An Infallible Reason 5
5: if there's a time these walls could guard you,
then let that time be right now
They fall into a routine easily enough. Arthur goes to work, then picks up groceries or take out and goes to Merlin's place. They eat, drink tea, watch TV, talk. But they pretend like nothing is unusual, like things are exactly as they were a month or two ago. It's not easy for Arthur to act like everything is a-okay when Merlin always sits on the opposite end of the couch, or stands on the other side of the kitchen island, avoids any kind of contact and every once in a while, seems to get lost in his thoughts before jerking violently and coming back to reality. But he does it, because it seems to be working well enough for Merlin, who's not really getting better (Arthur can see, now that he knows what to look for, knows not to take everything at face value, the little crinkle in Merlin's forehead when he pretends to be cheery, the slight shaking of his hands; Arthur can see that most of it is just an act, but if there's anyone who understands needing to put on a mask of strength and stoicism for the world and yourself, then it's Arthur, so he goes along with the act, plays his role of unsuspecting friend the way Merlin has for him countless times before), but is not getting worse either.
The thing with Merlin is, he's a stubborn son of a bitch, and even now, Arthur can see that he is trying to deal with everything on his own and that he won't back down from that plan. He doesn't ask, oh no, because Merlin pales and cringes and shuts down at even a mention of anything remotely related to rape, it's just one of those things, something he knows because he's spoken to Merlin before. Everyone knows that Merlin likes to be independent, to do his own thing; Arthur admires that - Merlin's been living on his own for a couple of years now, while Arthur, despite his recent disagreements with his father over his more liberal work policy, can't imagine having to go through life alone. But more than that, Merlin's always insisted on getting everything done on his own, refused help like it was offensive, and that, Arthur can relate to - the feeling that he's somehow failed if he needs help.
So he gives Merlin the freedom, the time to do whatever it is that he does between late nights and late afternoons of Arthur's leaving and arriving anew. And as curious as Arthur is most of the time (sometimes the apartment is tidier, or there are clothes dripping on the balcony and Arthur can see what Merlin's been doing all day, but most times, nothing looks any different), and he doesn't prod or question or inquire because the point of giving someone space is lost if you go MI5 on their asses about how they use that space.
It all seems to be working well enough for a while, with Merlin gradually becoming less and less surprised at seeing Arthur at the door, and starting to act less and less like a scared, caged wild animal, always stiff and looking over his shoulder, around Arthur; and Arthur, despite constantly keeping in mind Gwaine's message - it's not always obvious that things are not okay, lets himself hope, just a little bit, that Merlin is different, stronger, that he can get over this faster, sooner.
And then it happens - Arthur's phone rings in the middle of the night, waking him from a rather pleasant dream, and Arthur is already cursing the caller to high heavens when he looks at the screen and finds Merlin's name on it. The panicking thoughts of something happening are followed by the feeling of all the air being sucked out of his lungs, out of the whole room, worse than being punched in the gut, and he fumbles with the phone to answer as quickly as he can. By the time he is frantically saying Merlin's name into the phone, he's already on his feet and getting dressed, because Merlin calling him at 2 hours after midnight (and wow, is it Christmas already?) cannot possibly be a good thing.
“Arthur,” Merlin replies, his voice at least two shades higher than it normally is, “I need you to come pick me up.”
Arthur is not sure it's normal for him to actually feel a bit giddy amidst all the subsiding fear (he's alive, as long as Merlin is alive, they'll figure something out), because Merlin actually called him, trusted him enough to ask him for help. So, as guilty as he knows it will make him feel later, he can't stop himself from smiling as he slides behind the wheel of his car, asking, “Where are you?”
~*~
It's not difficult to spot Merlin on the corner, holding his coat tightly around himself, the lower half of his face hidden behind his blue scarf. He's standing frozen in place, staring at the park in front of which Arthur is about to park his car. People pass him by, most of them already drunk, yelling curses and Christmas wishes, usually in the same sentence. Merlin stands out, one unmoving figure behind all the young people running by, one person not celebrating the supposedly happiest day of the year. Arthur locks the door and runs across the street, narrowly avoiding getting hit by a car.
“Hey, I'm here, what happened?” he huffs, white steam rising from his mouth into the misty, dark night, as he stands awkwardly in a pile of slush near Merlin, who doesn't seem to notice him. Two weeks ago, Arthur would have tapped Merlin's shoulder or shaken him or poked him somehow otherwise, but there have been enough awkward cringes and enough moving away even for Arthur to get the hint, so he doesn't even reach out, his hands firmly in his pockets, as he waits for Merlin to come out of whatever thoughts he's lost in. Merlin, however, continues to stare at the park. “Hey,” Arthur repeats, waving a hand in front of Merlin's face.
He's not expecting Merlin to react by violently shoving him away with a loud yelp. He stumbles backwards and almost falls, stays upright only thanks to a man who happens to be behind him at the time (“Oi, mate, watch it!”); the flare of anger within him is directed at the man as much as Merlin himself, all the fear and confusion suddenly, temporarily replaced by it due to Merlin's violent, unexpected (ungrateful, Arthur pretends not to be thinking) outburst. But it's all pushed away as soon as it came when he looks at Merlin and finds him shaking, almost crying, his hands (red, the skin is already broken at the knuckles, Arthur notices - Merlin must have been standing there for hours) clenched at his sides, his eyes darting between the park in front of him and Arthur. He looks... lost, like he has no idea what's going around him or even where he is. The look in his eyes reminds Arthur of all those times he looked to the side and found Merlin only physically there. It's almost like looking at a sleepwalker, somebody locked in their own world, someone who shouldn't be startled out of it too quickly or too abruptly. Feeling at a loss for how to bring Merlin back to the real world, and beginning to silently panic (it's been days since he was last confronted with a situation involving Merlin when he had no idea how to proceed and he's already forgotten that stuck between too many options feeling and he definitely hasn't missed having to make these decisions), Arthur eventually just shouts his name.
