Arthur's Room, Wayne Manor, Sunday Morning

It would have seemed, at the start of the week, that Merlin had gotten his own room. Strangely enough, it had been somewhat underutilized. ...not that there had been any illicit activities. He'd just been required elsewhere.

See, Arthur got cold during the night, and he really didn't have to justify himself to you, thanks much, he could carry whatever angled bag of bones into his bed as he wanted, so phbbt, or... something like that. Whatever.

We digress.

The point is, he was sleeping. Soundly. He had a pair of hands shoved into his armpits, but that was a kind of manhandling he had grown rather disturbingly used to (even if he did feel very strongly about getting Merlin some mittens before this got any worse) and his nose was somewhere that technically no manly nose had any habit to snuggle into, but.

But.

There were no squirrels. And he was cold. So pish to all that.

[[ for the ears, dude. eta: might be going slightly nws ]]