"We're A Storm In Somebody Else's Teacup" {7a/8}, Merlin, Merlin/Arthur
Title: We’re A Storm In Somebody Else’s Teacup {7/8}
Fandom: Merlin {Modern!AU}
Pairing: Arthur/Merlin
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 15, 820
Genre: Slash
Summary: In which there is a lot of bloodshed, a lot of rain, a reasonable amount of fire, a sword (or two), some snakes, and some weirdly malevolent unicorns.
Author’s Notes: Mmm, talk about Epic Fucking Wordcount. I’m so sorry guys; this is so much later than I meant to post this! I just couldn’t get it finished. Plus my flowchart was a bit useless because I kept adding stuff since I apparently don’t know when to leave things alone! Ooh, and you can totally cross-reference what happens here with Morgana’s visions in the last chapter; it totally matches up. I checked. And I drank a litre of chocolate milk and listened to Mons Meg by Eliza Carthy on a loop for five hours while writing the fight scenes, so fingers crossed it works. But anyway: HERE IS THE CLIMAX. Hope it doesn’t let the rest of the story down!
{Part One} | {Part Two} | {Part Three} | {Part Four} | {Part Five a} | {Part Five b} | {Part Six a} | {Part Six b}
The anger swells in my guts
And I won’t feel these slices and cuts
I want so much to open your eyes
‘Cause I need you to look into mine.
- Snow Patrol
Hiding on the stairs is really very childish and Merlin promises himself that he will stop and go back to the living room in a minute, he really will. He will be grown-up and heroic and sensible and he will be able to cope with the situation and his friends and the growing, gnawing dread in his stomach. It’s just… everyone is being completely unbearable, and he can’t stand watching Gaius be sharp and sensible, watching Morgana being ethereal and cryptic and mad-looking, watching Arthur trying to take charge and bear all of this in a way that’s so brittle it hurts to watch, Gwen and Lance being scared but resolute.
So he said he needed the loo and fled from Gaius’ warm, cluttered living room. The walls are lined with books and photographs and weird random souvenirs from when he went travelling as a younger man; every time he comes there’s something new to look at. Gaius collects things, stacking them up in an increasingly disordered way as he fills his home with memories. Merlin has spent large chunks of his life in this untidy Kensington house and normally feels reassured here, but right now no amount of reminiscing about spending summer afternoons in the garden can make him feel anything less than sick. He hasn’t slept in over a day and everything is getting blurry, like he’s looking at the world through smeared glass.
Gaius’ staircase is ridiculously steep; Merlin has fallen down it more times than he really cares to remember. The steps themselves are made of mahogany, polished until gleaming, and they’re not particularly comfortable to sit on, though Merlin can’t bring himself to get up and pick a direction. He feels a little like he’s stuck in that A.A Milne poem, trapped in limbo halfway up the stairs, clinging to the banisters because they’re reassuringly solid, which is exactly what he needs right now.
There are framed photographs all over the wall by the stairs. They’ve been there for years, but Merlin forces himself to stare at the familiar images to quell a possibly impending panic attack. His gaze locks onto a picture of himself, Gwen and Will at London Zoo; they were nine, he remembers, and Will’s mum had cancer for the first time. Gaius took the three of them out for the day to get them away from it all, and Merlin still remembers the details of that day with perfect clarity. Staring at the picture of the three of them laughing on a bench near the elephant house, he can still recall Gaius taking it; Merlin squashed between his friends and the sun baking down on them.
His throat is starting to tighten, so he looks away. Two frames to the left, his attention is caught by a boyish smile that has hardly changed over the last decade. Frowning, because he’s looked over that picture a dozen times or more, Merlin edges closer and realises that, yes, it’s Arthur and Morgana sitting on a picnic blanket. Arthur looks about thirteen, Merlin guesses, smiling that softly charming smile that is so rare these days, while Morgana looks dignified and beautiful, wearing a little too much eyeliner and the first hint of a smirk. It seems strange, that they’ve all been here on this wall, and yet it took them all so long to meet in person.
Merlin edges up a couple more stairs, scanning other photographs for more images of Arthur or Morgana; he finds one of Uther Pendragon and Gaius looking a lot younger and really quite drunk. Maybe if he survives the next few days he’ll ask; maybe he doesn’t want to know. He smiles as he finds the picture of himself graduating university; his grin is almost comically wide, unable to hide how proud he was of himself. But then he notices the picture next to it; and there’s no denying that’s Arthur. Arthur with his hair slightly longer than it is now, starting to curl at the ends, a look of smug pleasure on his handsome face. Merlin reaches towards the pictures, pushing the frames aside a little. The wallpaper behind is slightly faded, and it makes him smile almost unconsciously as he realises that he and Arthur have been here, side by side, for years.
The kitchen door opens, and Merlin shrinks against the wall, immediately forgetting all his resolutions to be grown up and return to the living room. Morgana and Gaius have brewed yet more tea - Earl Grey for everyone but Arthur, who doesn’t like it, and is drinking Assam and glaring at anyone (well, Merlin) who teases him about having his own special teapot - and are carrying it through to the others.
“Thank you,” Morgana says softly. “For what you’ve done for him.”
“You know?” Gaius sounds surprised.
“I know,” Morgana confirms. “Really, it’s very sweet of you.”
“Will it save him?” Gaius asks.
“Who can say?”
“Well,” and Merlin can hear the smile in his godfather’s voice, “I suppose you can.”
Morgana sighs. “Don’t ask me, Gaius,” she says softly. “Please don’t ask me.”
Merlin has no idea what they’re talking about, but is also aware that if they wanted the rest of them to know they wouldn’t be hiding in the hall having this conversation. He listens to Gaius and Morgana walk back into the living room, closing the door behind them, and tells himself that he’ll go and join the others now. He’ll go and join the stilted, anxious conversation and try to ignore the way everyone looks worn-out and incapable of saving the world or whatever the fuck it is they’re meant to be doing anyway.
He carefully slides down a few stairs, fingers clenched tight to the banister because he nearly gave himself concussion falling down when he was nine and he’s still perfectly capable of being clumsy and idiotic, and one of the photographs near the bottom of the stairs draws his attention. It’s of himself and Gwen and Will again; the three of them are eighteen, returning home during their first year of university. Gwen’s dad had been dead for six months and she was just starting to control the grief, and this was one of their first good days. Gaius had sat the three of them down in his garden and taken the picture ‘for posterity’, and Merlin stares at that moment in time caught and put under glass and hung up on Gaius’ wall until his eyes itch. He reaches out, pressing shaky fingers to Will’s laughing face, and the bite of guilt and loss is so hard in his stomach that it feels like a punch.
A few minutes later, when the living room door opens and someone comes to join him on the stairs, Merlin assumes it’s Gwen. It’s usually Gwen; so it’s a bit of a shock when he finally looks away from the photograph to find Arthur perched on the step below him, expression sombre as he stares at the picture too.
“You miss him, don’t you?” Arthur says quietly.
Merlin shrugs. “I do,” he agrees. He sighs, because that doesn’t really feel like enough, and decides he may as well elaborate. “I want to tell him, you know? I want to talk to someone who isn’t involved in all this. I want to sit down and say to someone: hey, I’m about to get murdered by some crazy homicidal people with magical powers who don’t seem to know how to take ‘no’ for an answer.”
Arthur smiles slightly, and Merlin lets his hand drop back to his side. He’s left a smudge on the glass of the picture, but he doesn’t care.
“You’re not going to get murdered,” Arthur offers, with a smile he clearly thinks is reassuring. It isn’t. It actually looks a lot more like a pained grimace, but Merlin’s not going to tell him that because Arthur is doing his best. It’s not really Arthur’s fault that he’s looking wan and nauseous and angry, and Merlin almost hates him for the way he looks beautiful too. After all, Arthur’s weird random talent to look pretty all the damn time is something Merlin really should have got used to by now.
“Gwen told me to tell you to stop being a child,” Arthur adds after the silence stretches on a little bit too long. He smirks minutely. “You look bloody awful, by the way.”
Merlin rolls his eyes, but pushes himself to his feet anyway. His legs feel a little bit wobbly, just something else to add to the list of things caused by sleep deprivation, and sometimes he wishes Arthur weren’t so damned chivalrous because the other man is on his feet a moment later, firm hands steadying him.
“You ok?” Arthur asks, soft and intense and concerned, and Merlin very nearly thinks fuck it because all of Arthur’s facial expressions can really be sorted into two categories: ones that make Merlin want to punch him and ones that make Merlin want to kiss him, and this one is definitely the latter.
“I’m dreadful,” Merlin responds as cheerfully as he can manage, looking away from the dizzying blue of Arthur’s eyes because that’s a road he really doesn’t have the time or the masochistic tendencies to go down right now (or ever), and taking a step forward so Arthur is forced to let go of him. “Aren’t you?”
Arthur quirks an eyebrow at him, expression mock-disdainful. “Less dreadful than you,” he says teasingly, and when they get to the bottom of the stairs he gives Merlin a shove towards the living room. Merlin obediently walks back in, to find Lance is asleep in one of the big, squashy arm chairs, Gwen is eating one of Gaius’ painfully addictive homemade scones, and Morgana is sitting bolt upright, staring out of the window with a downright terrifying placid expression on her face. She’s stopped blinking, Merlin notes with concern.
Gaius has already given them the Edwin Muirden is a madman but a brilliant scientist, and although he did poison Morgana it should have worked its way out of her system by now speech, but none of them are leaving because once they walk out of the cosy certainty of Gaius’ home there’s the distinct possibility that the world will fall apart around them. Morgana’s the one with the details of course; Morgana who is changed, who is broken. Merlin can tell that a large part of her is still lingering in the future, that most of her didn’t make it back even after the drug wore off, and he hopes that when this is all over, one way or another, she’ll be better, somehow.
He doesn’t miss the way Arthur’s eyes flicker anxiously towards his stepsister, nor the way his mouth tightens with muted fury or helplessness or misery. Even if he didn’t already have a dozen reasons to hate the people pulling their lives apart, Merlin would hate them solely for the fact they seem to have no hesitation about finding people’s weakest spots and then hitting them until they shatter. Morgana is the only one who Arthur would break for; the only one, and Arthur is so brittle now that Merlin can barely stand to look at him.
“More tea, Arthur?” Gaius asks, a careful veneer of cheer that Merlin loves him for. He’s never known his father, and he’s never felt much urge to look him out, largely because Gaius has been all the father Merlin’s ever really needed. He’s so strong and sure and certain that Merlin finds the part of him that’s still a child thinking that nothing really bad can happen while Gaius is here.
Arthur looks like he’s about to refuse the tea when Morgana says: “You should drink it.” Even her voice sounds different; distant, vague, as though she’s speaking from far away. Arthur obediently accepts a cup, while Merlin goes to sit on the sofa with Gwen.
“You look like a zombie,” she tells him bluntly, sucking jam off her thumb.
