Fic: The Seven Ages of Sleep
Title: The Seven Ages of Sleep
Rating: Pg-13
Word Count: Approx 1500
Summary: Just as life can be tracked through the Seven Ages of Man, so the journey Merlin and Arthur's relationship can be seen through seven stages...of sleep.
Disclaimer: I own nothing but an overactive imagination. And a computer.
Notes: Thanks to kathkin for the beta. Any mistakes are my own! Warning for off screen OC deaths.
One
The first was a exhausted slump on the sofa in front of the TV, where an adenoidal girl with a thick West Country accent was leading her troupe of performing ferrets through a distinctly underwhelming dance routine in a “I’m-not-really-watching-this-but-the-remote-is-out-of-my-reach” moment. Arthur woke up with his face in Merlin’s armpit and a crick in his neck and decided that sleeping on the sofa and watching Britain’s Pets have Talent Even if Their Owners are Batshit Crazy was detrimental to his health.
The way Merlin smiled at him when he opened his eyes was nice though.
(But that was only a one-off and hardly counts.)
Two
The second (or first if you were to ask Arthur, which no-one ever would unless they wished to hear his diatribe against DFS and it’s neck-injury inducing sofas) lasted a week. It was shortly after Merlin and Arthur had discovered sex (well sex with each other. And it was fantastic), and, as an added bonus, Merlin’s flatmate was away on holiday
They were tearing each other’s clothes off with unrelenting energy, shagging like Duracell Bunnies on speed at every opportunity in every place imaginable, against walls and doors, on desks and floors and then again in bed. They slept where they fell, in a tangle of sweaty limbs amongst filthy sheets.
It all stopped on the seventh day when Merlin woke up shivering in the cool evening air, his bare flesh uncovered, his only decent bed sheet stuck to him in a way no man (or sheet) should have to endure. Arthur woke at Merlin’s hissed curses, smacked his lips thirstily and complained that he was dehydrated. Then he sucked a purple bruise onto Merlin’s inner thigh and asked if Merlin was ready for another round.
(The answer was a squeal as Merlin pulled the remainder of the sheet from his leg.)
Three
The third followed immediately after the second in Merlin’s freshly made bed (second best sheets; the best had been irreparably damaged). Arthur and Merlin, scrubbed and showered, lay under the covers almost nose to nose, breathing in each other’s air and just looking.
Arthur slipped his hand over the angular jut of Merlin’s hip and anchored him close. He’d never studied anyone so intently before, never mapped out their features, never committed every detail to memory. He watched the gentle sweep of Merlin’s eyelashes, blinking slowly, noticed the curve of each one and wondered how many of those tiny, perfect, hairs there were.
(He counted sixty-seven before he fell asleep.)
Four
This ended abruptly when Arthur witnessed some of his colleagues gunned down during an armed bank robbery. He was helpless as he radioed for back up and already too late to save some when he could finally move in …
He would fall asleep in a post orgasmic lethargy and, sometimes, get a decent hour or so before waking with a start, ears ringing with the sound of ricocheting bullets and his own smothered shaky breaths.
Arthur would spend his nights watching Merlin, monitoring the slow, steady, rise and fall of Merlin’s chest, curled next to him, a loose fist grasping a corner of Arthur’s pillow. Arthur’s heart would stutter out an odd rhythm of heavy thuds and gentle squeezes as he went from fear to hope and back again, watching, staring, from the sheer joy of simply being with Merlin, to the horrifying, abject terror at the frailty of flesh and the thought of one day losing him.
It went on for weeks afterwards, after funerals and hospital visits and long dry reports. During the day Arthur managed to bury most of his fears but at night whilst Merlin slept, Arthur propped himself up on one elbow and watched.
Until one night…
“Stop staring at me while I’m sleeping, you creep,” Merlin said into the pillow.
Arthur half choked on a sob-tinged bark of laughter that sounded alien even to his ears. Merlin looked up immediately, “Arthur?” he said in a sleep-thick voice, blinking the confusion from his eyes, before exclaiming “Oh!” and sitting up in a flurry of bedcovers, reaching for Arthur and pulling him roughly into a hug.
