a part of him screamed. 

For once in his life, Arthur didn’t listen. 

Gently, so gently it hurt, he lifted Merlin’s chin just so, the touch burning his soul like the most exquisite funeral pyre. Then, praying to every god he could think of, Arthur leaned forward—

And Merlin leaped away, looking terrified. 

Arthur’s heart shattered in his chest, the rejected kiss dying on his lips. 

“M-my Lord,” Merlin stammered. “Arthur, no, you don’t want this. You don’t want me.”

“What are you talking about?” Arthur cried, anger and hurt and confusion knotting inside him. “Of course I want you, you clotpole! I thought—Merlin, please, tell me it’s not in my head—”

“Arthur,” Merlin interrupted, holding up his hands. “Just stop. Please.”

He had known before that he didn’t deserve Merlin, but that pain was nothing in comparison to the agony of being unwanted. 

“Have I—have I done something wrong?” Arthur said, utterly wretched. 

Merlin’s eyes were wide with fear. Arthur couldn’t bear it, couldn’t bear to be the reason for such terror in his best friend. 

“No,” Merlin said, utterly devastated now. “I’m the one in the wrong.” He laughed darkly, swiping tears from his eyes with one hand. “Oh, you’ll hate me when you find out. You’ll wish you never met me.”

“Merlin, what are you talking about?” Arthur made his voice as soft as he could manage through his confusion and pain. 

He stepped forwards, wishing desperately to take Merlin’s hands in his. He tried to convey all the trust and love he could in his gaze; to be gentle, like Merlin was a wild, breakable fae ready to bolt at the first sign of pain.

“You know you can tell me anything,” Arthur tried. 

Breathing faster, Merlin chuckled self-depreciatingly. “I’ve lied to you.”

“What?” Arthur demanded, forgetting to be gentle. He backpedaled immediately when he saw the look in Merlin’s eyes. “Merlin, please. You shouldn’t have to—” He broke off with a frustrated exhale. 

You shouldn’t have to lie to me, he couldn’t say. Merlin seemed to understand him anyway. 

For a long moment, they stared at each other, silently waging war against their own inner demons. 

“Promise you won’t blame yourself when you have to kill me,” Merlin finally said. 

“I’m not going to kill you,” Arthur exclaimed. “Why would I—”

Wait. Wait.

As the realization sank in, Arthur’s world turned on its head, and for a second he couldn’t breathe. It wasn’t possible. Arthur would have known, he would have figured it out after knowing Merlin for this long—

But Arthur hadn’t figured it out, not even after all of these years of coincidences and luck and downright serendipity. The innumerable visits to the tavern; the way the knights acted around Merlin, irrationally protective of him and smug that they knew something Arthur didn’t; the strange secrecy Merlin had about him. 

It should have been obvious. 

He’d even told Arthur before, for gods’ sakes!

“Merlin, you…” Arthur swallowed, the words sending shivers down his spine. “You have magic, don’t you?”

Merlin turned away, pressing his knuckles against his mouth as tears welled up in his eyes. It was answer enough. 

“I thought your secret was that you preferred men,” Arthur said dumbly. 

Seemingly in spite of himself, Merlin barked a laugh. It was panicked, and breathless, and so very Merlin that Arthur’s heart ached in his chest again. 

“I’m not going to kill you,” Arthur said quietly, taking a step forwards and grabbing Merlin’s hand. 

Merlin stared at him, his blue eyes a little less scared than before. “You’re not mad at me?”

“I’m annoyed at you for lying to me, and I’m annoyed at myself for not realising it sooner,” Arthur said. “No, it all makes sense, actually. I knew you couldn’t have survived this long without some help.” He paused. “But what I don’t get is why you’re still in Camelot of all places. Why haven’t you gone to the Druids?”

“I’m…” Merlin stared down at their hands, still intertwined. “Well. You could say I’m here for you, Arthur.”

“For… me?” Arthur stared at him. 

“Well.” Merlin smiled, self-conscious and playful. “A dragon told me you were my destiny.”

Arthur laughed, he couldn’t help it, and Merlin joined in. It was relief and joy and incredulity all at once. 

Merlin’s destiny, eh? Arthur liked the sound of that. 

Their eyes met again, and their laughter faded, but Arthur and Merlin’s smiles were as bright as stars. 

Looking at Merlin now, it was painfully obvious that something about him wasn’t your run-of-the-mill human. When Arthur met his eyes, he could give a name to that subtle sparkle beyond regular mischief. Of course Merlin has magic, Arthur thought, the sudden surge of love he felt nearly overwhelming him. 

And what was Arthur doing just standing there, anyway, he had a sorcerer to woo. 

“Merlin,” he said, and it felt like he could taste the name properly for the first time. “My feelings for you haven’t changed since you told me.”

Well, he might have fallen even more in love with Merlin, but telling him that would just make it go to his head. 

“But what about Uther?” Merlin said, forgoing all honorifics for the king as usual.

“My father can sod off,” Arthur declared. “You’re my best friend—my first real friend I’d ever had—and I’d rather eat Gwaine’s socks than lose you just because of my father.”

“That’s… a pretty strong vow,” Merlin mumbled. 

“That was the point, you idiot.”

With a trembling hand, Arthur reached up and cupped Merlin’s cheek. Merlin breathed in sharply, clearly startled, but then he grinned. Arthur let himself smile back, reveling in how open he felt. 

“I love you,” Merlin said softly. 

“I love you too, clotpole,” Arthur replied, his voice thick. 

“For the last time, Arthur, that’s my word,” Merlin said, blinking back tears. 

Arthur couldn’t wait any longer. He raised his other hand to Merlin’s face and pulled him into a kiss. 

Merlin’s hands were in Arthur’s hair, their bodies pressed nearly as close to each other as they could get. Even after Merlin pulled back just enough to look at him, Arthur felt as if some of Merlin’s magic lingered on his lips. 

“You’re sure you want me?” Merlin said. 

Arthur rolled his eyes. “Would I be holding you if I didn’t want you? I love you, Merlin. Sorcery and all.”

Merlin initiated the next kiss, and this one felt like fire. Arthur pulled him even closer, marveling at how perfect it felt. It was as if one half of his soul had finally fallen into place. This was so much better than kissing Gwen, who had always felt unsure and reluctant against his lips. Kissing Merlin, on the other hand, was heady and passionate. 

Arthur deepened the kiss, drowning himself in Merlin’s taste. Lavender and wine and something unnamable that lit his soul on fire. Magic, he realised. 

“Merlin,” Arthur gasped as the warlock kissed his jaw, his pulse point, his collarbone.

“Is this okay?” Merlin said, looking up at him with wide eyes. 

“Okay?” Arthur said breathlessly. “Of course it's okay. Gods' sakes, Merlin, don’t stop.”

And for once in his life, Merlin obeyed.