“I’ve heard,” Merlin replies dully, taking the tea she passes him. He doesn’t really want any more tea, but he’s too tired to fight. Instead, he sips at the warm Earl Grey, staring at a teetering pile of worn-looking leather-bound books by the fireplace, feeling his eyelids starting to droop. He sighs. Someone - Gwen, or Gaius, or maybe even Arthur - has dissolved some kind of sleeping pill into his drink. He’d protest, but even exhausted as he is, he’s not sure he can sleep on his own power. Gwen gives him a sheepish smile before his eyes close, and tucks a misshapen cushion under his head, stroking his cheek.
The warm, dark sleep that overwhelms him is a relief.
^
Edwin’s a clever bastard, and Morgana would admire him if she weren’t so devastated. Well, the part of her that’s still sane and human is devastated; the rest of her is merely bored. Gaius seems pleased to have figured out what Edwin did to her, and Morgana doesn’t have the heart to say what he’s still doing.
Morgana is collateral. She’s the first of many prices they’ll have to pay. If she’d made her choice, if she’d left with Nimueh, she would have survived intact. Now, of course, it’s just a question of how many pieces she ends up in. Edwin knew this, took pride in this, and that would sicken Morgana if she were still capable of real emotions.
Lance drives them home; Arthur is really too sleep-deprived to be allowed to operate machinery of any kind. He sits curled in the passenger seat, staring out at the world with his bloodshot eyes, mouth thinned to a determined line. He’s so brave, her Arthur, and she doesn’t warn him what’s to come because then he might not be brave any more, and if Arthur fails then the world will fall. Gwen dozes uneasily, Merlin sprawled across her. He needs his rest too, though of course Morgana can only guess at what will happen to him. She only knows how it will end, after all. It is strange, how she is omniscient and yet Merlin remains a large hole in her knowledge. It gives her hope that maybe someone will survive all this; not her, and not Merlin, and maybe not even Arthur depending on who wins and where, but someone might. Gwen and Lance really didn’t ask for this and yet they’re steadfast; Morgana doesn’t think they’ll die and she hopes the future will stay that way.
It happens when they’re downstairs waiting for the lift. Lance and Arthur have Merlin supported between them, and the little part of Morgana that can still feel things thinks it’s almost a pity Merlin isn’t awake to appreciate his position, and Gwen is tapping her foot against the ground impatiently.
Lance is unflinching as he raises the gun, an expression she’s never seen on his face before, and Edwin unleashes a splash of flame hot enough to melt bullets.
Morgana sways on her feet, blinking until her vision clears and the shapes of the hall come back into view. Her mouth tastes sharp, salty, and she realises she’s bitten into her cheek.
Arthur is frowning. “Morgana…” he begins.
“I’m fine,” she tells him. “Just tired.”
She manages a parody of a smile, her lips sliding uneasily against her teeth. It’s not a surprise; she knew this was coming, but she thought she’d have a little more time before it began. The lift arrives and they all troop in, Lance and Arthur careful not to whack Merlin against anything, and Morgana leans gratefully against the wall. Her whole body is tensed, her fingers curled into her palms, waiting for the future to knock her sideways again.
They make it up to their mutated penthouse sort of thing - thanks to Merlin, Morgana will never think of it as anything different - without any more attacks, and she grits her teeth, swallowing the sharp taste of blood. She has time, she tells herself, she has time.
Arthur and Lance carry Merlin into his bedroom to sleep off the rest of the pill, and Morgana mutters excuses and shuts herself in her room. Gwen’s eyes are narrowed with concern but she says nothing, and Morgana adores her for it.
Morgana stares at her pale reflection in the mirror, tracing her features with her eyes, memorising each and every one while she still can. Time is slipping away from her; she has hours left, now, she knows. Mere hours before her world changes irrevocably. She grins at herself, wide and mad, and sees her teeth are stained red. She’ll have to do something about that before she faces the others again. Her expression falls again, and she sighs, allowing herself a couple of minutes for fear and regret before deciding to just let it all go because there’s no point fighting the things she cannot change.
Her survival is out of her hands now.
She turns away from the mirror, taking a breath.
Arthur bangs at thin air, screaming, fury and anxiety written across his face, blood dripping down his chin.
“We can’t,” Gwen insists, words splitting between her sobs. Morgana can see herself, barely upright, struggling to form words, drenched in rainwater and looking like a corpse. “Arthur, we can’t go after him.”
“We can’t abandon him!” Arthur insists loudly, smacking his hand against the air again.
Morgana has been driven to her knees by the force of the vision, and she slowly pushes herself back to her feet, refusing to crumble. The time for that will come soon enough.
Edwin’s a bastard. Edwin’s a bastard who drugged her up with two poisons, not one, because he’s cruel but not stupid. Not ever stupid. The first drug was fast-acting, raping its way through her system and sending her powers into overdrive, but it was designed to burn out after a few hours, giving her the chance to surrender. The other drug was slower, created not to kick in until later, and this one won’t burn out. This is the one she has to watch out for; this is the one that will kill her, and the only way to get the antidote is to give in.
Arthur looks worn and tired, blood still encrusted on his face. “So you’re telling me the best possible scenario, the one I should be bloody hoping for, is that my sister goes insane?”
Gaius looks older than she’s ever seen him, dressed in his starched white lab coat. “At least then you can hope for periods of lucidity,” he responds. He sighs. “Brief periods of lucidity.”
Morgana shivers, holding her eyes wide open until Gaius and Arthur fade and she’s left with her room again. Just her room; the dark wooden furniture, the black and white photographs on the wall, the vase of lilacs on her window sill. All hers and all familiar. She stumbles across the room towards the window, pulling the curtains apart. Light streams into the room and she stares down at the street far below her. The evening traffic jam has blocked the street, and people walk arm in arm on the pavement. Morgana reaches up a hand, laying it flat against the glass, closing her eyes. Her mouth still tastes like her blood and Edwin has sent her DNA into overdrive. Within hours, she’ll be trapped in a hallucination too vivid and too strong for her to ever break out of it. After that, she’ll only be able to look forward to… what will Gaius call it? Brief periods of lucidity. And that’s only one possibility, only one way the future could turn out. Her other options are, somehow, even worse.
Stepping back from the window, Morgana looks bleakly around her room once more. She’s been happy here; happy with Arthur, happy in her life. Bored with the present, of course, sickened by the déjà vu - something she hadn’t noticed until Merlin stepped into her life and showed her that not everything could be foreseen weeks in advance - and exhausted with the predictability of everything, but happy nonetheless. She misses the woman who lived in this room; Morgana feels like she’s cracked and broken and disappeared beneath the weight of these visions, the weight of what she’s learned, and the bite of loss is acute in her stomach.
Nimueh is entirely dry, though the rain keeps falling. Her blue eyes are sharper than ever, her dark red mouth curled in triumph. She does nothing, because she doesn’t need to; not yet. She just watches, as Arthur runs for his life and Lancelot hesitates behind his gun and Merlin- Merlin…
Morgana snaps immediately out of the vision, eyes still screwed up from trying to see the impossible. She gazes wildly around her room, as though Nimueh will suddenly step out of her wardrobe, and her eyes catch on her alarm clock. It’s one of the old-fashioned ones, large and silver and with bells on the top that ring. It ticks obnoxiously loudly; Morgana has got used to the sound but no one else ever has. Arthur usually complains about it when he comes into her room, saying that the sound makes him feel constantly on edge, and one of her exes said he could never sleep in her room because it was too loud. Right now, though, Morgana can’t hear it ticking; instead her attention is fixed to the time. She saw this, she’s seen this five times over.
At seven o’clock exactly, the rain will start.
Her clock is set exactly right, correct to the last second. Morgana picks up the clock and runs to the window, knocking the vase to the floor and spilling flowers everywhere, and doesn’t even hear it smash as she pulls the window open. She’s seen this five times and she knows what it means, but she can’t stop herself from hoping that maybe, just maybe, her visions have fucked-up and she’ll be wrong. If she can be wrong about this then perhaps she’ll be wrong about other things too. With five seconds left on the clock face she braces her hands against the sill and leans out, not caring how crazy she might look. With her face upturned to the sky, she counts aloud.
“Five… four… three… two… one.”
Morgana shuts her eyes and for a blissful moment thinks she’s got away with it. And then the first drop hits her skin, and then the next, and when she opens her eyes again London is covered in dark clouds as far as she can see and sheets of rain are pouring down. On the pavement, pedestrians hold crumpled copies of The London Paper over their heads, running for shelter, and Morgana tastes a scream against her teeth that she won’t let out.
She’s already soaked when she ducks back inside, pulling the window closed. The rain has begun and the pieces are in motion now. Everything has begun; and there is nothing, nothing that she can do to stop it.
^
Gwen is curled up on her side and dozing next to Merlin when he finally eases his way out of his drug-induced sleep. It takes a while for the haziness to dissipate, but when it and the accompanying disorientation are gone, he realises that he does feel slightly less insane. Not a lot less insane, given how fucking crazy and unbelievable his life has become recently, but at least the world doesn’t seem to be swaying unsteadily around him any more. Merlin’s limbs feel heavy but he pushes himself upright anyway. He’s back in the room loosely designated as his, and it’s sort of surreal. He hasn’t slept here since before Will was killed; the world was a little different then, and he misses it.
When Gwen still shows no signs of waking up, Merlin reaches out a hand to prod her until she opens her eyes.
“Brat,” she murmurs, batting at his hand and yawning. A smile spreads, soft and sweet, across her face. “Hey, Sleeping Beauty.”
Merlin waves a hand at the room, empty but for them. “I see no handsome prince,” he points out, and attempts not to pout. “I think I want my money back.”
“Arthur’s next door,” Gwen suggests mildly, sitting up. She immediately reaches for Merlin and starts flattening his hair; apparently it’s looking worse than usual. “Seriously, if you aren’t burnt to a crisp we’re getting you a haircut. It’s getting ridiculous, and we’ll never get you another job if you don’t start looking tidier.”
“You are not my mother,” Merlin says firmly, and then thinks about this. “And actually, my mother made less fuss about my hair than you and Morgana and Arthur do, so really, can we let it go?”
“Maybe,” Gwen replies, “But your annoyed-face really is very pretty.”
“Careful,” Merlin teases, “Or Lance will get horribly jealous and you won’t get the chance to lay hands on his implausibly perfect arse.”
Gwen flushes a particularly interesting colour. “We don’t - I mean - it’s not…”
They’re so comfortable around each other that Merlin tends to forget that Gwen, when faced with other people, is kind of inclined into descending into inane babbling and blushing. It’s really very sweet and endearing and works far more in her favour than Merlin’s please-like-me-I’m-really-not-as-incompetent-as-I-seem routine works in his.
“…And breathe,” he smirks, leaning to tuck a stray strand of hair behind her ear. Gwen nods, but doesn’t smile back.
“Lance is gone,” she tells him quietly.
Merlin feels his entire body turn to ice.
“Oh,” Gwen adds, “Not like that. I mean, he left a note and everything, and he says he’ll be back. But at the moment he’s… gone.” She grimaces. “We don’t know where, and Arthur is being quietly and unbearably frantic, so I’ve been making apple pie for the last hour because you were unconscious and Morgana won’t come out of her room.”
For a moment, Merlin just wants to ask Gwen for another sleeping pill and curl up underneath the duvet until this all goes away. But he knows it won’t help.