Arthur, Arthur, Arthur.
Arthur felt a prickling behind his eyelids and stuffed his face into Merlin’s neck, furiously blinking away tears.
“It’s okay, Arthur, it’s okay.” Merlin was whispering into his ear, burying a hand in Arthur’s hair and stroking circles on the back of Arthur’s head with his thumb. . Arthur curled his fingers tightly into the back of Merlin’s t-shirt and shuddered with weeks of pent-up, pushed-down, fear and grief and anguish, and Merlin never relented, splayed his hand out on Arthur’s back, warm and comforting and solid, didn’t loosen his grasp until Arthur sighed and stilled. Then Arthur pulled back an infinitesimal amount and wiped at the damp smudges around his eyes with the heel of his hand.
“I should have done more,” he said softly.
“You did what you could.” Merlin said, gently stroking Arthur’s back. “You rescued five people.”
“It wasn’t good enough.”
Merlin was silent for a few minutes, allowing Arthur his moment of self-pity. Then, gently, he said, “It was for them.”
Arthur exhaled shakily.
“How long haven’t you been sleeping?”
“Since…” Arthur looked away without finishing.
“Oh Arthur,” Merlin closed the gap between them, tightening his arms around Arthur again. “I’m here, Arthur, I’m here.”
And Arthur knew he was. Ever present, so alive and full of compassion and love and strength, firm and warm and Merlin and Arthur knew he could have these moments of anxiety and weakness because Merlin would be strong enough for both of them.
He couldn’t remember anyone holding him for so long before.
(But he was glad Merlin did).
Five
Arthur didn’t think they had their own sides of the bed until they went away one weekend and he realised that Merlin always slept on the side nearest the door.
He didn’t wake up much during the night any more, but when he briefly did that weekend he found himself almost trapped under Merlin, who had flung an arm and a leg over Arthur, leaning into Arthur as if shielding him with his body from the door and any danger beyond. It was almost comic: wiry, slight Merlin who looked like he might snap in half in a gentle breeze.
(It made Arthur feel safe nonetheless)
Six
It wasn’t deliberate.
Arthur had simply lost track of time and drunkenly stumbled into his flat to find Merlin, tight lipped and white knuckled, sitting at his dining room table, a misshapen candle sputtering into nothingness between two plates of cold, congealing dinner.
Merlin had stood, moving away from Arthur, staring at him with a mix of fury and fear and then met Arthur’s gaze with such hurt and disappointment that it made Arthur’s heart squeeze with guilt. A jumble of words, apologies, entreaties, bubbled up into his mouth but Merlin quelled them with the icy rigidity of his posture, then walked out of the flat without a word.
When Arthur finally poured himself into bed a few hours and a bottle of vodka later, it was empty and cold and wrong without Merlin there. He stared unseeing at the ceiling until the room began to swim, then leant over the edge of the bed and vomited into a wastepaper basket.
(Merlin didn’t fare much better)
Seven
That wasn’t their first argument (and it wouldn’t be their last) but after much pleading and apologising and giving of flowers (because Merlin was a complete girl), all was finally forgiven and the guilt and anger kissed away. They realised that they were prepared to put up with each others flaws because being without one other was unbearable, so much so that Merlin decided to give up his poky flat altogether and moved in with Arthur.
Arthur’s bed was luxurious and soft and huge. It got bigger every time Merlin commented on it (bigger that my bedroom, bigger than my old flat, bigger than Ealdor). Sometimes during the night they’d lose each other amongst the cavernous sheets and have to shuffle around until they found one another again, Arthur stretching along Merlin’s spine, sticking cold feet in between Merlin’s calves and smothering his giggle at Merlin’s hiss of surprise.
Sometimes Merlin would wriggle and wrap and slide himself over and under Arthur until they were a tangle too many arms and legs and pointy elbows.
Usually Arthur woke up with a dead arm or pins and needles in his leg and Merlin puffing hot huffs of air into his neck
(Then Merlin would smile at him and…well maybe it was worth it).
