Title: Escape Attempt

Rating: M for… um, Merlin. Yeah, M for Merlin. What did you think it stood for?

Summary: This was supposed to be a way to save his best friend. It kind of went sideways.

Disclaimer: *laughs hysterically*

Dedication: THIS IS ALL YOUR FAULT, CJ. THIS IS ALL YOUR FUCKING FAULT.

Notes: This is an alternate version of "Witchfinder" that I wrote based on the promo for the episode.

From the moment the Witchfinder accused Merlin of being a sorcerer, Arthur's world came to a grinding halt. Everything had slowed down and frozen, as though time itself had stopped its flow.

He saw his father standing, fury etched in his forehead, mouth open to bellow seize him. He saw Gwen's horrified face, eyes wide with innocent confusion and despair. He saw Gaius's face crumple, the lines of his face deepening to betray his many years. He saw Morgana's eyes flare almost golden in her fury, her cheeks growing even paler as she whirled almost in slow motion to round upon Uther, ready to defend the accused.

And he saw Merlin.

He saw rage and pain and fear all flash across his manservant's face. He saw fury, and desperation, and a wellspring of power that struggled to stay hidden. He saw resignation, an acceptance of his fate, and that Arthur could not stand.

Merlin, of all people—Merlin who couldn't properly sweep out the fireplace and didn't understand court machinations and sassed him night and day and had a deep, abiding, undying loyalty toward Arthur that terrified him in its refusal to be shaken. Merlin with his jokes and his damn horrible lying and his ability to keep every single one of Arthur's secrets? Merlin was not a threat to Camelot. Merlin was not a threat to anyone.

Except, maybe, to himself.

Merlin shifted and his head turned slightly, his eyes locking onto Arthur's. The prince could read his expression as easily as if he'd said the words (re: horrible at lying). It was, of all things, an admission. An apology.

And then the world sped up again, Uther shouting, Morgana shouting, everyone whispering, Gaius trying to talk calmly, Merlin protesting his innocence and glaring daggers at the Witchfinder. Arthur knew he had to act, and quickly.

He moved toward Merlin, trying not to break into a run, and grabbed him. "I'll take him to the dungeons," he said. Merlin's body gave way before his, and Arthur was painfully aware of the soft skin, the breakable bones—the fragility of life. Out of the corner of his eye he could see Gwen and Morgana rushing to stop him, only to be held back by knights.

"You can't do this!" Morgana shouted. "He's harmless, he's innocent, you can't do this!" Arthur dared a glance back over his shoulder and saw her pleading with him. They had grown up together like siblings, and he knew her expressions by heart. Do something, she pleaded. Do something.

If only she knew.

It was surprisingly easy to manhandle Merlin down to the dungeons. He could practically lift the beanpole up. It really, really didn't help that Merlin had gone limp the second that Arthur had touched him, just letting Arthur guide him where he wanted. Even in the midst of losing his life, Merlin's trust in Arthur was unreserved. With the way he hauled Merlin around, practically lifting him off his feet—so easy for him just to wrap his arms around Arthur's waist, if he chose—and the trust—

Arthur shook his head free of such thoughts. It wasn't the first time he'd had rather inappropriate feelings toward his manservant, but now was definitely taking the cake for the most inappropriate time.

He hauled Merlin down into the dungeons, the manservant protesting his innocence the entire time.

"Will you shut up?" Arthur hissed. "I'm trying to save your life."

Merlin actually went quiet at that, and even went obediently when Arthur pushed him into a cell. "Stay here," he instructed.

"As if I have a choice!" Merlin yelled after him.

Arthur ignored him. He needed Gwen and Gaius and—God help him—Morgana, and he needed to act quickly.

Merlin had long given up pacing his cell and had slumped down onto the floor, resting his back against the cool tiles. Arthur had said he was trying to save his life, but he didn't see what Arthur could possibly do about it—or why it was taking so long.

It was around three o'clock in the morning when he heard footsteps making their way down the hall toward his cell. He stood automatically, his heart racing. He knew exactly who was walking, and it embarrassed him to admit, even to himself, that he had spent so much time observing Arthur.

