"I was right." Which in Arthur's fever addled imagination was all that mattered at that point. Everyone had ganged up on him, and he had been right. He buried his nose into his pillow, mashing his cheek into it until the air he was breathing in was as warm and humid as his body felt cold and shivery.
Arthur glared balefully at Merlin when he came into sight again, still fussing even when Arthur had told him not to. No matter how nice it was, or how easy the stilted, mainly one-sided conversation was going Arthur knew Merlin would leave once he was sure Arthur wasn't about to do something irrational like fall off the bed and try to escape.
He coughed roughly and groaned, because he didn't whimper, he did not and buried himself under his blanket up to his chin. Merlin would take care of him. Arthur trusted him to do it.