“What did Lance’s note say?” he asks instead.
Gwen shrugs. “Just that he needed to sort something out, and he’d be back, and not to worry.”
“So he hasn’t just run off to get away from the inevitable doom thing?” Merlin smiles to take the sting out of the words.
“Lance isn’t that guy,” Gwen reminds Merlin gently.
“No,” Merlin agrees. Both Arthur and Lance, whatever their other faults, have this weird chivalry thing going on, which is possibly what makes them both so attractive, other than the whole God-like good looks thing. He stretches, straightening out the kinks in his spine, and reflects that he doesn’t feel too bad. At least, he no longer feels like a rag doll. “Did you say something about apple pie?”
“I’m restless,” Gwen replies, nodding. “You know, when I’m restless, I cook stuff. Plus, apple pie is fairly comforting, and I think everyone needs comfort food right now.”
Gwen’s mum died when she was about three - before she met Merlin anyway - and although it’s something that saddens her from time to time she’s always said she doesn’t really miss what she didn’t have. Her father, Tom, was great; growing up, he was Merlin’s other father-figure, and he doted on Gwen. Unlike most of the other fathers in Merlin’s admittedly limited acquaintance, Tom had got the hang of everything to do with raising a little girl - he could even braid Gwen’s hair beautifully - but he was a pretty terrible cook, no matter what he tried. By the time she was eight, Gwen decided she was sick of having burnt macaroni cheese three times a week, and took it upon herself to learn how to cook. She’s really good at it; something Merlin has probably abused a little too much in the years he’s been living with her, but she’s never said that she minds.
“Great,” he smiles, “Then I will have apple pie once I’ve had a shower.”
“Morgana wants to see you,” Gwen tells him. “Once you’ve properly woken up, I mean.”
The concern is a like a mask, tight across her face.
“How’s she looking?” Merlin asks anxiously.
“Ill. Slightly crazy. Like she hasn’t slept in about a year.” Gwen sighs. “She keeps insisting she’s fine, but I really don’t think she is.”
None of this bodes at all well. Merlin hurries through his shower and gets shampoo in his eyes, repeatedly telling himself that whatever Morgana wants to see him about is probably not all that bad and he should stop panicking about it. He gets dressed in clean clothes and runs a comb through his wet hair and tries to squash the knot of nervousness in his stomach. Finally, he can’t procrastinate any longer, and goes to knock on Morgana’s door.
The room is cold; the windows are shut, rain streaking down the panes, but there’s a chill in the air.
“Close the door behind you,” Morgana tells him, and even her voice has changed. It’s harder and colder and distant now. She’s sitting on a chair by her dressing table, wearing one of her silky dressing gowns, dark hair cascading around her shoulders. The lights are off, and she looks horribly pale in the meagre light coming from outside.
“Can I turn the lights on?” Merlin asks.
“Of course,” Morgana replies, as though things like lights have entirely slipped her mind. Merlin clicks the switch and the room is immediately full of warm, bright light. Now he can see her, Morgana doesn’t look any less corpse-like. Merlin flinches.
“It’s that bad?” Morgana asks mildly, glancing at her reflection in the mirror. “Arthur looked a little like he wanted to vomit when he checked on me a while ago, but he hasn’t slept in days so I put it down to that. Do I really look awful?”
“You can’t tell?” Merlin enquires, and he knows he should stop hanging around by the door but he can’t bring himself to walk any closer.
“I’ve seen myself look worse,” Morgana shrugs.
Merlin frowns. “When?”
Morgana’s lips curl, just slightly. “Tomorrow.”
Oh. Oh. Merlin steels himself and hazards a step closer, and then another one. Right now, Morgana doesn’t look anything like the woman who befriended him and whisked him off for coffee and cake barely two months ago. Then, she was regal; now, she’s just rigid.
“You should sit down,” Morgana tells him, standing up and indicating her empty chair. Merlin doesn’t particularly want to, but he obediently walks across to her and pulls the chair away from the table so he can sit on it. Morgana smiles at him, and then she sways on her feet, fingers curling into her palms, eyes focussing on something far away. It takes ten seconds for her to come back to herself; Merlin counts each one, nausea rising in his throat.
“You’re really not fine, are you?” he asks, when she blinks rapidly and comes back into herself.
“I’m not,” Morgana agrees, with a wan smile. “But that’s not why I want to talk to you.”
She walks away from him, crossing to the window. She doesn’t seem to be able to look at him, which isn’t a good sign.
“Morgana,” Merlin says, “You’re scaring me.”
“You should be scared,” she responds flatly, and then shakes her head slightly. “Sorry. It’s awkward. Unlike all the other conversations I’ve had for the last two days, I don’t know what’s happening here.”
“So you really know everything that’s going to happen?” Merlin asks, and can only imagine how that must make Morgana feel.
“Every last second,” Morgana replies. “Except for the parts involving you.” She turns back to him, a smile that almost looks real curling her lips. “I don’t know why I don’t dream about you, but really, Merlin, thank you so much. You’ve made me realise things about my life I never noticed before you came along.”
The way she’s talking doesn’t in any way reassure Merlin. “Please,” he says, “You need to tell me what’s going on here.”
“I wasn’t sure what to do,” Morgana says, and she sounds half manic and like her control is skidding away from her. “I wasn’t sure whether to say anything or not, and then I thought, well, if it was me I’d want to know, and, well, I do know, but anyway. I wasn’t going to tell you, and then I had to.”
“You’re not making any sense,” Merlin says, and hears desperation in his tone.
“No.” Morgana sighs, seemingly trying to collect her thoughts. “Merlin, when I was at the height of my madness, when Edwin’s drug was at its worst, when I was lying in the hall bleeding and honestly thinking it was the end, when the future was overwhelming me and I couldn’t breathe… I saw you. I had a vision about you.”
Merlin does not have a good feeling about this. His stomach clenches and his breath catches hard in his chest. He can’t say a word, but that’s ok because Morgana sweeps back over to him and then, entirely unexpectedly, drops to her knees in front of him, looking up gravely. Her eyes are wide and mad and earnest and frightened and her expression is so unlike anything he’s seen on her face before that Merlin feels the first trace of genuine panic slide through him.
“Merlin,” Morgana says, loudly and clearly, “I’m so sorry. But tomorrow, you’re going to die.”
The room spins around him; Merlin starts breathing again, but far too fast, terror rising and closing over his eyes. His chest hurts as though someone is stabbing him repeatedly, rational thought escapes, his heart hammers against his ribs, and he realises he’s having a panic attack.
Morgana is still speaking. “I thought you should know. Parts of the future are still fluid… I think, but this isn’t. And I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. But I’ve never been more certain of anything than I am of this.”
Merlin is trembling, fear swooping repeatedly through the length of his body. His thoughts are skittering around in circles, unable to process what Morgana’s said, because the idea of him actually ceasing to exist seems entirely impossible, implausible, ridiculous. He can’t make a sound, can’t say a word, his hands are clenching and unclenching entirely of their own accord and he sways on the chair, feeling as though he could fly into a thousand pieces because this is too much, too fucking much.
“It’s going to be ok,” Morgana murmurs, and for a moment she sounds like her old self. She reaches forward, cold hands closing around his wrists, still knelt in front of him. She squeezes him, hard and certain, and he tries to focus. “You’re going to die, but you’re going to destroy Nimueh first. She won’t be able to hurt anyone else. Gwen will be safe, your mother will be safe.”
Merlin focuses on her warm, certain words, and his breathing begins to even out.
“I didn’t want to tell you,” Morgana tells him, “But I thought you had the right to know. I thought it was important.”
Merlin twists his hands so he can grasp Morgana’s wrists in return, holding her too tight though she doesn’t mention it.
“How?” he asks quietly.
“I don’t know,” Morgana admits. “I’ve only seen you die, and only once. But it was quick and it was painless and… I’m so sorry.”
“Stop apologising,” Merlin orders, and his voice quivers but holds. “I’m glad you told me. I’m glad I know.”
He can feel the panic receding to be replaced by a sort of low-level nausea that will, presumably, remain with him for the rest of his life. Oh fucking God.
“It’s up to you,” Morgana says quietly, “But I don’t think you should tell the others.”
Merlin laughs hollowly. “Oh, right, because I was planning on strolling into the kitchen and going: ‘hey, Gwen, nice apple pie; by the way, I’ve always loved you and when I’m killed tomorrow can you keep an eye on my mum?’” He sighs. “Well, it might be good for another pity fuck from your brother, anyway.”
Morgana sighs. “That wouldn’t be sensible,” she says.
Merlin does not really feel sensible right now, not even a little bit, but he can sort of see Morgana’s point.
“What if, by telling me, you’ve changed the future?” he asks. It’s a long shot, but it would be nice.
Morgana’s grip tightens, nails digging into his wrists. “I told you, I’m certain,” she says.
“Right,” Merlin sighs, nodding.
They just sit there for a while, breathing, and slowly Merlin can feel himself calming down, resigning himself to his fate. Oh, he’s angry and upset about it, but if he really is trapped onto this course and this really is his last night alive then there’s no point in spending all the time resenting what’s coming. Finally, he loosens his grip on Morgana, and she obediently lets go of him.
“I love you, Merlin,” she tells him earnestly, and it feels far too much like goodbye for any sort of comfort.
I’m not dying until tomorrow gets lost on the way to his mouth and becomes: “I love you too, Morgana.”
She kneels up and he leans down and they embrace, hard and desperate, and Merlin feels tears pricking against his eyelids. He grits his teeth until they pass.
When he finally stands, his knees feel weak but he can support himself, and Morgana sits back down on her chair. Almost as soon as she sits, her body stiffens again and she stares, horrified and silent, at something Merlin can’t see. She’s never been able to see the future while awake before, and Merlin knows that this can’t be good at all. It takes a little longer for her to come back this time, and he wonders what they’ll do when she’s gone too long and can’t get back.
“Don’t tell Arthur,” she mumbles, when she eventually focuses on Merlin. “Please. I don’t want to worry him.”
It’s a little late for that, Merlin reflects. “Apparently Lance has gone AWOL,” he says, “Arthur’s already fairly edgy.” A thought occurs to him, quick and sudden. “Did you talk to Lance?”
Morgana nods. “I did.”
Merlin is gripped by a second wave of panic. “What did you tell him?”
Morgana smiles slightly; maybe she’s trying to calm him. It’s hard to tell; so much of her is unfamiliar now. “Just four words.”
You’re going to die is four words, Merlin reflects. “What-”
Morgana meets his gaze. “You need a gun.”
“Oh,” Merlin says. And then: “Oh bloody fucking hell.”
^
“You should get some sleep,” Gwen says, as she’s loading the dishwasher.
Arthur ignores her, tracing the grain of the kitchen table with his thumbnail. He’s eaten a little too much of Gwen’s amazingly good apple pie, and feels warm and full in a nauseous sort of way, and everything about him feels unsteady. This is probably because of sleep deprivation, but he can’t rest. Not when things are so very close to shattering.
“Is it just me,” he begins, “Or is Merlin acting weird? Like, really weird, weirder than normal.”