At least he was able to ignore the flutter in his stomach when Arthur came into view. That had become so commonplace he didn't even have to think about it anymore. The prince put a finger to his lips, then quietly unlocked the cell door. In the half-light of the torches, with their lengthy shadows and flickering flame, everything seemed unreal—almost dreamlike.

"The guards?" Merlin asked, keeping his voice low.

"Asleep. Gaius put a drug in the drinks that Gwen served them."

Merlin smiled. Good old Gwen, and Gaius, the man he secretly called Father. It gave him both pain and joy to know that they had put their lives on the line for him.

Arthur entered the cell, extending his hand. "Morgana has a horse with supplies waiting."

Merlin blinked. "What?"

"You're not safe here, Merlin. We have to get you out."

Merlin hadn't realized he was backing up until his back hit the wall. "But…" The rest of his sentence died on his tongue. He didn't think but we are destined to save Camelot together and how can we do that when I'm a thousand miles away sounded like a very good argument. Neither did but I want to stay by your side no matter what.

Arthur's face did one of those things where he stared at Merlin, his mouth a bit slack and his eyes shining in a way Merlin couldn't decipher. "It's your only chance to survive. My father won't hear of a trial, he's let himself be swept up in all the fanaticism."

"Look at you, knowing big words," Merlin quipped, just for the sake of keeping face. Teasing Arthur was second nature by this point.

Arthur didn't rise to the jest. He just kept staring at Merlin with that strange look on his face. The pause stretched on until it became uncomfortable, and Merlin cleared his throat, staring down at his shoes. "How long will it be until I can return to Camelot?"

"Until my father is dead, I'm afraid," Arthur replied.

Merlin winced. His return could only be brought on by sadness to Arthur, rather the opposite of what Merlin intended. "Sounds like a rather long time," he said, daring a crooked smile up at Arthur.

"Yes." Arthur's voice was heavy. "It will be."

Neither of them made to leave. The silence stretched like a rope, thin and taut, reaching across the space between them and Merlin knew it was only a matter of time before it snapped—

Arthur moved, and the thing was Merlin knew that Arthur could move quickly, had seen it plenty of times on the battlefield and in training but that quick, snakelike movement had never been directed at him quite like that before, so really he couldn't be blamed when he found himself pinned against the wall by Arthur, one forearm pressed against his chest, Arthur's face mere inches from his. And then it wasn't inches from his, because Arthur's mouth was pressed against his, soft lips moving and Merlin couldn't help it. He'd been dreaming of this for over a year now, and it wasn't like he was going to get another chance. So, gods help him, he kissed back.

It surprised him, a bit, but Arthur kissed like he fought—hard and fierce, taking no quarter. It was slick heat in a way he'd never known before, Arthur pulling him apart with every swipe of his tongue, and all Merlin could do was clutch at the prince's shoulders and try to keep up. Everything else in the world fell away, reduced only to the feel of Arthur pinning him to the wall, Arthur's broad shoulders under his hands, and Arthur's tongue in his mouth.

Arthur finally pulled away, both of them panting from lack of breath. "I'm sorry," the prince whispered, dropping his head to Merlin's shoulder. "I just—I had to do that. Once."

Merlin felt softness envelop his fingers and he realized belatedly that he was combing his fingers through Arthur's hair. "Wish you'd done it sooner."

Arthur stiffened and then pulled back. "What?"

"It's always the last second with you hero types, isn't it?" Merlin replied.

Arthur rolled his eyes. "Idiot."

This was it. This was going to be the end of it—end of trading barbs, end of going on adventures, end of everything he'd come to selfishly treasure in his time with Arthur. And it was the end of all the possibilities they now had: the possibility of more kisses, more soft touches, and more smiles.

"Oh God, don't give me that forlorn look," Arthur said. He pressed his lips to Merlin's once more, close-mouthed but soft and yearning. "I'm not happy about this either."

"I know."

Arthur kissed him again, deep and searching. "Morgana's waiting."

"I know."

They kept kissing.

"You're a dead man if you stay much longer." Arthur's hands were up his shirt and they were grinding shamelessly against each other, swallowing their moans.

"I know."

They ended up in Arthur's bedroom, kissing the life out of each other. Arthur slammed him against the door, mumbling apologies even as he licked back into his mouth. "Sorry, I'm sorry, I couldn't—"

"You feel me kissing back, right?"

