Disclaimer: Merlin is not mine.

No.

No.

Hell no.

He had not done it again. There was no way that he had done it again. If he had done it again, Gwaine would have to kill him. Gwaine didn't want to kill him, but he felt almost obligated to throw some sort of particularly violent temper tantrum. If it were of the mortal variety, would he really be the one to blame? After all, his personal motto of the past few months had become fairly well known amongst his peers. "If you fool a man once, shame on him. If you fool a man twice, he gets to beat you to death with a stick."

Or something like that.

But he didn't want to have to beat Merlin to death with a stick, and not least because he wasn't sure if he'd be able to get within ten feet of the young sorcerer with any apparent wrathful intentions without being turned into a frog or radish or something equally undignified. The element of surprise could only take him so far.

But it didn't matter, because Merlin had not run off without warning again. He had not decided that he was going to leave the castle and not tell Gwaine and not tell anyone where the hell he was going and Arthur's new manservant was not correct when he'd babbled at Gwaine to claim that Merlin was on the verge of flying off on a dragon on what was probably a very stupid and very poorly thought out mission of some sort. No, Merlin was not doing these things, because no one had exiled him this time and he would have had no good legitimate excuse for leaving without telling anyone a damn thing.

And he had not taken Arthur with him.

He had not done these things, because if Merlin had done these things, then Merlin was an idiot and Gwaine would be mad and he wouldn't have Arthur around to blame it all on anymore. From the impression that Gwaine had gotten when they'd spoken a few moments earlier, Guenevere herself had no idea that Merlin and Arthur were even up to anything. She had send for Gwaine, half frantic and half exasperated, because Arthur's manservant had shown up, white and shaking and mumbling something about breaking his sacred servant's vow to the extent that even patient Guinevere looked on the verge of finding a stick of her own with which to beat the servant to death, talking about the king getting ready to ride a dragon and run off on a journey and she was hoping that it wasn't true because that would have been so stupid and annoyingly characteristic of the pair of them that it was annoyingly feasible as fact and Guinevere had shared this all with Gwaine to deal with because she had been feeling unwell all day and now it was Gwaine's problem and Gwaine was about one more offense away from embarking on a quest to find a good beating-friends-to-death stick.

Why would Merlin want to leave anyway? Arthur had practically redesigned the whole political system of Camelot to accommodate Merlin. He could complain about Arthur not appreciating him all that he wanted, but if Merlin didn't see what Arthur had done for him, he was a fool. Magic was legal. Merlin was declared no longer a traitor and allowed back to court. Hell, he'd been welcomed back to court and given a position on Arthur's council. He'd been a manservant! Arthur had caught him breaking what had perhaps been the most fundamental of laws in Camelot—proclaiming execution for any practicioners of magic—and within half of a year changed half a dozen laws so that it could all be legal and Merlin could come back and now Merlin was leaving without so much as a wave goodbye?

Again?

And Merlin was going to catch all hell if word spread throughout the kingdom that he'd taken Arthur with him. Half of the population would be screaming "kidnap" so quickly that the idea of sorcerers being anything other than evil that had been becoming more and more popular over recent months would fade as quickly as it had taken for Merlin to anger Gwaine again.

Which, as it turned out, was pretty quickly.

Gwaine sighed and sat down heavily, scratching at the phantom itch in his right arm that always began to tickle at him whenever he thought too long about the stupid acts that Merlin had taken to favoring as of late. It was the arm that he'd burned half to hell in his admittedly shortsighted plan to rescue Arthur—and yes, illogically, Merlin—from the walls of fire that had separated himself and the rest of the knights from the pair. Knowing that Merlin had conjured the flames hadn't been enough to quench the instinct to help his friend in a situation that was clearly fraught with peril, the fact that he had in fact brought the peril into the scenario by his own free will. So, Gwaine followed his instincts and took the most natural course of action.

He stuck his right arm into the wall of magical fire, reaching through, trying to break through the flames to, if not save, at least do his best to go down at the sides of the man whom he had sworn to serve and the man whom he had been able to truly call his first unconditional friend.

Of course, the flames had all but flayed the flesh off of his arm, and he'd spent about half of a minute cursing Merlin for setting a room on fire before realizing that he was more upset with Merlin for the fire than for the magic and that it clearly didn't make a damn bit of difference if Merlin was or was not a sorcerer.

So he'd let Merlin heal him, even as the others in the room—Arthur included—had been noticeably fearful of the newly evident powers of the young man. And now, Gwaine had nothing more than a scar on his right arm, and even that was barely noticeable. He could swing as sword with as much gusto as he had ever been able before, and he was fairly certain that, were there any friends whom he particularly wanted to beat to death with a stick, he'd be able to manage easily enough.

