~ picks up right where the last installment, Occasion, left off ~

"Still can't believe you forgot," Arthur says, and grabs another leech off Merlin's leg. He's not sure where to put it, actually. He certainly doesn't want the three inches of slick, revolting slime anywhere in his room, doesn't even want the thing to touch the floor, if he's being honest. Actually, he really doesn't even want Merlin anywhere in his room right now, with the state the idiot's in, but there's not much to be done about that anymore, is it?

Merlin's cheeks turn red. "Well," he says, in a very huffy sort of voice, "maybe if you weren't such a prat—"

"Well, maybe if you weren't such an idiot," Arthur says, which is the only rational and mature and kingly sort of thing to say to that, of course, and he dumps the mucky leech in Merlin's open palm.

Merlin glowers at Arthur, and then at the leech. "Well," in his huffiest voice yet, "maybe if you weren't such a—"

"All right!" Guinevere's a small woman, but when she wants to make herself heard, she makes herself heard. She steps neatly between them, long skirt rustling softly with the motion, and puts out a hand. "All right. That's enough. Merlin forgot, Arthur, it could happen to anyone. Merlin," she adds, before Arthur can even open his mouth to tell her no, it couldn't happen to anyone, it could only happen to Merlin because Merlin is the biggest idiot in the entire kingdom, honestly, who else could forget the day they're finally not going to be, you know, an actual criminal anymore, "Merlin, just go back to your chambers and get changed, quick as you can. No one will notice if you're a bit late."

Arthur raises his eyebrows. Now that's certainly stretching it a bit. "Guinevere," he says, "I'm going to announce that Merlin is a sorcerer in front of the entire court. I think they're going to notice if he's not—"

Guinevere throws him a dark look over her shoulder. "Arthur, this really isn't the—"

"Um," Merlin says, "I-I don't. I don't think I can. Um. Do that."

Oh. Perfect. Idiot doesn't have a shy bone in his body until it really counts, huh? "Don't be such a girl, Merlin," Arthur says. "You're just going to be standing there. It's not difficult."

Merlin scowls at him. "I meant about my clothes," the huffy voice is back. "I don't have anything else. My spare tunic got torn to ribbons last week, in case you don't remember, and I haven't had the time to mend it, because you've been working me harder than one of your hounds for ages."

Something in that sentence doesn't really sit right with Arthur, but it takes him a second to figure out what it is. "Merlin," he says, "are you telling me you only own two outfits?"

"Two tunics," Merlin says, irritably. "And two scarves. Sorry I don't have an entire wardrobe of literally hundreds of breeches and cloaks and God knows what else like a certain prat I know who could stand to appreciate his brave and hardworking and handsome servant a bit more—"

"Oh, shut up, Merlin," Arthur says impatiently. Merlin lost him at "hardworking". "And for God's sake, man, tomorrow, go out and get yourself some new clothes."

"Right," Merlin says. "Yes. Of course. I'll just whip out my handy coin purse filled to bursting with gold. Excellent idea, Sire. Why didn't I think of it."

Guinevere reappears at Arthur's side—when did she leave? Where did she go?—and tosses her own silken purple cloak at Merlin.

It lands, squarely, on Merlin's head, fluttering down like a veil. He sputters, and flicks it off again. "What's this?"

"Pull that on," Guinevere says, a trifle impatiently, "and I'm sure Arthur's got an old pair of breeches I can dig up—your boots aren't too bad, I suppose, but—"

"Um," Merlin says. "I can't wear this."

"What?" Guinevere frowns at him. "Don't be ridiculous, Merlin, of course you can wear it—"

"Are you really trying to dress Merlin in a girl's cloak right now?" Arthur's not sure how many times the world's tilted on its axis in the last thirty minutes alone, but damn if this one isn't actually sort of entertaining. "I mean, color really suits him, but—"

"Oh, shut up, Arthur," Merlin says. "I haven't got an issue with the cloak—"

Guinevere arches her eyebrows. "Really, Arthur? You don't seem to mind it when I wear your—"

"All right, all right, please don't talk about wearing each other's clothes while I'm still in the room," Merlin says, pleadingly.

"Shut up, Merlin," Arthur says, a furious heat flooding his face. "It's a girl's cloak, Guinevere, it's a bit different—"

"It's not really different at all—"

"I've not got a problem with the cloak!" Merlin bursts out furiously. "For God's sake, it's purple! You really want me to stride in there wearing the color of royalty—?"

"Oh, so, now you care about rank—!"

"Yes, now I care about rank, they'll be baying for my blood in less than ten minutes' time—"

"Of course they won't," Guinevere says, soothingly, "they're going to see how much you've done for the kingdom, and they're all going to love you, just as much as we do."

"Hang on, now, Guinevere, 'love' is a bit of stretch, don't you think—?"

