Title: Let's Hope They're Not Allergic
Summary: Aliens make them do it.
Notes: Written for the tropes challenge at armer_gayms. I'm slightly embarrassed to associate myself with this fic, but hopefully it'll amuse you lot.
"Right, what's your plan?" asks Arthur.
"I need to know more about them before we can think of a plan," Merlin says. He's referring, of course, to the strange troll-like beings who have captured them… here. Wherever 'here' is. All the walls consist of glass, but oddly durable glass, as Arthur's failed attempts to break it have proved. Some sort of light casts a dim glow about the whole room, but Merlin can't quite locate the source.
"We have procured a human pair," says an unfamiliar voice, and Merlins whirls to stare out the glass at two of the not-trolls, who have just entered the room surrounding the glass chamber. The first is gesturing toward the two humans.
"Are you certain?" inquires the second, who seems to be wearing a significant amount of extra ornamentation and speaks with a female-sounding voice. "They are not engaging in courtship rituals."
For a moment Merlin wonders what court she's referring to, and then suddenly the truth sinks in. "But no," he sputters before he can think twice about it. "We're not a pair! We don't –"
He never gets to finish. As he's speaking, both of the not-trolls reach for their oddly-shaped weapons, and Arthur clamps a hand over his mouth. "Merlin," he hisses, "I'm the prince here. I'll handle negotiations."
The not-trolls have continued their conversation, apparently unconcerned with what their captives have to say. "…will have to resort to the pheremone spray. I dislike engineering such an encounter, though."
"Better engineered than none at all," the first not-troll replies. He sounds resigned.
"What are they talking about?" Merlin whispers. "What are they?"
"Shut up," Arthur says. "Listen."
"Very well, then," the second not-troll sighs, and makes an odd, chime-like sound against the outer wall. Merlin smells something in the air, that grows after a minute – something vaguely musky, though not a particularly familiar scent.
He glances over at Arthur, to ask if he smells it too – but gets distracted, suddenly, by the fact that Arthur is suddenly right next to him. The scent on the air grows, but Merlin can also smell Arthur, vaguely sweaty and improbably attractive. What was he going to say, again? His thoughts are slurring, like he's drunk. His skin feels too warm, his breath too quick, and his heart is beating doubletime. And – yes – he's definitely more than a little aroused. He'd wonder what brought that on, but currently he's got other concerns.
Mostly, he's worried about how abruptly eager he is to get it on, with Arthur, in front of who knows what kind of magical beings. Merlin is fairly certain this doesn't usually happen. Well – not much.
"Arthur…" he begins, fully intending to point this out, but he never gets the chance. As if spurred into action by that one word, Arthur surges forward and kisses him like – like...
At that point, Merlin runs out of both similes and trepidation.
Outside the glass cell, two scientists nod to each other, satisfied with a job well done.
("We're never speaking of this again," Arthur says, once they've returned to Camelot, after lifting his face from the bucket of soapy water he's been scrubbing it in for the past ten minutes. "Ever," he adds.
"Yes, sire," Merlin agrees emphatically.
"Take this bucket away, and avoid the courtyard. Morgana's down there."
"Thank you," Merlin says, and flees.)