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“That…was not the intended result,” Stiles says.
Scott snorts. “Yeah, no shit.”
The smoke is still dissipating, but the figure in the middle of the conjuring circle is clearly not the beautiful, buxom witch they’ve been trying to trap for hours. Instead there’s a man, naked except for the grey ash he’s covered in, struggling slowly to his feet.
“Hello?” Stiles calls out.
The man turns his head toward them and attempts to say something, but then abruptly begins coughing. There’s really a lot of ash in the circle.
“Sorry about that!” Scott yells at him. The man continues hacking. “Just take your time.” Scott turns to Stiles and lowers his voice. “So is that a new person, or did you just turn the witch into a dude?”
“I did not—” Stiles stops and points emphatically at the guy. “I did the spell perfect, okay? That guy must have messed it up. I called for the nearest witch, and here he is.”
Scott makes a skeptical face that involves some really hilarious duck lips, and Stiles is about to tell him so, when the naked guy straightens up.
Wow. Stiles might possibly head-tilt a little bit, because the man appears to have no shame: he’s all lifted chin and squared shoulders and the kind of solid, triangle-like build that just forces your gaze downward to— well. Stiles’ mouth opens.
“I am not a witch,” the guy announces in a British accent that Lydia would have referred to as posh. “My name is Arthur Pendragon. Who are you?”
“Uh-huh,” Stiles says, eyes fixed on his crotch.
“My name is Scott, and this is Stiles,” Scott says with a pointed elbow to Stiles’ side. “And we had a little accident, but don’t worry, we’ll get you back where you came from, just as soon as we know you’re not dangerous.”
The guy nods, taking this in with surprising equanimity. “I mean you no harm.” He spreads his hands in demonstration.
Scott squints at him, probably taking in his scent and heartbeat, and when Scott turns to Stiles to confer, Stiles nods. The guy doesn’t feel like he has an ounce of magic on him. Which is weird. Stiles knows he did that spell right.
“Okay. We believe you,” Scott says. “We’ll just get the circle ready to send you back.”
When Stiles steps forward to kneel at the line of mountain ash, the guy asks, “The two of you are sorcerers, then?”
“Oh no,” Scott says. “I mean, I’m not. Stiles does the magic stuff; I just watch his back.”
The dude nods again, understandingly.
“Wait,” Stiles says, his brain finally feeling like it’s catching up. “You said your name is Arthur Pendragon? Like…King Arthur? Seriously?”
The guy is sweeping his hands down his torso, trying to dust the ash off his beautiful pecs. “Yes,” he says absently.
“You named yourself after King Arthur.”
“No.”
“Your parents named you after King Arthur.”
“No.” And yeah, that’s definitely a smirk pulling at the edge of the guy’s lips. Stiles narrows his eyes and tries to keep focused despite all the pink skin that’s emerging from under the ash.
“Your parents lived under a rock and had never heard of King Arthur and gave you that name by accident.”
That gets an actual laugh. “I suppose technically that’s true.”
“Technically?”
“Um, Stiles?” Scott says.
The guy—Arthur Pendragon, what the fuck ever—chooses that moment to shake his hair out like a dog, revealing hair that is probably golden blonde when clean.
“Stiles,” Scott hisses, and Stiles tears his gaze away, to see—huh.
“Huh,” Stiles says. The sky has a gone steel grey, clouds rolling ominously in a way that looks unnatural. A spike of lightening makes everything glow eerily for a second, followed by painfully loud CRACK of thunder.
“Don’t worry,” Arthur says cheerfully. “Once he knows you’re not dangerous, he’ll let you go.”
“And who is he?” Scott growls.
Arthur smiles. “As you say. He does the magic stuff; I watch his back.”
*
“He,” of course, turns out to be Merlin. Not jut a random-ass hippie who’s named himself Merlin, but actually, literally Merlin.
Merlin is really pissed that they accidentally kidnapped his boyfriend. But Arthur—who turns out to be actually, literally King Arthur—talks Merlin down from all the homicidal plans that are flitting through his brain, if the look on his face is anything to go by.
“They’re just boys,” Arthur is saying. Scott is staring daggers at the side of Stiles’ face, telegraphing keep your mouth shut, Stiles, for the love of God, as clear as day.
And Stiles does, okay? Through a monumental force of will, he doesn’t say a single word, which is why what happens afterward is obviously not his fault.
*
“And that’s how we ended up here!” Stiles finishes with a flourish.
“Uh-huh.” Derek doesn’t appear to believe him. Or maybe he does; but it’s hard to tell because his expression is upside down.
“This is so your fault,” Scott says, swinging his way and knocking their shoulders together. The magic Merlin had worked on the tree to bend down, twist branches round their ankles, and yank them up to hang upside-down had been frankly awe-inspiring. Someday in the future, Stiles will probably be pleased to have witnessed it. Right now, though, the blood rush is making his head pound.
“So not my fault.”
“You were staring at King Arthur’s ass.”
“Whatever, man.”
Derek sighs. “I’m going to go get a hatchet.”