Gwen smiles slightly, but her eyes are solemn. Throughout the meal Merlin was quiet, picking at his apple pie before suddenly shovelling it down like he hadn’t eaten for days. He was monosyllabic, refusing to contribute to the conversation, and then threw his arms around Gwen entirely without warning and started apologising profusely for not being better company. Then he was far too chatty, in a manic sort of way, had second helpings of pie even though he clearly didn’t really want them, and then excused himself and wandered off towards the living room.
Arthur is beginning to worry that Merlin is not just quirky in a simultaneously endearing and irritating way, but possibly actually insane.
“He was acting strangely,” Gwen agrees. “But it’s been a long day and things are difficult for all of us, so…”
Arthur nods. “Right.”
Gwen offers him a feeble smile. “I’m going to bed,” she tells him.
Arthur hears the unspoken I can’t handle being around people any more beneath her words, and gives her a soft smile.
“Goodnight,” he says. “And… thanks for tonight. You know.”
Gwen flushes, just slightly, and it amuses Arthur underneath all the clogging layers of despair and anxiety.
“Goodnight,” she replies, and hurries from the room.
Arthur stays sitting at the kitchen table for a while longer, increasingly morbid thoughts chasing each other through his head. Normally, when he feels like this, he goes to see Morgana or calls up Lance; but Lance’s phone is off and Morgana is not his sister any more. It’s not something Arthur feels he can say aloud to anyone, but it’s perfectly true, and they both know it. The Morgana Le Fay who woke up from Edwin’s drug is changed too much, has lost too much of what made her her. Arthur loves her, but she’s not the girl he’s known for the last thirteen years, and that knowledge stings.
In the end, he leaves the kitchen, but can’t face going to check on Morgana. He can’t look at her in this state any more; it makes something tighten painfully in his chest, and he may have cried out everything in him in front of Lance in the early hours of this morning, but it’s not something he’s going to make a habit out of.
Merlin is curled up defensively on the sofa, flicking aimlessly through their Inadvisable Elephant Coffee Table Book. Arthur is bemused to note that the pictures are moving; Merlin may not be aware that he’s doing it, but the elephants are definitely walking across the page.
Arthur wavers in the doorway for a moment, makes a decision, and walks across to join Merlin. He carefully tugs the book from Merlin’s hands, closes it, and puts it on the coffee table.
“You’re not ok,” he says bluntly.
Merlin gives him a sheepish sort of shrug, but doesn’t say anything. He can’t meet Arthur’s eyes.
“I’m not Will,” Arthur adds, and doesn’t miss the way Merlin’s shoulders tighten at the mention of his friend’s name. He continues: “I haven’t known you since you were born, but if you need to talk…”
“I don’t,” Merlin says, a little too quickly.
“Right,” Arthur murmurs, trying not to feel hurt at Merlin’s abrupt rejection. “Well, that’s fine too. I’ll just-”
Merlin catches his wrist as he stands up, eyes wide and blue and earnest and full of emotions Arthur can’t decipher.
“I’m being a bit of a dick tonight,” he says quietly. “But… if you can put up with that…”
His mouth moves a little but he can’t manage to form the word stay; Arthur hears it anyway and obediently sits down again.
They sit in a not entirely uncomfortable silence for a while and Arthur tries desperately not to think about how his life is falling apart around his ears. His best friend has vanished, his sister is down the hall going quietly mad, his flatmate is hiding in her room because she can’t cope any more, and Merlin… Merlin is huddled up, picking at the fraying sleeve of his hoodie and looking blank. This isn’t like Will’s funeral, when Merlin was weak and scared and unstable; this is different, but Arthur has no idea what it is or how to fix it.
“Lance will be back,” Merlin offers at last. “He hasn’t abandoned y- us.”
“I didn’t think that he had,” Arthur replies. He’s reasonably sure Gwen hasn’t told anyone about the mug he threw at the wall when he found Lance’s note on the kitchen table; he was angry for a moment, but he knows Lance would never hide from whatever the fuck this is. His friend is far too noble for that, which is annoying some of the time, but is on the whole a relief.
“You should tell him sometime,” Merlin mutters, still not looking at Arthur.
“Have I missed something?” Arthur asks. “I know I generally have no idea what you’re talking about, but-”
“Arthur, it has been clear to everyone for, apparently, forever that you’re madly in love with Lance,” Merlin sighs, as though Arthur is the obtuse and unobservant one here (which, for the record: he really isn’t). “You should tell him before this all kicks off.”
“Do you wish you’d told Will?” Arthur asks, before he can think it through; he remembers Merlin huddled on Gaius’ ridiculously steep staircase, Will’s photographed face beneath his fingers.
Merlin sighs. “There was nothing to tell,” he replies heavily. “I loved him, sure, but not really like that, and I was never going to give him what he wanted.” He shoots Arthur an inscrutable look. “I don’t want to talk about it.”
Arthur thinks about Lance, about the last week or so, about Merlin. He thinks he’s always loved Lance in a sort of desperate, unattainable way; before he ever really knew what he wanted. He’s not entirely sure yet that Merlin is all that he wants, or is ever going to want - especially if Merlin keeps up the let’s be friends shit - but he does know that he feels a mad sort of connection with the other man, and it’s different to the way that he feels about Lance.
It’s really all embarrassingly complicated while being simultaneously not complicated in any way at all.
“What do you want to talk about?” he asks.
Merlin’s smile is softer, more genuine. “Why do you and Morgana have so many stupid gigantic books about boring things?” he asks. “Really, it’s ludicrous.”
“Hey,” Arthur protests mildly, “I didn’t go to your house and mock your belongings.”
“You would have done,” Merlin replies, “If it hadn’t been burned to a crisp.” He smirks a little. “Actually, while I was living here, Morgana asked you to come and wake me up, and you spent about ten minutes telling me all about my wardrobe and how much it cost and how I should actually put my stuff in there rather than all over the floor, like it was any business of yours.”
“You really are horribly messy,” Arthur can’t help replying.
“It was still obnoxious and petty,” Merlin shrugs.
“You think I’m obnoxious and petty?” Arthur repeats. “Charming.”
“You are, on occasion,” Merlin points out.
Arthur is about to retaliate, but breaks out into a yawn instead. It’s one of those yawns that makes his jaw crack and seems to go on forever. Merlin watches, smirking slightly.
“You should get some sleep,” he says.
“I wish everyone would stop saying that,” Arthur mutters, in lieu of I can’t sleep, ok, how can I sleep when we could die at any minute?
“Morgana reckons that the shit hits the fan tomorrow,” Merlin tells him. “Don’t make me have to get Gwen to spike your tea or something.”
“I’m fine,” Arthur grits, turning away, and is utterly stunned when Merlin grabs his shoulder and turns him back to face him.
“You are not fine,” Merlin says, with feeling. His fingers are digging into Arthur’s shoulder. “And you need to take better care of yourself.”
Arthur wonders what’s taken away Merlin’s brain-to-mouth filter - which never really functioned at full capacity in the first place - because he’s reasonably certain Merlin wouldn’t normally say half the things he’s said so far tonight.
“Worried about me?” he asks, and it comes out rather more arrogant than he means it to. Still, Merlin seems to understand, because his lips curl just a little.
Merlin doesn’t seem to know what to say; but Arthur can read it on his face anyway. He doesn’t think Merlin’s ever looked at him like that before; naked concern and a tangle of other emotions, none of which are pity or desperation, which makes a nice change.
Their knees are crushed together and Merlin is still holding his shoulder far too hard.
“Merlin,” Arthur says, and half of it’s a warning.
“Arthur,” Merlin responds softly, and he doesn’t look away.
It’s almost too easy to lean forward and kiss Merlin and that’s exactly what Arthur does; he lets the weight of his body push Merlin back into the sofa cushions and when Merlin gasps Arthur uses it as an opportunity to slide his tongue across Merlin’s lower lip and into his mouth. Merlin’s hand moves from his shoulder into Arthur’s hair, curling and clenching almost hard enough to hurt.
“You,” Arthur breathes, “Merlin Emrys, are a fucking liar.”
Merlin smiles, one that actually looks real (and consequently a little bit manic). “I am?” he asks, looking amused.
“Yes,” Arthur replies. “You said you wanted to be friends, but you don’t.”
Merlin doesn’t say anything, but pulls him into another kiss. Things are slower now, more considered; none of the frantic desperation like after Will’s funeral, which is probably just as well. Merlin’s kisses are lingering, smooth, thorough; as though he’s trying to memorise every inch of Arthur’s mouth so he won’t ever forget it. He tastes a little like apple pie but mostly like Merlin and Arthur is unable to stop a twist of need from uncurling in his stomach. His hand tightens a fraction where it’s resting on the sharp rise of Merlin’s hipbone, and Merlin responds with a skid of teeth against his lip.
Arthur is just sliding a knee between Merlin’s thighs when the other man freezes, pushing at Arthur’s chest until he pulls away.
“We shouldn’t do this,” Merlin tells him, careful and clear, as though he’s trying to make it clear to himself as well as Arthur. “Really, we shouldn’t.”
Merlin was right about himself; he really can be a bastard, and it’s on the tip of Arthur’s tongue to say something cruel and crushing like fair enough, I won’t let you turn me into another Will. But he doesn’t, because he knows what that would do to Merlin, and it would cut too deep and sting too long.
“Fine,” he bites off, and is about to lever himself upright and move away with Merlin’s fingers curl over his shoulders again and his smile is slightly shy.
“I said stop, I didn’t say move,” he tells Arthur quietly.
“Ah,” Arthur says. “Right.” He frowns at Merlin. “You know, when this is over and done with and we’re not horribly dead, we’re going to talk.”
Merlin laughs; it sounds a little like he’s choking. “Ok,” he says. “I’d… I think I’d like that.”
He leans up and kisses Arthur again, and it’s so good that Arthur knows when he talks to Merlin he’s not going to take no for an answer. When they pull apart, Merlin looks momentarily sad, before the expression is wiped so quickly off his face that Arthur can’t really be sure it was ever there in the first place. Merlin smiles at him, crooked and charming in a way, although he still looks like a cretin, and gently but firmly presses the hand still entwined in Arthur’s hair until Arthur obediently rests his head on Merlin’s shoulder.
“For someone so horribly bony you’re weirdly comfortable,” he observes, bemused, as they both shift a little on the sofa so they don’t have elbows digging in anywhere.
Merlin laughs, a soft rumble that Arthur can feel through the length of him. “That was almost a compliment,” he observes, “You must be slipping.”
“You have bloody awful hair,” Arthur says swiftly, “It physically hurts me to look at it. And your ears are utterly ridiculous.”
He can feel Merlin grinning against his hair. “And you fancy me anyway.”
“Now who’s being obnoxious?” Arthur demands.
Merlin laughs again, and then sighs. “You realise that this is all just adrenalin and fear, don’t you?”
Arthur considers this. “Hmmm. I hope not,” he replies.
Merlin is stroking his fingers languidly through Arthur’s hair, and he would stop him because this is patently way too close to cuddling for comfort, but instead he shuts his eyes and goes with it.
Before he knows it, he can feel his eyelids drooping, and he wants to tell Merlin that he’s not going to get him to sleep simply by snogging the life out of him and then petting him, but when he opens his mouth it turns into a yawn and a moment after that he’s not really awake enough to argue.