Rating: Pg-13
Word Count: Approx 1500
Summary: Just as life can be tracked through the Seven Ages of Man, so the journey Merlin and Arthur's relationship can be seen through seven stages...of sleep.
Disclaimer: I own nothing but an overactive imagination. And a computer.
Notes: Thanks to kathkin for the beta. Any mistakes are my own! Warning for off screen OC deaths.
One
The first was a exhausted slump on the sofa in front of the TV, where an adenoidal girl with a thick West Country accent was leading her troupe of performing ferrets through a distinctly underwhelming dance routine in a “I’m-not-really-watching-this-but-the-remote-is-out-of-my-reach” moment. Arthur woke up with his face in Merlin’s armpit and a crick in his neck and decided that sleeping on the sofa and watching Britain’s Pets have Talent Even if Their Owners are Batshit Crazy was detrimental to his health.
The way Merlin smiled at him when he opened his eyes was nice though.
(But that was only a one-off and hardly counts.)
Two
The second (or first if you were to ask Arthur, which no-one ever would unless they wished to hear his diatribe against DFS and it’s neck-injury inducing sofas) lasted a week. It was shortly after Merlin and Arthur had discovered sex (well sex with each other. And it was fantastic), and, as an added bonus, Merlin’s flatmate was away on holiday
They were tearing each other’s clothes off with unrelenting energy, shagging like Duracell Bunnies on speed at every opportunity in every place imaginable, against walls and doors, on desks and floors and then again in bed. They slept where they fell, in a tangle of sweaty limbs amongst filthy sheets.
It all stopped on the seventh day when Merlin woke up shivering in the cool evening air, his bare flesh uncovered, his only decent bed sheet stuck to him in a way no man (or sheet) should have to endure. Arthur woke at Merlin’s hissed curses, smacked his lips thirstily and complained that he was dehydrated. Then he sucked a purple bruise onto Merlin’s inner thigh and asked if Merlin was ready for another round.
(The answer was a squeal as Merlin pulled the remainder of the sheet from his leg.)
Three
The third followed immediately after the second in Merlin’s freshly made bed (second best sheets; the best had been irreparably damaged). Arthur and Merlin, scrubbed and showered, lay under the covers almost nose to nose, breathing in each other’s air and just looking.
Arthur slipped his hand over the angular jut of Merlin’s hip and anchored him close. He’d never studied anyone so intently before, never mapped out their features, never committed every detail to memory. He watched the gentle sweep of Merlin’s eyelashes, blinking slowly, noticed the curve of each one and wondered how many of those tiny, perfect, hairs there were.
(He counted sixty-seven before he fell asleep.)
Four
This ended abruptly when Arthur witnessed some of his colleagues gunned down during an armed bank robbery. He was helpless as he radioed for back up and already too late to save some when he could finally move in …
He would fall asleep in a post orgasmic lethargy and, sometimes, get a decent hour or so before waking with a start, ears ringing with the sound of ricocheting bullets and his own smothered shaky breaths.
Arthur would spend his nights watching Merlin, monitoring the slow, steady, rise and fall of Merlin’s chest, curled next to him, a loose fist grasping a corner of Arthur’s pillow. Arthur’s heart would stutter out an odd rhythm of heavy thuds and gentle squeezes as he went from fear to hope and back again, watching, staring, from the sheer joy of simply being with Merlin, to the horrifying, abject terror at the frailty of flesh and the thought of one day losing him.
It went on for weeks afterwards, after funerals and hospital visits and long dry reports. During the day Arthur managed to bury most of his fears but at night whilst Merlin slept, Arthur propped himself up on one elbow and watched.
Until one night…
“Stop staring at me while I’m sleeping, you creep,” Merlin said into the pillow.
Arthur half choked on a sob-tinged bark of laughter that sounded alien even to his ears. Merlin looked up immediately, “Arthur?” he said in a sleep-thick voice, blinking the confusion from his eyes, before exclaiming “Oh!” and sitting up in a flurry of bedcovers, reaching for Arthur and pulling him roughly into a hug.
