A/N: Wow, so this is a fossil. I wrote it... something like three or four years ago and just never got around to publishing it, until I was digging through my old files (bless having the same laptop for six years now) and thought to myself "I wonder what that is." Turns out, it was this. So I brushed it off, revised it, and now I'm slapping it up here for y'all's enjoyment. So. Enjoy.

Arthur didn't want to wake up; he really, really didn't. Unless the morning was spent in bed, he wasn't a morning person. But it seemed that, in all opposition to what he considered reasonable, Merlin was. No, as he thought about it that wasn't strictly true though- Merlin was more of an all the time person. It was a rarity to see the servant without that stupidly large grin on his face.

Arthur frequently joked that it was because the boy was deaf as well as mute but the look Merlin would always shoot him after that comment was enough to prove him wrong. Anything Arthur might have been thinking about popped out of his head, replaced by vigorous cursing as Merlin flung open the curtains and gave Arthur his morning pat on the shoulder- though honestly it was somewhere between a pat and a smack. Okay, so it was much closer to a smack. Whatever.

He sat up with an ill-concealed grumble to see the servant grinning down at him. "Have I ever told you that your attitude in the morning is absolutely repulsive?" Merlin only nodded and smiled wider. "Good. I just wanted to make sure," he replied sourly. The brunet laughed- an odd sight to see when he remained totally silent. He moved his hands rapidly.

Good morning to you too. He kept signing, but much quicker, and Arthur held up a hand to stop the flow.

"Merlin," he sighed, "slower please. My brain isn't awake yet." His manservant cocked an eyebrow.

Your brain isn't awake ever. Arthur rolled his eyes.

"Funny, Merlin. Truly you are the pinnacle of wit." Merlin's smile, if possible, grew wider.

I know. Arthur lobbed a pillow in his friend's direction, which the younger boy dodged. He buzzed around the room while Arthur ate his breakfast, thinking of all the reasons he didn't want to go to that council meeting today even though his father was strong-arming him into it. 'It'll be good for your character' or some stupid excuse like that. Merlin caught his eye and he found himself considering his servant, of all things.

Gaius had said once, when Arthur asked, that Merlin could speak, but only under certain circumstances. "It has to be someone he trusts completely, and even then the more upset he gets the less he is able to speak." It didn't make a whole lot of sense to the prince, but then not a whole lot about Merlin made sense to Arthur. He was a walking riddle. Across the room, Merlin sighed heavily as he tripped over something on the floor and Arthur grinned into his drink.

Some things about Merlin were easy to figure out.

The first time Merlin made an actual noise, he was laughing at Arthur. The prince did not appreciate it. Merlin just shook his head at his friend's glare and moved his hands into a new position. He was trying (emphasis on trying) to teach the prince how to sign. At Arthur's next attempt he only laughed harder, shooting the prince what had been officially dubbed 'the idiot grin'.

"What am I saying that's making you enjoy yourself so much?" he asked in exasperation, throwing his hands up. Once Merlin wrote down what he'd been signing, Arthur knew why the servant had been laughing. "Oh. That's unfortunate. How did I turn 'talk' into that?"

You're putting your hands in the wrong place. Let me show you.

It had been a surprise to Arthur just how many people living in Camelot didn't speak. He had known there were some, yes, but he rarely encountered anyone in his daily life who used sign to communicate- until Merlin came along, that is. He had followed the young man into the lower town out of simple curiosity one day and seen him signing to a little boy, and an old man, and then another person, and another.

They had all been so relaxed during these conversations, as opposed to Merlin's frustrated grimaces whenever he had to sign to a speaking person, who usually just looked at him blankly. Even the prince, who he interacted with every day, could only follow him if he went slow and usually ended up missing some anyway. Arthur had never before considered just how frustrating that must be.

"Can you teach me that?" he had asked when Merlin got back. "How to sign, I mean." As much as it begrudged him to admit that he didn't know something the overwhelmingly excited look on Merlin's face made it a little less irritating. Just a little, that was all.

And so that was how they ended up here, with Arthur making rude words on accident and Merlin actually laughing, which made Arthur way happier than it should have because that meant that Merlin was starting to trust him and Arthur was not going to wonder why his manservant maybe trusting him enough to maybe speak to him made him suspiciously pleased. In the meantime, though, he finally mastered the sign for talk, knowing he would probably forget it again and embarrass himself but not really caring. After all, he did have a great teacher.

Merlin was a sorcerer. And Arthur was an absolute moron.

How could he not have realized after two years of ridiculous luck and more ridiculous coincidences that they all happened whenever Merlin was around? And how all of those creatures that could only be killed by magic (the griffin was ringing a distinct bell) suddenly wound up dead through seemingly non-magical means? His first instinct, of course, was to confront the young man but Sir Leon was injured and Arthur had different priorities.