Continued Here
Fandom: Merlin {Modern!AU}
Pairing: Arthur/Merlin
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 15, 820
Genre: Slash
Summary: In which there is a lot of bloodshed, a lot of rain, a reasonable amount of fire, a sword (or two), some snakes, and some weirdly malevolent unicorns.
Author’s Notes: Mmm, talk about Epic Fucking Wordcount. I’m so sorry guys; this is so much later than I meant to post this! I just couldn’t get it finished. Plus my flowchart was a bit useless because I kept adding stuff since I apparently don’t know when to leave things alone! Ooh, and you can totally cross-reference what happens here with Morgana’s visions in the last chapter; it totally matches up. I checked. And I drank a litre of chocolate milk and listened to Mons Meg by Eliza Carthy on a loop for five hours while writing the fight scenes, so fingers crossed it works. But anyway: HERE IS THE CLIMAX. Hope it doesn’t let the rest of the story down!
{Part One} | {Part Two} | {Part Three} | {Part Four} | {Part Five a} | {Part Five b} | {Part Six a} | {Part Six b}
The anger swells in my guts
And I won’t feel these slices and cuts
I want so much to open your eyes
‘Cause I need you to look into mine.
- Snow Patrol
Hiding on the stairs is really very childish and Merlin promises himself that he will stop and go back to the living room in a minute, he really will. He will be grown-up and heroic and sensible and he will be able to cope with the situation and his friends and the growing, gnawing dread in his stomach. It’s just… everyone is being completely unbearable, and he can’t stand watching Gaius be sharp and sensible, watching Morgana being ethereal and cryptic and mad-looking, watching Arthur trying to take charge and bear all of this in a way that’s so brittle it hurts to watch, Gwen and Lance being scared but resolute.
So he said he needed the loo and fled from Gaius’ warm, cluttered living room. The walls are lined with books and photographs and weird random souvenirs from when he went travelling as a younger man; every time he comes there’s something new to look at. Gaius collects things, stacking them up in an increasingly disordered way as he fills his home with memories. Merlin has spent large chunks of his life in this untidy Kensington house and normally feels reassured here, but right now no amount of reminiscing about spending summer afternoons in the garden can make him feel anything less than sick. He hasn’t slept in over a day and everything is getting blurry, like he’s looking at the world through smeared glass.
Gaius’ staircase is ridiculously steep; Merlin has fallen down it more times than he really cares to remember. The steps themselves are made of mahogany, polished until gleaming, and they’re not particularly comfortable to sit on, though Merlin can’t bring himself to get up and pick a direction. He feels a little like he’s stuck in that A.A Milne poem, trapped in limbo halfway up the stairs, clinging to the banisters because they’re reassuringly solid, which is exactly what he needs right now.
There are framed photographs all over the wall by the stairs. They’ve been there for years, but Merlin forces himself to stare at the familiar images to quell a possibly impending panic attack. His gaze locks onto a picture of himself, Gwen and Will at London Zoo; they were nine, he remembers, and Will’s mum had cancer for the first time. Gaius took the three of them out for the day to get them away from it all, and Merlin still remembers the details of that day with perfect clarity. Staring at the picture of the three of them laughing on a bench near the elephant house, he can still recall Gaius taking it; Merlin squashed between his friends and the sun baking down on them.
His throat is starting to tighten, so he looks away. Two frames to the left, his attention is caught by a boyish smile that has hardly changed over the last decade. Frowning, because he’s looked over that picture a dozen times or more, Merlin edges closer and realises that, yes, it’s Arthur and Morgana sitting on a picnic blanket. Arthur looks about thirteen, Merlin guesses, smiling that softly charming smile that is so rare these days, while Morgana looks dignified and beautiful, wearing a little too much eyeliner and the first hint of a smirk. It seems strange, that they’ve all been here on this wall, and yet it took them all so long to meet in person.
Merlin edges up a couple more stairs, scanning other photographs for more images of Arthur or Morgana; he finds one of Uther Pendragon and Gaius looking a lot younger and really quite drunk. Maybe if he survives the next few days he’ll ask; maybe he doesn’t want to know. He smiles as he finds the picture of himself graduating university; his grin is almost comically wide, unable to hide how proud he was of himself. But then he notices the picture next to it; and there’s no denying that’s Arthur. Arthur with his hair slightly longer than it is now, starting to curl at the ends, a look of smug pleasure on his handsome face. Merlin reaches towards the pictures, pushing the frames aside a little. The wallpaper behind is slightly faded, and it makes him smile almost unconsciously as he realises that he and Arthur have been here, side by side, for years.
The kitchen door opens, and Merlin shrinks against the wall, immediately forgetting all his resolutions to be grown up and return to the living room. Morgana and Gaius have brewed yet more tea - Earl Grey for everyone but Arthur, who doesn’t like it, and is drinking Assam and glaring at anyone (well, Merlin) who teases him about having his own special teapot - and are carrying it through to the others.
“Thank you,” Morgana says softly. “For what you’ve done for him.”
“You know?” Gaius sounds surprised.
“I know,” Morgana confirms. “Really, it’s very sweet of you.”
“Will it save him?” Gaius asks.
“Who can say?”
“Well,” and Merlin can hear the smile in his godfather’s voice, “I suppose you can.”
Morgana sighs. “Don’t ask me, Gaius,” she says softly. “Please don’t ask me.”
Merlin has no idea what they’re talking about, but is also aware that if they wanted the rest of them to know they wouldn’t be hiding in the hall having this conversation. He listens to Gaius and Morgana walk back into the living room, closing the door behind them, and tells himself that he’ll go and join the others now. He’ll go and join the stilted, anxious conversation and try to ignore the way everyone looks worn-out and incapable of saving the world or whatever the fuck it is they’re meant to be doing anyway.
He carefully slides down a few stairs, fingers clenched tight to the banister because he nearly gave himself concussion falling down when he was nine and he’s still perfectly capable of being clumsy and idiotic, and one of the photographs near the bottom of the stairs draws his attention. It’s of himself and Gwen and Will again; the three of them are eighteen, returning home during their first year of university. Gwen’s dad had been dead for six months and she was just starting to control the grief, and this was one of their first good days. Gaius had sat the three of them down in his garden and taken the picture ‘for posterity’, and Merlin stares at that moment in time caught and put under glass and hung up on Gaius’ wall until his eyes itch. He reaches out, pressing shaky fingers to Will’s laughing face, and the bite of guilt and loss is so hard in his stomach that it feels like a punch.
A few minutes later, when the living room door opens and someone comes to join him on the stairs, Merlin assumes it’s Gwen. It’s usually Gwen; so it’s a bit of a shock when he finally looks away from the photograph to find Arthur perched on the step below him, expression sombre as he stares at the picture too.
“You miss him, don’t you?” Arthur says quietly.
Merlin shrugs. “I do,” he agrees. He sighs, because that doesn’t really feel like enough, and decides he may as well elaborate. “I want to tell him, you know? I want to talk to someone who isn’t involved in all this. I want to sit down and say to someone: hey, I’m about to get murdered by some crazy homicidal people with magical powers who don’t seem to know how to take ‘no’ for an answer.”
Arthur smiles slightly, and Merlin lets his hand drop back to his side. He’s left a smudge on the glass of the picture, but he doesn’t care.
“You’re not going to get murdered,” Arthur offers, with a smile he clearly thinks is reassuring. It isn’t. It actually looks a lot more like a pained grimace, but Merlin’s not going to tell him that because Arthur is doing his best. It’s not really Arthur’s fault that he’s looking wan and nauseous and angry, and Merlin almost hates him for the way he looks beautiful too. After all, Arthur’s weird random talent to look pretty all the damn time is something Merlin really should have got used to by now.
“Gwen told me to tell you to stop being a child,” Arthur adds after the silence stretches on a little bit too long. He smirks minutely. “You look bloody awful, by the way.”
Merlin rolls his eyes, but pushes himself to his feet anyway. His legs feel a little bit wobbly, just something else to add to the list of things caused by sleep deprivation, and sometimes he wishes Arthur weren’t so damned chivalrous because the other man is on his feet a moment later, firm hands steadying him.
“You ok?” Arthur asks, soft and intense and concerned, and Merlin very nearly thinks fuck it because all of Arthur’s facial expressions can really be sorted into two categories: ones that make Merlin want to punch him and ones that make Merlin want to kiss him, and this one is definitely the latter.
“I’m dreadful,” Merlin responds as cheerfully as he can manage, looking away from the dizzying blue of Arthur’s eyes because that’s a road he really doesn’t have the time or the masochistic tendencies to go down right now (or ever), and taking a step forward so Arthur is forced to let go of him. “Aren’t you?”
Arthur quirks an eyebrow at him, expression mock-disdainful. “Less dreadful than you,” he says teasingly, and when they get to the bottom of the stairs he gives Merlin a shove towards the living room. Merlin obediently walks back in, to find Lance is asleep in one of the big, squashy arm chairs, Gwen is eating one of Gaius’ painfully addictive homemade scones, and Morgana is sitting bolt upright, staring out of the window with a downright terrifying placid expression on her face. She’s stopped blinking, Merlin notes with concern.
Gaius has already given them the Edwin Muirden is a madman but a brilliant scientist, and although he did poison Morgana it should have worked its way out of her system by now speech, but none of them are leaving because once they walk out of the cosy certainty of Gaius’ home there’s the distinct possibility that the world will fall apart around them. Morgana’s the one with the details of course; Morgana who is changed, who is broken. Merlin can tell that a large part of her is still lingering in the future, that most of her didn’t make it back even after the drug wore off, and he hopes that when this is all over, one way or another, she’ll be better, somehow.
He doesn’t miss the way Arthur’s eyes flicker anxiously towards his stepsister, nor the way his mouth tightens with muted fury or helplessness or misery. Even if he didn’t already have a dozen reasons to hate the people pulling their lives apart, Merlin would hate them solely for the fact they seem to have no hesitation about finding people’s weakest spots and then hitting them until they shatter. Morgana is the only one who Arthur would break for; the only one, and Arthur is so brittle now that Merlin can barely stand to look at him.
“More tea, Arthur?” Gaius asks, a careful veneer of cheer that Merlin loves him for. He’s never known his father, and he’s never felt much urge to look him out, largely because Gaius has been all the father Merlin’s ever really needed. He’s so strong and sure and certain that Merlin finds the part of him that’s still a child thinking that nothing really bad can happen while Gaius is here.
Arthur looks like he’s about to refuse the tea when Morgana says: “You should drink it.” Even her voice sounds different; distant, vague, as though she’s speaking from far away. Arthur obediently accepts a cup, while Merlin goes to sit on the sofa with Gwen.
“You look like a zombie,” she tells him bluntly, sucking jam off her thumb.
“I’ve heard,” Merlin replies dully, taking the tea she passes him. He doesn’t really want any more tea, but he’s too tired to fight. Instead, he sips at the warm Earl Grey, staring at a teetering pile of worn-looking leather-bound books by the fireplace, feeling his eyelids starting to droop. He sighs. Someone - Gwen, or Gaius, or maybe even Arthur - has dissolved some kind of sleeping pill into his drink. He’d protest, but even exhausted as he is, he’s not sure he can sleep on his own power. Gwen gives him a sheepish smile before his eyes close, and tucks a misshapen cushion under his head, stroking his cheek.
