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‘Baldrick, get off the bloody bed!’ Edmund barks.
Prince Regent is gone. Not dead, of course — likely just on a binge, stuffing his face with desserts at parties and washing it all down with laudanum. This is how his servants ended up in the royal bedchamber.
‘Oh come on, Mr. B!’ Baldrick says, hopping on the bed with a giant smile on his face. ‘Just a few more minutes!’
‘And how many minutes is that exactly?’ Edmund asks. This might have been a mistake, as Baldrick would need to learn how to count for this.
Perplexed, Baldrick stares into the distance. Eventually, he manages an unsure ‘Three?’
‘All right, how many fingers is that?’
Baldrick stops jumping and examines his fingers like it’s the first time he’s seen them. Again, it takes quite some time. So much, in fact, that Edmund begrudgingly has the time to acknowledge that he’s the happiest he’s ever seen him; which obviously doesn’t say much.
‘That many?’ his dogsbody finally asks, raising two fingers. Edmund rubs the bridge of his nose and sighs.
‘Fine, go on,’ he says, sitting down on a nearby chair as he watches Baldrick jump around and do amateur pirouettes for a few minutes. When one of them leaves him too dizzy, he flops onto the soft bed, spreading his arms out as if hugging it with a dreamy expression on his face.
‘That’s nice, innit?’ Baldrick murmurs into the gold brocade. ‘I can’t believe people sleep on this.’
‘They don’t. It’s just the posh git.’
‘But Mr. Blackadder, I thought you said you’d donate your kids to be a part of the ruling class.’
‘Kidneys, Baldrick. Albeit, if I did have children I would donate them as soon as they are born.’
‘That’s very kind of you, sir.’
Edmund shakes his head. Looking at Baldrick’s stupid naive face should make him feel nothing, but there’s always been a tiny fond spot just for him. Tinier than a grain of sand. Sometimes he even wonders if Baldrick secretly understands sarcasm and is doing this solely to entertain him. Before he immediately brushes it off, of course.
‘Let’s go, Baldrick,’ Edmund says, getting up. To his surprise, the smaller man stays where he is, facing away; even snapping fingers next to his ear seems to be pointless. ‘When was the last time you cleaned your ears? Better question — have you ever cleaned your ears?’
The only response he gets is a cranky ‘hmph’.
‘For God’s sake, Baldrick.’
‘I think you’ll find that it’s Prince S. Baldrick to you,’ he quips, raising his head with a smug look on his face.
‘I think you’ll find that I won’t hesitate to bash your thick head against this bed frame,’ Edmund hisses and gets closer, making Baldrick lean back until he’s on his elbows.
‘Talking back to me, are you?’ he adds. The words are bitter and sweet like treacle, leaving Baldrick light-headed. Unable to stop himself, he smiles a little, excited about the attention. However negative, that doesn’t detract from it one bit.
‘Sod off,’ Baldrick whispers, pausing between the words. This turns out to be the final straw.
Whatever he thinks was going to happen does not, in fact, happen; because he ends up being dragged to the bathroom by his ear.
‘Very well, let’s wipe that smirk off your face,’ Edmund says, eerily casual. He reaches for a pearly bar of soap. The dish it’s in is decorated with gilded swirls, no doubt a victim of Prince George’s lack of taste. With a hand on his loyal dogsbody’s shoulder, Edmund guides him to the floor until he kneels.
Suddenly remorseful, Baldrick remembers the last time soap was used as a punitive measure: Edmund scrubbed his face with a coarse soapy sponge. For a while. It hurt immensely, but at least his skin was smooth for weeks.
‘Sir—’
Before he could protest further, Edmund’s hand is on the back of his neck, keeping Baldrick in place as he shoves the bar of soap in his mouth. Baldrick gags as it slides against his tongue. The sweet smell turns out to be nothing more than a cruel joke; bitter foam drips out of Baldrick’s mouth like he’s a rabid dog.
‘You can apologise now,’ says Edmund, looking down at him like the lowest form of life he is. Baldrick feels a pang in his heart at the sight — the half-lidded dark eyes practically peering into his soul, the towering shadow consuming everything around him. He rapidly bats his wet eyelashes, feeling the tears prickling his eyes, and tries his best to gurgle out an apology. Edmund rolls his eyes at the failed attempt, but lets him go. Now that he can, Baldrick doubles over and struggles for air, desperately trying to spit out the mess in his mouth and throat. Then he retches. A lot. It would be more grotesque if not for the few bubbles floating around.
‘You should vomit a few times,’ Edmund says, holding back Baldrick’s hair as he follows the advice. ‘Good.’
Baldrick feels a little weak in the knees. The blood rushes to his head, filling it with a warm buzz. He’ll eat as much soap as he needs to, if it means that he’ll get to have this again.
As if reading his thoughts, Edmund clears his throat and stops. Baldrick tries to say something that would make him stay, but the only thing that comes out of his mouth is a wet cough. Bollocks.
Edmund walks out of the bathroom, stepping over him. ‘Wash the duvet cover when you’re done or throw it out.’ As the sound of his steps disappears, Baldrick huffs a laugh; a glossy strand of of spit hangs off his lip.
It’s nice to feel needed.