Arthur, Arthur, Arthur.
Arthur felt a prickling behind his eyelids and stuffed his face into Merlin’s neck, furiously blinking away tears.
“It’s okay, Arthur, it’s okay.” Merlin was whispering into his ear, burying a hand in Arthur’s hair and stroking circles on the back of Arthur’s head with his thumb. . Arthur curled his fingers tightly into the back of Merlin’s t-shirt and shuddered with weeks of pent-up, pushed-down, fear and grief and anguish, and Merlin never relented, splayed his hand out on Arthur’s back, warm and comforting and solid, didn’t loosen his grasp until Arthur sighed and stilled. Then Arthur pulled back an infinitesimal amount and wiped at the damp smudges around his eyes with the heel of his hand.
“I should have done more,” he said softly.
“You did what you could.” Merlin said, gently stroking Arthur’s back. “You rescued five people.”
“It wasn’t good enough.”
Merlin was silent for a few minutes, allowing Arthur his moment of self-pity. Then, gently, he said, “It was for them.”
Arthur exhaled shakily.
“How long haven’t you been sleeping?”
“Since…” Arthur looked away without finishing.
“Oh Arthur,” Merlin closed the gap between them, tightening his arms around Arthur again. “I’m here, Arthur, I’m here.”
And Arthur knew he was. Ever present, so alive and full of compassion and love and strength, firm and warm and Merlin and Arthur knew he could have these moments of anxiety and weakness because Merlin would be strong enough for both of them.
He couldn’t remember anyone holding him for so long before.
(But he was glad Merlin did).
Five
Arthur didn’t think they had their own sides of the bed until they went away one weekend and he realised that Merlin always slept on the side nearest the door.
He didn’t wake up much during the night any more, but when he briefly did that weekend he found himself almost trapped under Merlin, who had flung an arm and a leg over Arthur, leaning into Arthur as if shielding him with his body from the door and any danger beyond. It was almost comic: wiry, slight Merlin who looked like he might snap in half in a gentle breeze.
(It made Arthur feel safe nonetheless)
Six
It wasn’t deliberate.
Arthur had simply lost track of time and drunkenly stumbled into his flat to find Merlin, tight lipped and white knuckled, sitting at his dining room table, a misshapen candle sputtering into nothingness between two plates of cold, congealing dinner.
Merlin had stood, moving away from Arthur, staring at him with a mix of fury and fear and then met Arthur’s gaze with such hurt and disappointment that it made Arthur’s heart squeeze with guilt. A jumble of words, apologies, entreaties, bubbled up into his mouth but Merlin quelled them with the icy rigidity of his posture, then walked out of the flat without a word.
When Arthur finally poured himself into bed a few hours and a bottle of vodka later, it was empty and cold and wrong without Merlin there. He stared unseeing at the ceiling until the room began to swim, then leant over the edge of the bed and vomited into a wastepaper basket.
(Merlin didn’t fare much better)
Seven
That wasn’t their first argument (and it wouldn’t be their last) but after much pleading and apologising and giving of flowers (because Merlin was a complete girl), all was finally forgiven and the guilt and anger kissed away. They realised that they were prepared to put up with each others flaws because being without one other was unbearable, so much so that Merlin decided to give up his poky flat altogether and moved in with Arthur.
Arthur’s bed was luxurious and soft and huge. It got bigger every time Merlin commented on it (bigger that my bedroom, bigger than my old flat, bigger than Ealdor). Sometimes during the night they’d lose each other amongst the cavernous sheets and have to shuffle around until they found one another again, Arthur stretching along Merlin’s spine, sticking cold feet in between Merlin’s calves and smothering his giggle at Merlin’s hiss of surprise.
Sometimes Merlin would wriggle and wrap and slide himself over and under Arthur until they were a tangle too many arms and legs and pointy elbows.
Usually Arthur woke up with a dead arm or pins and needles in his leg and Merlin puffing hot huffs of air into his neck
(Then Merlin would smile at him and…well maybe it was worth it).