"Merlin," he called, kneeling beside the knight, "get your bag." The warlock's eyes widened and he darted for his horse. It had been a fairly straightforward patrol- right up until they were ambushed by bandits and outnumbered two to one. Of course, the knights of Camelot weren't renowned for no reason and they had fought and won against odds worse than that before.

But they had been caught by surprise this time and the bandits had been better armed and better able to use their arms than the average lot. Arthur had just finished dispatching his most recent opponent when he heard feet crunching in the leaves behind him. He spun around- only to be confronted by thin air as the bandit that was creeping up on him was tossed sideways like a piece of detritus caught in the breeze. The prince had seen Merlin out of the corner of his eye, lowering his hand, and something clicked inside Arthur's brain.

His first instinct, like usual, was reactionary- he was mad enough to spit. Mad that Merlin had lied to him, that he'd started using magic in the first place, that he hadn't trusted Arthur enough to think that maybe the prince would be willing to listen to him. He still won't even speak to you, an oddly reasonable voice replied, how do you expect him to trust you enough to tell you he's a sorcerer? So as much as Arthur wanted to confront his manservant, he decided to wait and watch, to speak to Merlin when things had calmed down.

The fact remained that Arthur knew of a thousand opportunities to do harm to him that Merlin could have taken. Hell, he could have just let Mary Collins stick a knife in him the first week they had met- when Arthur had fought him twice and mocked his muteness, saying things that, when he thought back on them now, made him blush with shame. So the obvious conclusion was that, sorcerer or not, Merlin didn't want him dead. Which was weird, considering, but…

He was jerked out of his thoughts when his name was called from across the clearing, where Merlin was hovering over Leon with Sir Matthew, one of Camelot's older knights, standing above them. "We don't know what the boy's saying," Sir Matthew called over, sounding irritated. Arthur finished tying up the surviving bandit and crouched next to Leon.

Merlin moved swiftly as he cut Leon's trousers away from the slash down the outside of his thigh. He pursed his lips and then made a rapid series of short lines across his palm with his pointer finger and thumb pinched together.

"He needs stitches," Arthur translated. "Can you do that?" Merlin shook his head.

Gaius can, but we need to get him back fast.

Merlin pulled a roll of bandages out of his satchel and lifted the knight's leg gently, motioning to Arthur to keep it elevated, then turned to Sir Matthew and motioned for him to put pressure on the wound. When he had done so Merlin wrapped the bandages around Leon's leg tightly enough to keep the pressure on but not so tight that it would cut off his circulation. After lifting the semi-aware Leon onto his horse and gathering up their prisoner, the patrol headed back for Camelot.

Arthur was more than happy to go to bed that evening knowing that Leon would be fine- and that he had a lot of thinking to do.

By the time the sun rose on Camelot, Arthur would have been willing to bet cold hard cash that he hadn't actually killed that dragon. What it was that had led him to believe Merlin in the first place he wasn't sure, but he suspected a combination of head injury and willful ignorance. He was awake before Merlin got to his room that morning, surprising the servant to see the curtains pulled back already. He turned to Arthur, eyebrows raised. Didn't sleep well?

Arthur tapped the side of his head: thinking. Merlin looked surprised that Arthur had replied in sign; normally the prince only signed when he was practicing with Merlin, and never before he'd been awake for at least an hour. He took it in his stride and smirked at Arthur.

Dangerous, that. Arthur lifted an eyebrow.

Funny, he answered sarcastically. I need to speak with you. The use of signs and the serious look on Arthur's face wiped away Merlin's smirk and he perched on the edge of the proffered chair nervously.

Is something wrong? He began looking the prince over, furrowing his eyebrows in concern. Arthur shook his head and Merlin visibly relaxed. Why are you signing then?

I don't want anyone to overhear us. Hard to do if we're not talking. For all his early slips and stumbles (he still remembered the 'talk' debacle) after a year and a half of daily practice Arthur could carry on a conversation in sign language as well as he could in English. Merlin's nervous frown had returned at his words and Arthur decided, for all the petty vengeance he could have taken (and oh, but the temptation was there), not to leave Merlin in limbo any longer. I saw you yesterday.

The color drained from the warlock's face, leaving him practically translucent as he gazed at the prince with eyes doing a poor job of hiding their terror. I don't know what you're talking about, sire, he signed shakily, only confirming Arthur's assessment of his anxiety level. The idiot wouldn't call him 'sire' if the alternative was midnight stable duty in January unless he was panicking about something.

Yes you do, Merlin, he replied, putting the same emphasis on the sign that he would have on the spoken word. That had been the first thing the prince had mastered when he was learning. He made sure to keep a hint of a smile on his face as he continued, not wanting the manservant to bolt. Either that or Camelot's bandits have learned how to fly.

