When the sun starts to rise in earnest and yet Merlin still has not left his room, Gaius worries. Walking to Merlin's room door, calling out something about not wanting to be late again, Gaius is always scared of what he'll find when he swings that door open.

Most days, Merlin is there in bed. Sometimes he fights to keep the covers over himself and catch a few more minutes of desperately-needed sleep. Sometimes he's already swinging his legs out of bed, rushing around the room to get ready. But other times, he lays in bed and doesn't move. He's pale, maybe sweaty, and Gaius knows right away that something's wrong. That he's going to have to spend a better part of the day worrying incessantly over his sick ward, calming down concerned knights and an upset king, and placating the anxieties of the queen.

Sometimes, the situation is worse. Sometimes Merlin isn't there at all. These moments are the ones that Gaius dreads most. For until Merlin returns, Gaius cannot help but picture various, horrifying scenarios. Gaius hates this unknown. The only way Gaius knows that Merlin is well, unharmed, alive, is when he walks back through the door, a cheeky smile on his face, or an expression that is burdened with grave decisions, heavy thoughts.

Today, just as the sun nears that dreaded position in which Gaius must open that door, said door bursts open and Merlin saunters out with an infectious grin. Gaius smiles back as Merlin grabs the bit of toast left out for him and sweeps out the door, whistling a little.

Today looks like a good day, Gaius thinks.