"No, I don't think, Arthur, I happen to love Merlin very much, and I'm sure you share the—"

"Look," Merlin says, loudly, and Arthur has never, ever been more grateful for the idiot, "I appreciate the thought, a lot, but I'd really rather not take my chances." He holds the cloak back out to Guinevere.

"Oh, for God's sake, Merlin," Arthur snaps—they really don't have the time to waste quibbling about this, "if you've got that much of an issue, can't you just—just stop being a girl, and change the color, or something?"

Merlin looks, questioningly, at Guinevere.

Guinevere nods. "Go on, then, Merlin."

Merlin's eyes flare the now-familiar gold, and the cloak's bold plum melts at once down to deepest blue, like the last of a candle's wax burning out. "Erm," Merlin says, awkwardly, a pink tinge stealing over his pale cheeks, "it's—it's a bit small, d'you mind if I—if I—?"

"Whatever you need to do with it, Merlin," Guinevere assures him.

"Yes," Arthur says, "and for God's sake, hurry up."

Merlin scowls at him, even as the cloak broadens out in the shoulders and unrolls almost a full twelve inches at the hem. He shrugs off his jacket, and tugs the cloak on in its place. There's still miles of silver thread, glistening lightly all around the edges of the cloth, but Merlin doesn't seem to mind that so much. He shakes his shoulders a bit, until the cloak's fully unfurled, and the bottom drags the ground behind him.

"Tuck it up a bit more," Arthur tells him. "It's too long."

"It's fine," Merlin says. "I'll launder it and put it back to normal when I'm done." He murmurs a few gibberish words under his breath, and a couple of the leeches peel off his trousers and flop to the floor.

Arthur wrinkles his nose. "You're scrubbing that up later," he says. "And do something about your hair. You look like you've got a forest trying to grow in there."

Merlin rolls his eyes, but he makes all the twigs and leaves and hay drop from his dark locks. Arthur half-expects a squirrel or something to pop out before he's done.

"There," Merlin says, a bit sourly, "can we go now?"

"Merlin," Guinevere says, "please, change your trousers."

"And get rid of the scarf," Arthur says.

Merlin clutches at the red cloth at his throat like a lady of the court might grasp at her fine jewelry. "My mother made me this!"

"Oh, let the scarf stay, Arthur," Guinevere says, "it's not doing any harm."

"Fine, but get the flowers out of it."

"Oh," Merlin looks very disappointed, "but the cult gave them to me."

Arthur turns, slowly, on his heel to look round at Merlin again. He didn't hear that right. "The—the cult?" Nope. No. No way. He didn't hear that right.

Merlin forlornly plucks a wilted daisy from the scarlet loop round his neck. "The cult," he explains, "see, they live in the Darkling Woods—I didn't mean to get mixed up with them, except now they think I'm their god in mortal form, and they won't leave me alone." He lets out a deep, world-weary sort of sigh, like entire cults thinking he's a god in mortal form is an everyday occurrence.

"I—I'm sorry," Arthur says, "Merlin, what the hell?!"

"I mean, it's not all bad," Merlin says, thoughtfully, as he takes a purple aster out of his scarf, too. "They always give me lots of flowers, and this time, they'd woven me up this crown of leaves, it was really quite sweet. Anyway, I'm trying to convert them, except, not to a religion."

Arthur's head begins to throb. "Merlin," he says, "please tell me you do not have a cult."

"Yes," Merlin says. "But a nice cult. Mostly, they just write poems about my greatness, and feed me lots of chicken. It's quite lovely, actually. You could stand to do a little more of that, you know."

"Please just change your trousers," Arthur chokes out, and promptly collapses in the nearest chair.

Notes: Okay, this one takes some explaining, I admit. The day Arthur lifts the ban on magic is going to be like a HUGE deal, right, and I just couldn't shake the feeling that this particular topic needed... more, I guess, than what I gave it in Occasion, so I just sort of sat down and. word-vomited.

The decision to have Guinevere loan Merlin a cloak, rather than Arthur, which would make far more sense, and be far more convenient - Merlin and Arthur are far closer in height than Merlin and Guinevere - is just that Arthur doesn't seem to have more than his one Camelot-red cloak, and his ceremonial one, of course, and I think the court would take far more offense to a servant wearing the king's cloak than the queen's, as Gwen started as a servant herself, so there's not so much of a... divide there, I guess? Also, Merlin doesn't ever seem to give a shit about gender constraints in the series - he doesn't really care when Arthur calls him a girl, and he only bothers to explain that he has no plans to wear the dress he steals for Freya because he wants to avoid unnecessary attention. Also, when he had to disguise himself as the Dolma, bitch didn't hesitate to get dolled up. I don't think Merlin necessarily has much of an issue with feminine stereotypes being applied to him.