Gwaine threw his head back in frustration, and let out an audible groan that sounded like half of a roar and half of a dry sob combined into a single exhalation. It came out sounding like a particularly loud hiccup.

This did not help to improve his mood.

Of course, Arthur's chambers were probably not the rooms most likely to lift his spirits. Gwaine didn't even really know why he'd chosen the king's chambers for his refuge. He'd left the queen with every intention of seeking out either Arthur or Merlin before they made their rumored escape on the back of the dragon that Merlin had had the arrogance—or at least, lack of foresight—to fly into Camelot, but he hadn't taken two steps out of her chambers before turning and stomping his way into her husband's adjoining rooms, slamming the heavy door satisfyingly behind him. He knew that it was extraordinarily unlikely that he should encounter either of the two men and therefore succeed in stopping or shouting at them, but he didn't have it in him to face them, even one at a time. Strangely, it was easier for him to be angry and bitter and resentful at the idea of the two of them running off than for him to face any real evidence of the fact before it became obvious to everyone else at the same time. It wouldn't have felt like such a personal slight. He wouldn't have felt it the same way, just as how he had been distinctly touched that he had been the knight that the queen had summoned when she'd received word of the possible flight of her husband and his idiot friend.

And he wouldn't have to focus on the fact that what was the most painful wasn't that they were leaving him behind but that they didn't trust him enough to bring him along.

Suddenly overwhelmed with the uncomfortable emotions that always unfortunately accompanied any such heavy feelings as of abandonment and envy, Gwaine found himself grabbing the nearest of Arthur's personal belongings and throwing them, as violently and with as much strength as he possessed, against the wall opposite him, wanting to wreak some sort of havoc against the king, enact some sort of chaos for him to face when he returned, wanting to destroy and break and tear apart and make his mark that he was there and he was effective and that he was worth having around.

He then wished that he had chosen to sit somewhere other than on Arthur's bed. Throwing Arthur's pillows at the walls, no matter how forcefully, did not have the cathartic effect that he'd been hoping for.

Stupid Arthur. Who needed that many pillows anyway? And why did he have a pillow with tassels on his bed? It was bad enough that the king felt the need to sleep with half a dozen pillows. It was just getting embarrassing if he was starting to use decorative pillows.

Then, suddenly, there was a knock on Arthur's door. It was soft, but strangely firm, as though the knocker somehow did not want to make a great deal of noise when requesting entry but intended to enter the room no matter what.

Well, it wasn't Gwaine's room. What should he care who came in? Maybe the knocker also wanted to destroy some of Arthur's possessions and would choose somewhere far more destroyable to sit than on the king's bed.

The mystery supplicant knocked once more, and Gwaine all at once grew suddenly annoyed again. He picked up the red tasseled pillow and threw it through the air toward the door. At the very same instant, the person on the other side decided that he'd had enough with knocking and pushed open the heavy wooden door.

Gwaine therefore received a small amount of satisfaction when the door opened all the way to reveal Merlin just in time for him to be smacked in the chest with the tasseled pillow. The blow wouldn't have hurt him in the slightest, Gwaine knew, but still. It was nice to see.

Gwaine sat up, his heart beating quickly, taken aback despite himself and his warrior's instincts. He didn't speak, not wanting to be the one to break the silence.

Merlin just walked in, his face annoyingly earnest and sincere and Gwaine was just on the verge of forgiving him immediately for whatever he had been planning on doing when he remembered the last time that he had seen Merlin approach him like this.

It had been when they had been reunited for the first time since Merlin's return from exile, for the first time since before Merlin had chosen to leave Camelot—believing his absence to be irreversible—without bidding Gwaine a farewell, for the first time since Gwaine had smuggled him a final stash of ale wrapped up in the crimson curtains that Merlin had hung up in his cell in the dungeons, for the sheer purpose of deliberately annoying Arthur. The last time that Merlin had looked at him as he was now, it had been the first time that they had met, for the second time.

So Gwaine turned his head away from the sorcerer, lay back down once more on the king's bed, and remembered…

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So, this was supposed to be a oneshot of Gwaine and Merlin's first reunion after his return from exile in "Comes Around" after their lack of goodbye in "What Goes Around." It has turned into what will be a mini-series, probably only three or four chapters (and shorter than usual) that will include a flashback to that reunion and set up a bridge to the sequel/third part of "What Goes Around"/"Comes Around," which I have decided that I will be writing. Updates should be quick.

I don't know if this could make any sense to anyone who hasn't read my preceding stories, but I hope so. There was some exposition, as this was originally going to be a modified version of the prologue to Part 3. To those who have read the previous stories (thank you ), I hope that this was more or less consistent with what I have written before.

Reviews would be much appreciated! I wasn't sure if I was going to do this one at all, so I'd love the feedback.

Thank you!