Arthur chuckled, trailing his lips down to suck at Merlin's neck. His fingers tugged at the neckerchief like it offended him, undoing the knot and letting the scrap of fabric flutter to the floor, baring more of Merlin's skin to Arthur's greedy mouth. Merlin bucked up, certain he was going to tear holes in Arthur's shirt from how tightly he clutched at it, his hips rolling against the leg Arthur inserted between his thighs. "Bed, bed, I think a bed is usually involved in these things…"

"Right." Arthur pulled back, and another arrow of heat shot through Merlin at the sight of just how debauched the prince looked. His lips were swollen and his hair was completely mussed. It made Merlin want to just dive right back in.

But, the bed. And clothes. First things first.

For someone who insisted on making Merlin dress him every morning, Arthur was pretty fast at stripping his clothes off on his own. Merlin was used to practically jumping in and out of his own outfit since he never had time to linger in the mornings and by evening he was exhausted, so before long both of them were down to nothing.

Merlin took a step forward to get back to the proceedings but Arthur stopped him, hands on his shoulders. "I want to look," he breathed.

Merlin tried not to fidget underneath Arthur's piercing gaze. He'd seen Arthur in the almost nude plenty of times, and he'd admired the broad chest, sprinkling of blonde hair, and firm muscles until he thought he was going to die from sexual frustration. Now he found himself the subject of Arthur's undivided attention, and he could almost feel the hot gaze travel up and down his body.

"You're blushing," Arthur said, smiling.

"Am not."

Arthur slipped his arms around Merlin's waist, drawing him in until they were pressed flush against each other. Merlin could feel their erections bump and grind against each other and he shuddered in anticipation. "See?" Arthur said, his voice low. "Totally blushing."

Merlin opened his mouth to protest that Arthur was blushing just as much but the prince swooped in and kissed him again, rendering him speechless.

"If I knew this was the way to shut you up I'd have done it ages ago."

Merlin shoved Arthur backward onto the bed, both of them laughing. He clambered onto the bed to join him, sliding a hand up Arthur's chest, his fingers combing through the trail of soft hair. "I dreamed of this," he admitted.

Arthur grabbed a hold of Merlin's hips and neatly flipped them, lowering himself down until their bodies were flush again. Merlin parted his legs so that Arthur could rest between them, arching up into the touch. "I hope I'm living up to your expectations," Arthur replied.

"You probably would if you'd get a move on," Merlin groused.

Arthur just kissed him again, and Merlin realized he was in deep danger of letting such kisses win Arthur whatever he wanted. He wrapped his arms and legs around him, entrapping him, wishing he never had to let him go, wishing they could stay like this forever, not master and servant but equals, two men who found something in each other that they couldn't on their own.

Arthur rifled around in his bedside drawer, swearing occasionally into Merlin's mouth until he found what he was looking for. He sat back, waving the small glass bottle triumphantly.

"Where'd you get that?"

"Gaius."

"What?" Merlin glared. "He told me he was out!"

"Probably because otherwise he'd have to hear you."

Merlin was grateful for a few handy magical spells he'd found, but also rather annoyed at Gaius. A man had needs!

"So…" Arthur glanced down at the bottle, shifting. "How do you, um… that is…"

Merlin sighed and plucked the bottle from Arthur's hands. "Let me."

Sure, magic was great for saving people's lives and turning clouds into shapes and things like that, but it had its other uses as well—uses Merlin had been happy to investigate and put to use. He quickly coated his fingers in the oil and slid his hand down between his legs. Arthur's eyes went wide and he bit his lip, cheeks flushing, and Merlin grinned, deciding to put on a little show. He slicked himself up, giving a few pulls before moving his hands farther down to massage his balls, moving further and further back until he could circle his entrance, tugging at it before slipping inside. Arthur was utterly fascinated, his face bright red and his eyes darkened, his breathing ragged as he watched. Merlin let himself be loud in a way he couldn't be when it was just himself in his room, with Gaius no more than ten feet away, and he allowed the whimpers and moans he usually stifled to slip free. Arthur watched him like a man entranced, his eyes such a deep blue that it was hard to tell where the black of his pupils ended and his irises began. They were just two dark orbs of predatory lust, devouring and igniting him all at once.