The warm, dark sleep that overwhelms him is a relief.
^
Edwin’s a clever bastard, and Morgana would admire him if she weren’t so devastated. Well, the part of her that’s still sane and human is devastated; the rest of her is merely bored. Gaius seems pleased to have figured out what Edwin did to her, and Morgana doesn’t have the heart to say what he’s still doing.
Morgana is collateral. She’s the first of many prices they’ll have to pay. If she’d made her choice, if she’d left with Nimueh, she would have survived intact. Now, of course, it’s just a question of how many pieces she ends up in. Edwin knew this, took pride in this, and that would sicken Morgana if she were still capable of real emotions.
Lance drives them home; Arthur is really too sleep-deprived to be allowed to operate machinery of any kind. He sits curled in the passenger seat, staring out at the world with his bloodshot eyes, mouth thinned to a determined line. He’s so brave, her Arthur, and she doesn’t warn him what’s to come because then he might not be brave any more, and if Arthur fails then the world will fall. Gwen dozes uneasily, Merlin sprawled across her. He needs his rest too, though of course Morgana can only guess at what will happen to him. She only knows how it will end, after all. It is strange, how she is omniscient and yet Merlin remains a large hole in her knowledge. It gives her hope that maybe someone will survive all this; not her, and not Merlin, and maybe not even Arthur depending on who wins and where, but someone might. Gwen and Lance really didn’t ask for this and yet they’re steadfast; Morgana doesn’t think they’ll die and she hopes the future will stay that way.
It happens when they’re downstairs waiting for the lift. Lance and Arthur have Merlin supported between them, and the little part of Morgana that can still feel things thinks it’s almost a pity Merlin isn’t awake to appreciate his position, and Gwen is tapping her foot against the ground impatiently.
Lance is unflinching as he raises the gun, an expression she’s never seen on his face before, and Edwin unleashes a splash of flame hot enough to melt bullets.
Morgana sways on her feet, blinking until her vision clears and the shapes of the hall come back into view. Her mouth tastes sharp, salty, and she realises she’s bitten into her cheek.
Arthur is frowning. “Morgana…” he begins.
“I’m fine,” she tells him. “Just tired.”
She manages a parody of a smile, her lips sliding uneasily against her teeth. It’s not a surprise; she knew this was coming, but she thought she’d have a little more time before it began. The lift arrives and they all troop in, Lance and Arthur careful not to whack Merlin against anything, and Morgana leans gratefully against the wall. Her whole body is tensed, her fingers curled into her palms, waiting for the future to knock her sideways again.
They make it up to their mutated penthouse sort of thing - thanks to Merlin, Morgana will never think of it as anything different - without any more attacks, and she grits her teeth, swallowing the sharp taste of blood. She has time, she tells herself, she has time.
Arthur and Lance carry Merlin into his bedroom to sleep off the rest of the pill, and Morgana mutters excuses and shuts herself in her room. Gwen’s eyes are narrowed with concern but she says nothing, and Morgana adores her for it.
Morgana stares at her pale reflection in the mirror, tracing her features with her eyes, memorising each and every one while she still can. Time is slipping away from her; she has hours left, now, she knows. Mere hours before her world changes irrevocably. She grins at herself, wide and mad, and sees her teeth are stained red. She’ll have to do something about that before she faces the others again. Her expression falls again, and she sighs, allowing herself a couple of minutes for fear and regret before deciding to just let it all go because there’s no point fighting the things she cannot change.
Her survival is out of her hands now.
She turns away from the mirror, taking a breath.
Arthur bangs at thin air, screaming, fury and anxiety written across his face, blood dripping down his chin.
“We can’t,” Gwen insists, words splitting between her sobs. Morgana can see herself, barely upright, struggling to form words, drenched in rainwater and looking like a corpse. “Arthur, we can’t go after him.”
“We can’t abandon him!” Arthur insists loudly, smacking his hand against the air again.
Morgana has been driven to her knees by the force of the vision, and she slowly pushes herself back to her feet, refusing to crumble. The time for that will come soon enough.
Edwin’s a bastard. Edwin’s a bastard who drugged her up with two poisons, not one, because he’s cruel but not stupid. Not ever stupid. The first drug was fast-acting, raping its way through her system and sending her powers into overdrive, but it was designed to burn out after a few hours, giving her the chance to surrender. The other drug was slower, created not to kick in until later, and this one won’t burn out. This is the one she has to watch out for; this is the one that will kill her, and the only way to get the antidote is to give in.
Arthur looks worn and tired, blood still encrusted on his face. “So you’re telling me the best possible scenario, the one I should be bloody hoping for, is that my sister goes insane?”
Gaius looks older than she’s ever seen him, dressed in his starched white lab coat. “At least then you can hope for periods of lucidity,” he responds. He sighs. “Brief periods of lucidity.”
Morgana shivers, holding her eyes wide open until Gaius and Arthur fade and she’s left with her room again. Just her room; the dark wooden furniture, the black and white photographs on the wall, the vase of lilacs on her window sill. All hers and all familiar. She stumbles across the room towards the window, pulling the curtains apart. Light streams into the room and she stares down at the street far below her. The evening traffic jam has blocked the street, and people walk arm in arm on the pavement. Morgana reaches up a hand, laying it flat against the glass, closing her eyes. Her mouth still tastes like her blood and Edwin has sent her DNA into overdrive. Within hours, she’ll be trapped in a hallucination too vivid and too strong for her to ever break out of it. After that, she’ll only be able to look forward to… what will Gaius call it? Brief periods of lucidity. And that’s only one possibility, only one way the future could turn out. Her other options are, somehow, even worse.
Stepping back from the window, Morgana looks bleakly around her room once more. She’s been happy here; happy with Arthur, happy in her life. Bored with the present, of course, sickened by the déjà vu - something she hadn’t noticed until Merlin stepped into her life and showed her that not everything could be foreseen weeks in advance - and exhausted with the predictability of everything, but happy nonetheless. She misses the woman who lived in this room; Morgana feels like she’s cracked and broken and disappeared beneath the weight of these visions, the weight of what she’s learned, and the bite of loss is acute in her stomach.
Nimueh is entirely dry, though the rain keeps falling. Her blue eyes are sharper than ever, her dark red mouth curled in triumph. She does nothing, because she doesn’t need to; not yet. She just watches, as Arthur runs for his life and Lancelot hesitates behind his gun and Merlin- Merlin…
Morgana snaps immediately out of the vision, eyes still screwed up from trying to see the impossible. She gazes wildly around her room, as though Nimueh will suddenly step out of her wardrobe, and her eyes catch on her alarm clock. It’s one of the old-fashioned ones, large and silver and with bells on the top that ring. It ticks obnoxiously loudly; Morgana has got used to the sound but no one else ever has. Arthur usually complains about it when he comes into her room, saying that the sound makes him feel constantly on edge, and one of her exes said he could never sleep in her room because it was too loud. Right now, though, Morgana can’t hear it ticking; instead her attention is fixed to the time. She saw this, she’s seen this five times over.
At seven o’clock exactly, the rain will start.
Her clock is set exactly right, correct to the last second. Morgana picks up the clock and runs to the window, knocking the vase to the floor and spilling flowers everywhere, and doesn’t even hear it smash as she pulls the window open. She’s seen this five times and she knows what it means, but she can’t stop herself from hoping that maybe, just maybe, her visions have fucked-up and she’ll be wrong. If she can be wrong about this then perhaps she’ll be wrong about other things too. With five seconds left on the clock face she braces her hands against the sill and leans out, not caring how crazy she might look. With her face upturned to the sky, she counts aloud.
“Five… four… three… two… one.”
Morgana shuts her eyes and for a blissful moment thinks she’s got away with it. And then the first drop hits her skin, and then the next, and when she opens her eyes again London is covered in dark clouds as far as she can see and sheets of rain are pouring down. On the pavement, pedestrians hold crumpled copies of The London Paper over their heads, running for shelter, and Morgana tastes a scream against her teeth that she won’t let out.
She’s already soaked when she ducks back inside, pulling the window closed. The rain has begun and the pieces are in motion now. Everything has begun; and there is nothing, nothing that she can do to stop it.
^
Gwen is curled up on her side and dozing next to Merlin when he finally eases his way out of his drug-induced sleep. It takes a while for the haziness to dissipate, but when it and the accompanying disorientation are gone, he realises that he does feel slightly less insane. Not a lot less insane, given how fucking crazy and unbelievable his life has become recently, but at least the world doesn’t seem to be swaying unsteadily around him any more. Merlin’s limbs feel heavy but he pushes himself upright anyway. He’s back in the room loosely designated as his, and it’s sort of surreal. He hasn’t slept here since before Will was killed; the world was a little different then, and he misses it.
When Gwen still shows no signs of waking up, Merlin reaches out a hand to prod her until she opens her eyes.
“Brat,” she murmurs, batting at his hand and yawning. A smile spreads, soft and sweet, across her face. “Hey, Sleeping Beauty.”
Merlin waves a hand at the room, empty but for them. “I see no handsome prince,” he points out, and attempts not to pout. “I think I want my money back.”
“Arthur’s next door,” Gwen suggests mildly, sitting up. She immediately reaches for Merlin and starts flattening his hair; apparently it’s looking worse than usual. “Seriously, if you aren’t burnt to a crisp we’re getting you a haircut. It’s getting ridiculous, and we’ll never get you another job if you don’t start looking tidier.”
“You are not my mother,” Merlin says firmly, and then thinks about this. “And actually, my mother made less fuss about my hair than you and Morgana and Arthur do, so really, can we let it go?”
“Maybe,” Gwen replies, “But your annoyed-face really is very pretty.”
“Careful,” Merlin teases, “Or Lance will get horribly jealous and you won’t get the chance to lay hands on his implausibly perfect arse.”
Gwen flushes a particularly interesting colour. “We don’t - I mean - it’s not…”
They’re so comfortable around each other that Merlin tends to forget that Gwen, when faced with other people, is kind of inclined into descending into inane babbling and blushing. It’s really very sweet and endearing and works far more in her favour than Merlin’s please-like-me-I’m-really-not-as-incompetent-as-I-seem routine works in his.
“…And breathe,” he smirks, leaning to tuck a stray strand of hair behind her ear. Gwen nods, but doesn’t smile back.
“Lance is gone,” she tells him quietly.
Merlin feels his entire body turn to ice.
“Oh,” Gwen adds, “Not like that. I mean, he left a note and everything, and he says he’ll be back. But at the moment he’s… gone.” She grimaces. “We don’t know where, and Arthur is being quietly and unbearably frantic, so I’ve been making apple pie for the last hour because you were unconscious and Morgana won’t come out of her room.”
For a moment, Merlin just wants to ask Gwen for another sleeping pill and curl up underneath the duvet until this all goes away. But he knows it won’t help.
“What did Lance’s note say?” he asks instead.
Gwen shrugs. “Just that he needed to sort something out, and he’d be back, and not to worry.”
