[ He unconsciously leans into the touch, focusing on it and centring himself again. They're in his kitchen, eating his food, and taking it easy. Nothing else. Nowhere else.

Arthur kisses Merlin's forehead and pulls away to bring his food and drink over to his table, talking along the way. ]

Yes, well. Your usual grumbling and complaining tends to get in the way, as though making me breakfast is some terribly arduous task.

[ He takes the paracetamol before plopping down in his seat and poking idly at his food. His stomach protests, but it'll be god for him. ]

But this looks good, so I'll overlook you calling me a prat this time.