He should have expected it—Arthur was never one to sit back, he was a hands-on person, the general who gave orders from the front lines—but he was still startled when he felt thick fingers encircle his wrist, closing around them in a firm grip and gently pulling his fingers out of himself. He didn't even have time to feel the loss before new fingers were replacing his, thicker and a little shorter but more skilled than he'd have thought, twisting artfully and seeking out that perfect spot within him, making stars dance in the corners of his eyes.

Arthur loomed over him, their skin inches from touching, making Merlin feel as if sparks were leaping from one to the other, lines of fire and light that zapped between them like a different kind of magic, one elemental and beyond Merlin's knowledge of the craft. Yet he understood it, all the same. This was bodies and heat and lust and something deeper, and his muscles, his nerves, his very bones knew it even if his mind couldn't fully comprehend it.

His body could sure comprehend the pleasure pumping through him, anyway. Arthur worked him slowly, his eyes dancing over Merlin's face, watching his every twitching muscle as he tried not to beg for more. He was hitting that sweet spot over and over again, tips of his nails dragging slowly against it, his fingers twisting slightly and Merlin was writhing silently, stubborn even in these moments. He'd never been the proper servant, never scraped and bowed and sniveled, and he wasn't going to stoop to anything like that now.

He and Arthur were rather alike in that, he supposed. They both had their pride.

And then the fingers were gone, withdrawing out of him and he was instinctively clenching, seeking something to fill him up but there was nothing, nothing but aching emptiness. A whine clawed at the back of his throat and he clenched his teeth but he wasn't quick enough. Arthur's life-ruining smile blossomed across his face—the bedamned smile that got him weak at the knees every time—and he pressed a kiss to the center of Merlin's heaving chest.

"Something you want, Merlin?" He asked, voice dark and heavy with promise, like ripe fruit hanging on the end of the branch, just ready to be harvested and bit into, the juice sweet and overwhelming. "You only have to ask."

Like he was going to play into his hands. He reached up, cupping Arthur's face, the tips of his fingers sliding through the soft straw-gold hair and tugged him down, kissing him as deeply as he could. He pulled every trick he knew (of which there admittedly weren't many), hoping that it would serve in place of begging and evidently it did because Arthur shifted, hiking Merlin's legs up and there, oh there. It stretched and burned just a little but the oil and precome helped, and he didn't mind any of it, not when he was filled up like this. He'd fantasized and had a few wet dreams but nothing prepared him for the reality. And that it wasn't just anyone, that it was the one person he'd been stupid enough to fall in love with…

So why wasn't Arthur doing anything?

"Aren't you going to move?" Merlin asked, thumping his heels against Arthur's back.

"Shh." Arthur ran his hands up Merlin's ribs. "I've spent enough time wondering what you would be like. Let me savor it."

But he did begin to move, in and out, adjusting his position until he hit that spot again, making Merlin shake and bite down on a moan. Then he sped up, no longer slow but faster, harder, hitting the same spot like it was a target and he was wielding a knife or a bow and arrow, determined to hit the bull's eye again and again, until Merlin was a complete mess. In the dim firelight, with pleasure pushed into him again and again, his eyes only staying open by sheer determination, Arthur looked to him like he was made of gold. His broad chest and sweat-damp hair, toned arms and firm hips—even his smooth, slightly tanned face was golden. It was as if he were a lesser god, shining in all his immortal glory; a lion, a king, a shining sun, someone above the ordinary and Merlin would follow him, his own personal god, to worship and protect and stand by until the end of his days. He watched the muscles ripple just underneath the confines of the stretched skin, saw the heady lust in Arthur's eyes, and he knew. There was no escape from this destiny.

He came with a scream that although silent to mortal ears seemed to shake the very foundations of his body, tear him apart and remake him all over again, golden pleasure weaving through him, sending him into ecstasy and utterly ruining him for anyone else, ensuring that only Arthur could make him feel like this again. He wasn't even aware of Arthur coming until he felt the weight of the prince on top of him, and he found it difficult to breathe not from pleasure but because lover or not Arthur was a little too heavy for his slight frame to bear.