“So he hasn’t just run off to get away from the inevitable doom thing?” Merlin smiles to take the sting out of the words.
“Lance isn’t that guy,” Gwen reminds Merlin gently.
“No,” Merlin agrees. Both Arthur and Lance, whatever their other faults, have this weird chivalry thing going on, which is possibly what makes them both so attractive, other than the whole God-like good looks thing. He stretches, straightening out the kinks in his spine, and reflects that he doesn’t feel too bad. At least, he no longer feels like a rag doll. “Did you say something about apple pie?”
“I’m restless,” Gwen replies, nodding. “You know, when I’m restless, I cook stuff. Plus, apple pie is fairly comforting, and I think everyone needs comfort food right now.”
Gwen’s mum died when she was about three - before she met Merlin anyway - and although it’s something that saddens her from time to time she’s always said she doesn’t really miss what she didn’t have. Her father, Tom, was great; growing up, he was Merlin’s other father-figure, and he doted on Gwen. Unlike most of the other fathers in Merlin’s admittedly limited acquaintance, Tom had got the hang of everything to do with raising a little girl - he could even braid Gwen’s hair beautifully - but he was a pretty terrible cook, no matter what he tried. By the time she was eight, Gwen decided she was sick of having burnt macaroni cheese three times a week, and took it upon herself to learn how to cook. She’s really good at it; something Merlin has probably abused a little too much in the years he’s been living with her, but she’s never said that she minds.
“Great,” he smiles, “Then I will have apple pie once I’ve had a shower.”
“Morgana wants to see you,” Gwen tells him. “Once you’ve properly woken up, I mean.”
The concern is a like a mask, tight across her face.
“How’s she looking?” Merlin asks anxiously.
“Ill. Slightly crazy. Like she hasn’t slept in about a year.” Gwen sighs. “She keeps insisting she’s fine, but I really don’t think she is.”
None of this bodes at all well. Merlin hurries through his shower and gets shampoo in his eyes, repeatedly telling himself that whatever Morgana wants to see him about is probably not all that bad and he should stop panicking about it. He gets dressed in clean clothes and runs a comb through his wet hair and tries to squash the knot of nervousness in his stomach. Finally, he can’t procrastinate any longer, and goes to knock on Morgana’s door.
The room is cold; the windows are shut, rain streaking down the panes, but there’s a chill in the air.
“Close the door behind you,” Morgana tells him, and even her voice has changed. It’s harder and colder and distant now. She’s sitting on a chair by her dressing table, wearing one of her silky dressing gowns, dark hair cascading around her shoulders. The lights are off, and she looks horribly pale in the meagre light coming from outside.
“Can I turn the lights on?” Merlin asks.
“Of course,” Morgana replies, as though things like lights have entirely slipped her mind. Merlin clicks the switch and the room is immediately full of warm, bright light. Now he can see her, Morgana doesn’t look any less corpse-like. Merlin flinches.
“It’s that bad?” Morgana asks mildly, glancing at her reflection in the mirror. “Arthur looked a little like he wanted to vomit when he checked on me a while ago, but he hasn’t slept in days so I put it down to that. Do I really look awful?”
“You can’t tell?” Merlin enquires, and he knows he should stop hanging around by the door but he can’t bring himself to walk any closer.
“I’ve seen myself look worse,” Morgana shrugs.
Merlin frowns. “When?”
Morgana’s lips curl, just slightly. “Tomorrow.”
Oh. Oh. Merlin steels himself and hazards a step closer, and then another one. Right now, Morgana doesn’t look anything like the woman who befriended him and whisked him off for coffee and cake barely two months ago. Then, she was regal; now, she’s just rigid.
“You should sit down,” Morgana tells him, standing up and indicating her empty chair. Merlin doesn’t particularly want to, but he obediently walks across to her and pulls the chair away from the table so he can sit on it. Morgana smiles at him, and then she sways on her feet, fingers curling into her palms, eyes focussing on something far away. It takes ten seconds for her to come back to herself; Merlin counts each one, nausea rising in his throat.
“You’re really not fine, are you?” he asks, when she blinks rapidly and comes back into herself.
“I’m not,” Morgana agrees, with a wan smile. “But that’s not why I want to talk to you.”
She walks away from him, crossing to the window. She doesn’t seem to be able to look at him, which isn’t a good sign.
“Morgana,” Merlin says, “You’re scaring me.”
“You should be scared,” she responds flatly, and then shakes her head slightly. “Sorry. It’s awkward. Unlike all the other conversations I’ve had for the last two days, I don’t know what’s happening here.”
“So you really know everything that’s going to happen?” Merlin asks, and can only imagine how that must make Morgana feel.
“Every last second,” Morgana replies. “Except for the parts involving you.” She turns back to him, a smile that almost looks real curling her lips. “I don’t know why I don’t dream about you, but really, Merlin, thank you so much. You’ve made me realise things about my life I never noticed before you came along.”
The way she’s talking doesn’t in any way reassure Merlin. “Please,” he says, “You need to tell me what’s going on here.”
“I wasn’t sure what to do,” Morgana says, and she sounds half manic and like her control is skidding away from her. “I wasn’t sure whether to say anything or not, and then I thought, well, if it was me I’d want to know, and, well, I do know, but anyway. I wasn’t going to tell you, and then I had to.”
“You’re not making any sense,” Merlin says, and hears desperation in his tone.
“No.” Morgana sighs, seemingly trying to collect her thoughts. “Merlin, when I was at the height of my madness, when Edwin’s drug was at its worst, when I was lying in the hall bleeding and honestly thinking it was the end, when the future was overwhelming me and I couldn’t breathe… I saw you. I had a vision about you.”
Merlin does not have a good feeling about this. His stomach clenches and his breath catches hard in his chest. He can’t say a word, but that’s ok because Morgana sweeps back over to him and then, entirely unexpectedly, drops to her knees in front of him, looking up gravely. Her eyes are wide and mad and earnest and frightened and her expression is so unlike anything he’s seen on her face before that Merlin feels the first trace of genuine panic slide through him.
“Merlin,” Morgana says, loudly and clearly, “I’m so sorry. But tomorrow, you’re going to die.”
The room spins around him; Merlin starts breathing again, but far too fast, terror rising and closing over his eyes. His chest hurts as though someone is stabbing him repeatedly, rational thought escapes, his heart hammers against his ribs, and he realises he’s having a panic attack.
Morgana is still speaking. “I thought you should know. Parts of the future are still fluid… I think, but this isn’t. And I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. But I’ve never been more certain of anything than I am of this.”
Merlin is trembling, fear swooping repeatedly through the length of his body. His thoughts are skittering around in circles, unable to process what Morgana’s said, because the idea of him actually ceasing to exist seems entirely impossible, implausible, ridiculous. He can’t make a sound, can’t say a word, his hands are clenching and unclenching entirely of their own accord and he sways on the chair, feeling as though he could fly into a thousand pieces because this is too much, too fucking much.
“It’s going to be ok,” Morgana murmurs, and for a moment she sounds like her old self. She reaches forward, cold hands closing around his wrists, still knelt in front of him. She squeezes him, hard and certain, and he tries to focus. “You’re going to die, but you’re going to destroy Nimueh first. She won’t be able to hurt anyone else. Gwen will be safe, your mother will be safe.”
Merlin focuses on her warm, certain words, and his breathing begins to even out.
“I didn’t want to tell you,” Morgana tells him, “But I thought you had the right to know. I thought it was important.”
Merlin twists his hands so he can grasp Morgana’s wrists in return, holding her too tight though she doesn’t mention it.
“How?” he asks quietly.
“I don’t know,” Morgana admits. “I’ve only seen you die, and only once. But it was quick and it was painless and… I’m so sorry.”
“Stop apologising,” Merlin orders, and his voice quivers but holds. “I’m glad you told me. I’m glad I know.”
He can feel the panic receding to be replaced by a sort of low-level nausea that will, presumably, remain with him for the rest of his life. Oh fucking God.
“It’s up to you,” Morgana says quietly, “But I don’t think you should tell the others.”
Merlin laughs hollowly. “Oh, right, because I was planning on strolling into the kitchen and going: ‘hey, Gwen, nice apple pie; by the way, I’ve always loved you and when I’m killed tomorrow can you keep an eye on my mum?’” He sighs. “Well, it might be good for another pity fuck from your brother, anyway.”
Morgana sighs. “That wouldn’t be sensible,” she says.
Merlin does not really feel sensible right now, not even a little bit, but he can sort of see Morgana’s point.
“What if, by telling me, you’ve changed the future?” he asks. It’s a long shot, but it would be nice.
Morgana’s grip tightens, nails digging into his wrists. “I told you, I’m certain,” she says.
“Right,” Merlin sighs, nodding.
They just sit there for a while, breathing, and slowly Merlin can feel himself calming down, resigning himself to his fate. Oh, he’s angry and upset about it, but if he really is trapped onto this course and this really is his last night alive then there’s no point in spending all the time resenting what’s coming. Finally, he loosens his grip on Morgana, and she obediently lets go of him.
“I love you, Merlin,” she tells him earnestly, and it feels far too much like goodbye for any sort of comfort.
I’m not dying until tomorrow gets lost on the way to his mouth and becomes: “I love you too, Morgana.”
She kneels up and he leans down and they embrace, hard and desperate, and Merlin feels tears pricking against his eyelids. He grits his teeth until they pass.
When he finally stands, his knees feel weak but he can support himself, and Morgana sits back down on her chair. Almost as soon as she sits, her body stiffens again and she stares, horrified and silent, at something Merlin can’t see. She’s never been able to see the future while awake before, and Merlin knows that this can’t be good at all. It takes a little longer for her to come back this time, and he wonders what they’ll do when she’s gone too long and can’t get back.
“Don’t tell Arthur,” she mumbles, when she eventually focuses on Merlin. “Please. I don’t want to worry him.”
It’s a little late for that, Merlin reflects. “Apparently Lance has gone AWOL,” he says, “Arthur’s already fairly edgy.” A thought occurs to him, quick and sudden. “Did you talk to Lance?”
Morgana nods. “I did.”
Merlin is gripped by a second wave of panic. “What did you tell him?”
Morgana smiles slightly; maybe she’s trying to calm him. It’s hard to tell; so much of her is unfamiliar now. “Just four words.”
You’re going to die is four words, Merlin reflects. “What-”
Morgana meets his gaze. “You need a gun.”
“Oh,” Merlin says. And then: “Oh bloody fucking hell.”
^
“You should get some sleep,” Gwen says, as she’s loading the dishwasher.
Arthur ignores her, tracing the grain of the kitchen table with his thumbnail. He’s eaten a little too much of Gwen’s amazingly good apple pie, and feels warm and full in a nauseous sort of way, and everything about him feels unsteady. This is probably because of sleep deprivation, but he can’t rest. Not when things are so very close to shattering.
“Is it just me,” he begins, “Or is Merlin acting weird? Like, really weird, weirder than normal.”
