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Merlin looked uncertainly to Arthur. “Have you ever made bread?” he asked. / “How hard could it be?” Arthur said.
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So lovely
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Merlin scowled at him. “Just wait till my mother hears you’ve despoiled me in a tree.”
Arthur’s mouth twitched. “You could never bear to tell her,” he said, confident.
Deflating, Merlin sighed, “You’re right—that’d be extremely horrible and she’d probably just start crying again.”
Immediate disaster was somewhat of a downer on the post-coital afterglow, but Merlin was still flushed and his mouth still red from kisses, and Arthur found that despite his manservant’s extreme inability to respect the (altered) mood, he was still very endearing, which was just another sign Arthur was lost.
“And then she’d probably force me to make an honest woman of you,” Arthur said, smiling and reaching over to tuck a strand of Merlin’s dark hair behind his ridiculous ears. He still looked disreputably disheveled, but Arthur liked it, for once, knowing he was the one who’d run his hands all underneath Merlin’s wrinkled clothes and made him smile like that, wide and like an idiot.
It grew even wider after Arthur took his hand, sliding their fingers together and tugging them back toward the village. Hunith probably was worried, he thought reluctantly, and even if she weren’t, Arthur felt a surge of mortification imagining what she was imagining. He might be the best warrior in all of Albion but he had a feeling his sword wouldn’t protect him from Hunith if she really did know he’d despoiled her son in a tree
Merlin blushed, allowing himself to be guided more or less meekly, a feat in itself. “I’d love to hear your father’s opinion on that,” he sniped.
“Please, Merlin,” Arthur laughed. “My father thinks I’ve been shagging you for ages.”
***
Merlin’s mother clearly knew of and had accepted her son’s easy virtue, because after they dragged into the village just after dawn, she pretended not to hear the way they failed to be quiet when sneaking back into the cottage. Over breakfast, she gave Merlin a somewhat overcome look and then shot one over at Arthur before excusing herself to go do something violent to one of the hens clucking around in front of the cottage.
“Better them than you, I suppose,” Merlin said meditatively, and Arthur crossed his legs one over the other as he heard the chicken Hunith had captured begin screaming. “Definitely better them than you.”
There was a ripping noise and the chicken shrieked again.
“Dear God,” Arthur said, “what’s she doing to it?”
Merlin glanced out the window, winced dramatically, hissed through his teeth, and then turned back round to Arthur, pasting a smile to his face as he said, “Oh, nothing.”