snowdarkred

Title: Eggs and Bread
Author:

snowdarkred
Word Count: ~1.1K
Pairings: Arthur/Merlin, a hint at Morgana/Gwen
Rating/Warnings: G, obscene amounts of fluff
Author's Note: This is my second Merlin (BBC) fic. My friend Melate suggested I write more angsty legend-twisting. I didn't. Instead I write 1K of pure fluff so sweet it'll give you a toothache.

Summary: Modern!AU. Fluff. Merlin makes Arthur breakfast.

Eggs and Bread

Merlin wakes up when sunlight peeks through the curtains. Beams of it shine in the air like thick ropes, and Merlin stays motionless for a while, watching the dust motes dance as the city wakes up. But Merlin isn't the kind of person who likes to be motionless for long, and it's not long after he wakes that he gets up and finds some relatively clean clothes to wear around the flat.

(He winds up in a pair of Arthur's old sweatpants and nothing else, because he can't find a damn shirt anywhere, unless he wants to parade around in one of Arthur's business button downs—and wouldn't Arthur get a kick out that. The pants slide every which way on his hips, threatening to fall down at the slightest shimmy. Merlin sighs and finds an apron in the kitchen instead of continuing his clothes rummage.)

His stomach growls, and Merlin remembers about the previous night—about how Uther had taken them out to one of those outrageously expensive restaurants that barely deserve the name. All they do is serve tiny master pieces, which is wonderful for the sake of the art of cooking or whatever, but absolutely horrible when it comes to actually providing substance. He'd left hungry, and when he and Arthur had returned to their flat, they'd gotten...distracted before either of them could eat again.

Breakfast sounds like a great idea.

Merlin gets out a pan, some eggs, and a loaf of bread. He opens up the spice cabinet and nearly knocks the whole thing out looking for the sugar and cinnamon. He digs a fork out of the cutlery drawer, the spatula from its hanging hook, and a large roll of clean paper towels from the bottom of the cupboard. He places everything on the pristine counter, along with some butter, a knife, and two plates; he moves the muffin bin to the island, where it won't get it the way.

He cracks three eggs into the bowl, closing his eyes at the familiar crunch of breaking egg shell. He first learned how to make French toast from his mother, when he was just a boy. She would let him stand on a stool right beside the stove-top, just so that he could watch the special alchemy that is cooking. He remembers those days as being full of laughter and wonder and happiness and food. He misses her, sometimes; it's hard to find the time to visit. He makes a mental note to look at his work schedule and see if he could squeeze any more time off.

He mixes some sugar and cinnamon into the bowl with the eggs and swishes it all together with the fork. Merlin tries to be quiet, since Arthur is sleeping in the next room, and the man just doesn't get nearly as much sleep as he should, but the fork clinks softly against the edges of the bowl anyway. A quick glance assures him that he had in fact closed the door to the bedroom.

When Merlin cooks, he tends to zone into his happy place. He enjoys cooking enough that Arthur has tried to get him to enroll in classes at the local school, but Merlin refuses every time. He likes what he does now, and besides, he doesn't want to learn whatever it is that makes most chefs these days torture their food into new and strange forms. Arthur claims that it will just be an experiment, but Merlin doesn't want to take the chance of arriving at class only to discover the mind-control machine set up just inside the door.

He scrapes out a teaspoon of butter and flicks it into the pan. He flips the gas stove on and pushes the melting dairy product around with the spatula until a thin layer covers the surface. There's a whisper of a sizzling sound, like someone lowering their voice on the other side of the room. Merlin begins cooking in earnest.

He grabs a slice of bread, dips in in the egg mix until it's completely covered, and then he shakes some more cinnamon onto it just to be sure. He holds the dripping bread by its edges and gently places it on the pan. Tiny popping joins the faint sizzle, and Merlin smiles happily as he prepares the second slice. Once it's on the pan as well, he flips the first one with the spatula, proud of the perfect color on the cooked side.

From there, it's a balancing act, knowing when to flip one piece of bread rather than another. He runs out of egg mix after the fourth piece of bread, so he whips up some more using the last two eggs in the carton. And of course he adds more cinnamon, because it wouldn't be French toast if it didn't have the most wonderful of all herbs.

He makes six slices of French toast, three for each of them. There's still a small amount of egg mix left in the bowl, so he pours it into the pan. Arthur hates the leftovers, says they're way too sweet from all the cinnamon and sugar Merlin puts in, but Merlin likes it just fine. The pan is hot; it only takes a few seconds to scramble the eggs and put them on the corner of his plate.

Merlin gets out the syrup and rescues the muffins from the island. Gwen had made them yesterday, and they were, as usual, to die for. Morgana was very, very lucky to have her. Merlin plates the muffins on separate saucers, two for each person, with the rest set aside for later, when he hears the familiar creak by the refrigerator.

“I know you're there,” he says, not bothering to turn around. A light chuckle answers him, and he feels a hint of warm breath at the back of his neck. Arthur hums softly to himself, moving in closer to Merlin and wrapping his arms around him from behind. His hands find their way into the apron's pockets. He set his chin on Merlin's shoulder, examining the fruits of Merlin's labor, before ducking his head and tucking his face against the crook of Merlin's neck.

Merlin can feel Arthur's smile press into the curve of his shoulder; it's a small spot of warmth against his bare skin. The sensation sends tingles up and down his spine, and Merlin shivers lightly in spite of himself.

“None of that,” he protests, though there's laughter in his voice. “I made breakfast.”

“I can see that,” Arthur replies. “Mmm, thank you.”

“You are most welcome,” Merlin grins, before he turns around to steal a kiss.