Gwen smiles slightly, but her eyes are solemn. Throughout the meal Merlin was quiet, picking at his apple pie before suddenly shovelling it down like he hadn’t eaten for days. He was monosyllabic, refusing to contribute to the conversation, and then threw his arms around Gwen entirely without warning and started apologising profusely for not being better company. Then he was far too chatty, in a manic sort of way, had second helpings of pie even though he clearly didn’t really want them, and then excused himself and wandered off towards the living room.
Arthur is beginning to worry that Merlin is not just quirky in a simultaneously endearing and irritating way, but possibly actually insane.
“He was acting strangely,” Gwen agrees. “But it’s been a long day and things are difficult for all of us, so…”
Arthur nods. “Right.”
Gwen offers him a feeble smile. “I’m going to bed,” she tells him.
Arthur hears the unspoken I can’t handle being around people any more beneath her words, and gives her a soft smile.
“Goodnight,” he says. “And… thanks for tonight. You know.”
Gwen flushes, just slightly, and it amuses Arthur underneath all the clogging layers of despair and anxiety.
“Goodnight,” she replies, and hurries from the room.
Arthur stays sitting at the kitchen table for a while longer, increasingly morbid thoughts chasing each other through his head. Normally, when he feels like this, he goes to see Morgana or calls up Lance; but Lance’s phone is off and Morgana is not his sister any more. It’s not something Arthur feels he can say aloud to anyone, but it’s perfectly true, and they both know it. The Morgana Le Fay who woke up from Edwin’s drug is changed too much, has lost too much of what made her her. Arthur loves her, but she’s not the girl he’s known for the last thirteen years, and that knowledge stings.
In the end, he leaves the kitchen, but can’t face going to check on Morgana. He can’t look at her in this state any more; it makes something tighten painfully in his chest, and he may have cried out everything in him in front of Lance in the early hours of this morning, but it’s not something he’s going to make a habit out of.
Merlin is curled up defensively on the sofa, flicking aimlessly through their Inadvisable Elephant Coffee Table Book. Arthur is bemused to note that the pictures are moving; Merlin may not be aware that he’s doing it, but the elephants are definitely walking across the page.
Arthur wavers in the doorway for a moment, makes a decision, and walks across to join Merlin. He carefully tugs the book from Merlin’s hands, closes it, and puts it on the coffee table.
“You’re not ok,” he says bluntly.
Merlin gives him a sheepish sort of shrug, but doesn’t say anything. He can’t meet Arthur’s eyes.
“I’m not Will,” Arthur adds, and doesn’t miss the way Merlin’s shoulders tighten at the mention of his friend’s name. He continues: “I haven’t known you since you were born, but if you need to talk…”
“I don’t,” Merlin says, a little too quickly.
“Right,” Arthur murmurs, trying not to feel hurt at Merlin’s abrupt rejection. “Well, that’s fine too. I’ll just-”
Merlin catches his wrist as he stands up, eyes wide and blue and earnest and full of emotions Arthur can’t decipher.
“I’m being a bit of a dick tonight,” he says quietly. “But… if you can put up with that…”
His mouth moves a little but he can’t manage to form the word stay; Arthur hears it anyway and obediently sits down again.
They sit in a not entirely uncomfortable silence for a while and Arthur tries desperately not to think about how his life is falling apart around his ears. His best friend has vanished, his sister is down the hall going quietly mad, his flatmate is hiding in her room because she can’t cope any more, and Merlin… Merlin is huddled up, picking at the fraying sleeve of his hoodie and looking blank. This isn’t like Will’s funeral, when Merlin was weak and scared and unstable; this is different, but Arthur has no idea what it is or how to fix it.
“Lance will be back,” Merlin offers at last. “He hasn’t abandoned y- us.”
“I didn’t think that he had,” Arthur replies. He’s reasonably sure Gwen hasn’t told anyone about the mug he threw at the wall when he found Lance’s note on the kitchen table; he was angry for a moment, but he knows Lance would never hide from whatever the fuck this is. His friend is far too noble for that, which is annoying some of the time, but is on the whole a relief.
“You should tell him sometime,” Merlin mutters, still not looking at Arthur.
“Have I missed something?” Arthur asks. “I know I generally have no idea what you’re talking about, but-”
“Arthur, it has been clear to everyone for, apparently, forever that you’re madly in love with Lance,” Merlin sighs, as though Arthur is the obtuse and unobservant one here (which, for the record: he really isn’t). “You should tell him before this all kicks off.”
“Do you wish you’d told Will?” Arthur asks, before he can think it through; he remembers Merlin huddled on Gaius’ ridiculously steep staircase, Will’s photographed face beneath his fingers.
Merlin sighs. “There was nothing to tell,” he replies heavily. “I loved him, sure, but not really like that, and I was never going to give him what he wanted.” He shoots Arthur an inscrutable look. “I don’t want to talk about it.”
Arthur thinks about Lance, about the last week or so, about Merlin. He thinks he’s always loved Lance in a sort of desperate, unattainable way; before he ever really knew what he wanted. He’s not entirely sure yet that Merlin is all that he wants, or is ever going to want - especially if Merlin keeps up the let’s be friends shit - but he does know that he feels a mad sort of connection with the other man, and it’s different to the way that he feels about Lance.
It’s really all embarrassingly complicated while being simultaneously not complicated in any way at all.
“What do you want to talk about?” he asks.
Merlin’s smile is softer, more genuine. “Why do you and Morgana have so many stupid gigantic books about boring things?” he asks. “Really, it’s ludicrous.”
“Hey,” Arthur protests mildly, “I didn’t go to your house and mock your belongings.”
“You would have done,” Merlin replies, “If it hadn’t been burned to a crisp.” He smirks a little. “Actually, while I was living here, Morgana asked you to come and wake me up, and you spent about ten minutes telling me all about my wardrobe and how much it cost and how I should actually put my stuff in there rather than all over the floor, like it was any business of yours.”
“You really are horribly messy,” Arthur can’t help replying.
“It was still obnoxious and petty,” Merlin shrugs.
“You think I’m obnoxious and petty?” Arthur repeats. “Charming.”
“You are, on occasion,” Merlin points out.
Arthur is about to retaliate, but breaks out into a yawn instead. It’s one of those yawns that makes his jaw crack and seems to go on forever. Merlin watches, smirking slightly.
“You should get some sleep,” he says.
“I wish everyone would stop saying that,” Arthur mutters, in lieu of I can’t sleep, ok, how can I sleep when we could die at any minute?
“Morgana reckons that the shit hits the fan tomorrow,” Merlin tells him. “Don’t make me have to get Gwen to spike your tea or something.”
“I’m fine,” Arthur grits, turning away, and is utterly stunned when Merlin grabs his shoulder and turns him back to face him.
“You are not fine,” Merlin says, with feeling. His fingers are digging into Arthur’s shoulder. “And you need to take better care of yourself.”
Arthur wonders what’s taken away Merlin’s brain-to-mouth filter - which never really functioned at full capacity in the first place - because he’s reasonably certain Merlin wouldn’t normally say half the things he’s said so far tonight.
“Worried about me?” he asks, and it comes out rather more arrogant than he means it to. Still, Merlin seems to understand, because his lips curl just a little.
Merlin doesn’t seem to know what to say; but Arthur can read it on his face anyway. He doesn’t think Merlin’s ever looked at him like that before; naked concern and a tangle of other emotions, none of which are pity or desperation, which makes a nice change.
Their knees are crushed together and Merlin is still holding his shoulder far too hard.
“Merlin,” Arthur says, and half of it’s a warning.
“Arthur,” Merlin responds softly, and he doesn’t look away.
It’s almost too easy to lean forward and kiss Merlin and that’s exactly what Arthur does; he lets the weight of his body push Merlin back into the sofa cushions and when Merlin gasps Arthur uses it as an opportunity to slide his tongue across Merlin’s lower lip and into his mouth. Merlin’s hand moves from his shoulder into Arthur’s hair, curling and clenching almost hard enough to hurt.
“You,” Arthur breathes, “Merlin Emrys, are a fucking liar.”
Merlin smiles, one that actually looks real (and consequently a little bit manic). “I am?” he asks, looking amused.
“Yes,” Arthur replies. “You said you wanted to be friends, but you don’t.”
Merlin doesn’t say anything, but pulls him into another kiss. Things are slower now, more considered; none of the frantic desperation like after Will’s funeral, which is probably just as well. Merlin’s kisses are lingering, smooth, thorough; as though he’s trying to memorise every inch of Arthur’s mouth so he won’t ever forget it. He tastes a little like apple pie but mostly like Merlin and Arthur is unable to stop a twist of need from uncurling in his stomach. His hand tightens a fraction where it’s resting on the sharp rise of Merlin’s hipbone, and Merlin responds with a skid of teeth against his lip.
Arthur is just sliding a knee between Merlin’s thighs when the other man freezes, pushing at Arthur’s chest until he pulls away.
“We shouldn’t do this,” Merlin tells him, careful and clear, as though he’s trying to make it clear to himself as well as Arthur. “Really, we shouldn’t.”
Merlin was right about himself; he really can be a bastard, and it’s on the tip of Arthur’s tongue to say something cruel and crushing like fair enough, I won’t let you turn me into another Will. But he doesn’t, because he knows what that would do to Merlin, and it would cut too deep and sting too long.
“Fine,” he bites off, and is about to lever himself upright and move away with Merlin’s fingers curl over his shoulders again and his smile is slightly shy.
“I said stop, I didn’t say move,” he tells Arthur quietly.
“Ah,” Arthur says. “Right.” He frowns at Merlin. “You know, when this is over and done with and we’re not horribly dead, we’re going to talk.”
Merlin laughs; it sounds a little like he’s choking. “Ok,” he says. “I’d… I think I’d like that.”
He leans up and kisses Arthur again, and it’s so good that Arthur knows when he talks to Merlin he’s not going to take no for an answer. When they pull apart, Merlin looks momentarily sad, before the expression is wiped so quickly off his face that Arthur can’t really be sure it was ever there in the first place. Merlin smiles at him, crooked and charming in a way, although he still looks like a cretin, and gently but firmly presses the hand still entwined in Arthur’s hair until Arthur obediently rests his head on Merlin’s shoulder.
“For someone so horribly bony you’re weirdly comfortable,” he observes, bemused, as they both shift a little on the sofa so they don’t have elbows digging in anywhere.
Merlin laughs, a soft rumble that Arthur can feel through the length of him. “That was almost a compliment,” he observes, “You must be slipping.”
“You have bloody awful hair,” Arthur says swiftly, “It physically hurts me to look at it. And your ears are utterly ridiculous.”
He can feel Merlin grinning against his hair. “And you fancy me anyway.”
“Now who’s being obnoxious?” Arthur demands.
Merlin laughs again, and then sighs. “You realise that this is all just adrenalin and fear, don’t you?”
Arthur considers this. “Hmmm. I hope not,” he replies.
Merlin is stroking his fingers languidly through Arthur’s hair, and he would stop him because this is patently way too close to cuddling for comfort, but instead he shuts his eyes and goes with it.
Before he knows it, he can feel his eyelids drooping, and he wants to tell Merlin that he’s not going to get him to sleep simply by snogging the life out of him and then petting him, but when he opens his mouth it turns into a yawn and a moment after that he’s not really awake enough to argue.
Continued Here