Merlin was definitely trembling now, signs long forgotten as he clenched his hands in his lap. Finally he managed to control himself well enough to make one sign- I'm sorry. He repeated it three or four times before Arthur reached across the table and grabbed his wrist. He made sure Merlin was looking him in the eyes before he carefully replied,

It's okay. The younger man looked at him with wide eyes, hardly daring to believe that Arthur was being truthful and it struck the prince with a combination of sadness and a little bit of hurt that 'it's okay' was probably the very last reaction Merlin would ever have expected. He made a hesitant sign.

Really? Arthur gave him a smile.

Can you show me something? That was probably the only thing the warlock had been expecting even less than acceptance, to be asked by the prince of the most magic-hating realm in all the five kingdoms to show him some magic in his private quarters over breakfast. His jaw dropped and he stared at Arthur in shock before it processed that the request was real and not just a hallucination but once that made it through he broke out into the widest, goofiest smile Arthur had ever seen on him- which was saying quite something. He pursed his lips and thought for a moment before he blew on his pointer finger gently and ran it in a straight line along the table.

Across the foot or so he had swept over, flowers burst out of the wood, flowers Arthur (even with his limited knowledge of botany) was quite certain couldn't occur in nature- Camelot red buttercups, daisies the same shade of green as Morgana's eyes, a few snow white violets, and a rose that was the same color as the sky outside.

They were so unnatural that they looked perfect, sprouting up out of the polished wooden table like that was where they were meant to be, and Arthur found himself rendered speechless for a couple minutes, marveling at what he'd just seen. Of all the things Merlin could have shown him- flashing light shows or jolts of the earth or levitating object- he had picked flowers. Finally, the prince looked up at his manservant, who was watching him tentatively. He cracked a grin, knowing that he'd made the right choice by keeping Merlin's magic to himself.

Flowers, Merlin? he signed, chuckling. You really are a girl, I knew it. Merlin's clear laugh lit up the room, louder than Arthur had yet heard it, and it was soon joined by the blonde's deeper laugh as they both fought for control of their chuckles. Finally, Arthur got a straight face back. "And what am I to do with these then?" he asked, going back to speaking now that there was no danger of anyone overhearing something treasonous. Merlin shrugged playfully, eyes glinting.

I don't know, Arthur. Give them to Gwen? Arthur blushed scarlet.

"Oh, shut up Merlin."

I'm not actually talking right now. The warlock stood up to take the breakfast tray back to the kitchen and begin his daily chore workout while Arthur attended to some business with his father. He stopped in the doorway and turned to face Arthur before he left, smile timid and eyes alight with gratitude. Thank you.

One week later Arthur had to be up earlier than usual to ride out with Uther to meet some visiting lord nobody liked but they had to put up with anyway for propriety's sake. He was meeting the king, staying for dinner, and leaving the next day, and the moment Arthur met him he knew that was more than enough. He skipped the meeting with the most valid excuse he could muster up (he was sure that Uther didn't buy it, but he was a loving enough father that he accepted it anyway) but he had to suffer through the dinner in tongue-biting silence, wishing he could be anywhere else while Uther made the closest equivalent of friendly conversation he could manage.

Merlin hovered in the background as usual, rolling his eyes when he was sure no one could see him except Arthur and ignoring the way the visiting lord (and for that matter the king himself) treated him like a piece of furniture with limbs. Arthur called him over to fill up his goblet for what Merlin counted to be the sixth time and he grimaced in sympathy, signing to the prince that it'll be over soon.

Arthur just sighed imperceptibly and gave the smallest of nods and then proceeded to hold onto his goblet so tightly that his knuckle bones were visible when the lord made what he certainly thought was a witty comment about the usefulness of mute servants. Merlin's eyebrows flickered closer together momentarily but he gave no outward change of facial expression. His hands did all the talking for him, moving through a series of gestures suggesting the lord do something to himself that had Arthur inhaling some of his wine in an attempt to hide his laughter.

"Is everything alright, Arthur?" The king looked his son over, not sure what had provoked his sudden coughing fit.

"Yes father," he reassured him, using his court training to bite back his laughter. "I just drank too quickly is all." He could have sworn he heard his father mutter something along the lines of 'I know that feeling,' too low for anyone to properly catch. Merlin simply drifted back to his place along the wall, back to the lord and lips pursed against his own bubbling laughter.

Fortunately, all parties involved made it through the dinner alive and Arthur found himself wishing that he could maybe fake an injury to avoid having to see the lord off the next morning. But all too quickly, before he could drum up a convenient fall down some stairs, his half gallon of wine caught up with him and he fell asleep not thirty seconds after he lay down.

He was woken the next morning by the curtains opening themselves as Merlin plopped his breakfast tray down on the table with a clatter most people reserved for handling armor. Arthur groaned into his pillow and rolled over to face Merlin before the boy could give him his morning smack only to see the servant hovering by his bed bursting with nervous energy. "Good morning, idiot," he grumbled, doing his best not to grin. Merlin's smile, on the other hand, could have split his face if it got any wider and the prince looked up at him somewhat warily, wondering what his best friend was about to do.

"Good morning to you too, prat."