Wanderer's Words | Gwaine Fic {Merlin}

[turquoisetumult]

Title: Wanderer's Words
Rating: PG
Characters: Gwaine, Merlin
Genre: character study, friendship
Word Count: 1,130
Summary: {The thing with Gwaine is nobody believes a word he says.} At various points of Series 3, Gwaine reflects on his growing friendships, particularly with Merlin, and what that means for his lifestyle.
Author’s Notes: Loosely written for tumblr’s MerlinMemoryMonth prompt “favorite companionship/bonding moment.” Not gonna lie, this fic is kind of all over the place, but I just really love and miss Gwaine! I hope I did him justice.

 

 

The thing with Gwaine is nobody believes a word he says.

No one thinks him intentionally malicious or deceitful; simply too playful for his own good.

To innkeepers, he’s a scalawag that tells falsehoods to entertain the crowd and gain more drink. To women: a shameless philanderer, hoping to garner a dame’s attention and skirt with pretty but empty promises.  Most nights, he is so inebriated (reveling in the freedom of the ale, amber and saccharine) that every admission is interpreted as nothing more than a drunken jest and half-truth.

In reality, Gwaine is the most honest man he knows. Honestly.

So when Merlin’s arm is snug around his back, dragging Gwaine past the stairs and into the safety of a cushioned bed (however lumpy it may be), and he announces that Merlin’s the best friend he’s ever had, Gwaine is being utterly sincere.

 

Of course, Merlin agrees with him and quips that he is surely one of many. (Gwaine rears his head and laughs, heartily and vociferously, hoping this will mask the small slight he feels at Merlin’s dismissal of his sentiment. Their moment continues with talk of absent fathers and apathetic kings and Gwaine thinks that even if Merlin doesn’t yet consider him a friend in the strictest sense of the word, he still treats him as one, and that’s good enough for him.)

Months later, after a daring escape of a tavern brawl, Gwaine is by Merlin’s side once more. He is sober this time and in the solitude of the night, by the warmth of the crackling fire, he voices his feelings again. Gwaine is there, about to potentially face aggressive, carnivorous creatures (no, he reminds himself, they had agreed on pheasants; very large pheasants), because his friend needs his help. Merlin doesn’t even need to explain what help he needs and for what purpose; Gwaine will be there regardless.

Merlin vows that he’d return the favor. Outwardly Gwaine says, “Well, I hope so,” accepting the man’s promise with ease, but when he relaxes the tension in his frown that he didn’t even realize was there, he realizes he is secretly grateful for the reassurance. “You’re the only friend I’ve got,” he adds with a shrug of his shoulders and not a trace of sarcasm on his visage.

The moment of solemnity does not last long as Merlin retorts, “I’m not surprised.” Gwaine half-chuckles and allows the shrieks of the over-grown pheasants to distract them. The servant had left the chatterer speechless and it pleases Gwaine as much as it surprises him.

Weeks pass and he finds himself in the slave trader’s pit. Unsurprisingly, he encounters Merlin and Arthur. He supposes he has a knack for drawing these two wherever he goes lately. That, or the prat prince and his overly magnanimous manservant make decisions as equally stupid as his.

He doesn’t know why he follows Arthur and Merlin on their quest when they when break free from Jarl’s imprisonment. Arthur may be a good and respectable man, but he is absolutely insufferable to be around for extended periods of time. And from the sound of it, this Cup of Life does not hold any mead, ale, or wine and really, that’s the only cup that Gwaine has ever been after.

Still, he has to admit, it is much more enjoyable to deal with an insufferable Arthur if Gwaine himself is the cause of it; indeed, it’s great fun to rile up the prince. As annoyed as Merlin claims to be with their bickering, he catches him snicker beneath his breath more than once during their trails. And because he’s a candid man, Gwaine has to admit that he’s never been one to turn down an adventure. How can he not invite himself along?

Days later, in a cold and dusty citadel, he kneels before the crowned heir of Camelot and mutely accepts the knighthood he is bestowed. The sword grazing his shoulders feels like a load dissimilar to any he’s known. He is partly stunned by Arthur’s generosity, and yet oddly … honored. Mostly, he’s conflicted. How is he expected to surrender the life of the vagabond when it’s all he’s ever known?

His whole life - Gwaine’s entire belongings fit into a knapsack.

He never minded. He was not one for possessions. His family lost them all when his father died and he was too young to grow accustomed to them. Penniless and without property of her own, his mother could no longer stay in Carleon. They traveled frequently throughout neighboring kingdoms in hopes of his mother finding steady work.

They usually stayed long enough to learn names, but nothing more. No home settled, no friendships brokered. All the better for it, Gwaine would think. The people would surely have gotten sick of his face (and his antics) quickly enough.

Merlin once told him that he couldn’t keep living the way he had, hopping from one place to another, making it his life’s mission to essentially drink from and piss in every tavern in every kingdom. Gwaine had replied with a gleeful, “Yeah, but it’s fun trying.”

Now he has the opportunity to stay. He knocks mugs with those two ridiculously tall knights – the prim and proper one with blonde curly hair and the quiet one who Gwaine knows has more mischief in him than he’s letting on. (He’s sure to make note of that.) The ale spills a bit over his fingers in the motion. Goodness knows, drink has made its way in washing Gwaine’s body more often than he’d care to admit, but something about this particular drip feels unusual. He supposes it still marks the start of a brawl, but it’s a whole different sort of clash. One that he wouldn’t miss for the world.

Gwaine sets down his mug and raises his sword (a knight’s sword; it’s still hard for him to believe) for inspection. Esmeralda’s (no, Gwen, he corrects himself; perhaps it’s time to dispel his reputation of the jester) brother clasps his hand on his shoulder as he passes by. Gwaine glances up, locks eyes with Merlin for a second. He sends him a goofy, warm smile that makes Gwaine shake his head, imperceptibly smirking all the while.

Just like that, a decision’s been made. (He’s never been one to weigh pros and cons. Thoughts thwart action, his mother used to say. And perhaps she may have said that to temper his impulsivity, but isn’t it just like Gwaine to entertain only the meaning that suits him instead.)

No one will believe him if he were to make an announcement. So Gwaine thinks that once they reclaim Camelot, he’ll stow away his knapsack in some nook or cranny of that colossal castle and let that speak for itself.