Luckily Arthur realized this quickly and shifted, pulling them both out of the (embarrassingly large) wet spot and curling around Merlin like a dragon around his hoard. He trailed his lips up Merlin's collarbone, not kissing so much as feeling, mapping out territory just like his fingers trailed up the lines on maps, marking Camelot's domain.

"You're mine," Arthur whispered. Normally Merlin would have sat straight up and started an argument about prattish princes and their ownership issues, but the phrase was said with such tenderness that he knew it was Arthur's only way of saying something else.

"I'm yours," Merlin agreed. "But of course this means you're mine, as well."

Arthur made a noise in the back of his throat, both startled and thoughtful. "All right."

"You don't need to sound like you're granting some huge favor," Merlin began. "It's—"

"Sleep." Arthur placed a finger lazily over Merlin's lips, but contradicted his statement by stating a second later, "That was a horrible escape attempt."

Merlin laughed and wrapped his arms around his king's (shut up Uther, you're going to pop off someday anyway) neck. "I don't mind."

Arthur chuckled into the skin of his neck, and Merlin went to sleep with the sounds of that rich, quiet laugh ringing in his ears.

Arthur awoke to find that they had shifted during the night, but only slightly. He now lay on his back, with Merlin on top, their ankles interlocked and Merlin's arms still about his neck. He had his arms around Merlin, as well, and his hands flexed instinctively, as if to say even in sleep that this was his. Blame it on his upbringing, but Arthur was possessive and Merlin was his and his alone to possess.

It figured he'd fall for someone who was bold and stupid enough to dare to possess him in return.

He considered the possibility of waking Merlin up to slow, languid kisses and perhaps some hip rolling, stirring him to wakefulness before embarking on some indulgent morning sex. He'd never had the opportunity for such things previously. Tumbles with stable hands and kitchen maids were all well and good, but they had to be gone while night still blanketed the castle or they'd get the wrong ideas. But Arthur wanted Merlin to get all the wrong ideas—because in this case, they were the right ones. They'd gone a bit quickly last night, frenzied with the adrenaline of the life-or-death situation and filled with the excitement of the first time, but now Arthur wanted to take as much time as he could. He wanted to see what it took to get Merlin to scream. He wanted to suck every inch of that pale skin, mark it up good and proper so everyone would know who Merlin belonged to. He wanted to build him up and take him apart, inch by inch.

A loud banging on the door, however, knocked all such thoughts out of his head. Arthur shot out of bed, grabbing the covers and throwing them over Merlin's prone form. Merlin snorted and started to wakefulness, but Arthur was already drawing the bed curtains to block Merlin from view. Snatching up the closest pair of trousers (his, not Merlin's, thank God), Arthur scrambled into them and threw open the door.

"Yes, Father?" He asked, trying to hide his surprise.

"I was going to inform you that the prisoner escaped," Uther Pendragon began, utterly nonplussed by seeing his son in nothing but yesterday's trousers and with that obvious just-got-out-of-bed look to boot, "But apparently he was innocent."

Arthur's his name is Merlin, not 'the prisoner' died on his lips and was replaced with, "What?"

"Yes. Gaius confessed to it, said the boy had nothing to do with it. We're taking him down to be interrogated now."

A noise of anger and fear escaped from the bed, and Arthur hastily coughed to cover it up. "I'll be sure to join you in a moment, Father."

"Yes. See that you do." Uther eyed his son's chest for a moment before turning imperiously and starting down the corridor.

Arthur frowned and looked down at his chest, his face flushing. There was dried come on it—and what was worse, it could only be dried come.

And his father had seen it.

Clearly you were never too old to be humiliated in front of your parents.

Arthur closed the door and moved back to the bed, pulling back the curtains. Merlin was sitting up, hands fisted in the sheets, his eyes oddly intense.

"Gaius," he said.

Arthur nodded. "Gaius."

Merlin started to launch into all of the reasons why Gaius couldn't possibly be a sorcerer, he had to be innocent, when Arthur sat down on the edge of the bed and kissed him. "I know," he said. "And we'll figure this out."

"Just like you figured out my escape attempt?"

Arthur smiled. "Well, not just like that."

Merlin smiled back at him, and Arthur knew there was no escaping his fate. He'd fallen in love with a man, and a servant to boot (undoubtedly the worse part in his father's opinion).

At least he wasn't a sorcerer, right?