Thankfully, that seems to be enough, since Merlin freezes, cocks his head to the side and looks at him. “Arthur,” he says quietly, almost too quietly for Arthur to hear.
“Yeah, yeah, I'm here,” Arthur replies, standing as close as he dares, figuring that it's the best compromise between showing support and keeping his distance. “What did you need me for?”
Merlin looks at him, head still tilted to the side, eyes slowly losing focus. “I don't know,” he says, giving the intonation of a question almost, like he's wonder, like he's not sure. Arthur doesn't know what that means, he just knows it's creepy as hell. So he, unthinkingly, wraps his fingers around Merlin's wrist and slides them down to hold his hand.
He doesn't realize it at first; it is at once new and natural, the feeling of Merlin's skin something he's been missing, but at the same time it's like something slotting into place, like this is what their hands were made for, which is probably why it only hits him that he's touching Merlin, skin on skin, when he looks down and sees it. He's about to remove his hand when Merlin's fingers grip his. For a second, Arthur is sure it's just a reflex, but Merlin looks him right in the eyes, just as he wraps his other hand around Arthur's wrist and whispers, “I don't know, Arthur, I just need someone... I need you.” And in any other situation, those words would do magic for Arthur, but the desperation in Merlin's voice is frightening, so much so that even Arthur's (apparently incredibly selfish and huge) ego can't get a kick out of them. He does still feel special, though, when Merlin, seconds later, stands close to him and hugs him, a little awkwardly, like he's forgotten how to do it right. Arthur hugs back and waits for Merlin, who's still gazing into the distance, looking a little lost, to relax and stop shaking (he does not admit how much he's missed this, the touch that Merlin used to give so easily, or acknowledge how good it feels, or imagine that he can feel the heat of Merlin's body through their coats, no, no, he doesn't, because wow, this is a wrong time for that; what he does do, is squeeze Merlin tighter when he realizes that he has no idea when he will have the opportunity to do it next).
Now, Arthur is not a very patient man in the best of cases, so when somebody he cares for is having a minor panic attack and saying nothing about it, the only thing going through Arthur's head are questions - what was it that pushed Merlin into a near-breakdown in public, why now, why here, what does it mean that Merlin called him, what should he do; but he keeps his mouth shut, lets Merlin take his time and just waits, until an indefinite time later, when Arthur's fingers hurt from cold and the snow's started again, Merlin turns around in his arms and buries his face in Arthur's neck. Arthur takes it as his cue and starts walking them to his car. Merlin's apartment is just across the park, they could probably walk there in a few minutes if they went through the park, but Arthur doesn't feel comfortable leaving Merlin alone tonight, so he makes a snap decision to bring Merlin to his apartment. He doesn't really think it through (or ask Merlin about it), just starts driving on an impulse. Merlin stays quiet throughout the whole ride.
~*~
“What do you mean, he's at your place?” Morgana hisses between sips of their fancy entrée with a foreign name and served in artful little cups.
“I mean, I took him back to my apartment and he's there now. Probably still going through my bookshelf,” Arthur replies, pretending to be eating. They've barely managed to manipulate the seating order so they'd be as far as politely possible from their father, now it's time to pretend they're enjoying themselves while their father gives speeches to anyone within earshot about his success and his company and probably murdering puppies; Arthur and Morgana have learnt a long time ago to just ignore that and the experience over the years has taught them how to be brilliant at being inconspicuously bored out of their minds.
“Yes, thank you, I gathered that,” Morgana says with an exaggerated eye roll. “What were you thinking taking him there?”
“Well,” Arthur starts, but then trails off. He's not really sure why he thought taking Merlin back to his apartment was a good idea, he just knows that it seemed right at the time, he couldn't very well leave Merlin alone last night, and he didn't think that Merlin's tiny little condo could fit them both comfortably (at least that's the explanation he's going with). “Look, it was four in the morning, we were freezing in the street on Christmas. Maybe I wasn't thinking straight, but it was the only thing that came to mind.”
“Why were you in the street at that hour?” Morgana asks, politely nodding at the serving girl who's taking away their plates, only to have them replaced by something even more posh and exotic (Arthur likes being rich, and he enjoys his wealth but the blatant displays of luxury of the purpose of intimidating business associates has always seemed a tad too distasteful, even to him).
“It's... complicated,” Arthur tries, hoping Morgana doesn't prod further. The only reason he had been looking forward to this dinner since morning was the thought of being able to talk to Morgana, maybe ask her advice, or maybe just to have someone listen to him (Arthur wouldn't admit it out loud, but despite all their bickering and teasing and genuine arguing, he's always loved his sister), but from the moment he told her about taking Merlin as his new flatmate, he's been doubting and questioning his decision to do so - after all, he hasn't asked Merlin about sharing this with anyone and the thought of putting Merlin in a yet another uncomfortable situation, even accidentally, is disquieting.
“Nice try,” Morgana bites back, clearly seeing through him. Knowing there is no going back now, Arthur takes a deep breath to rearrange his thoughts and figure out a way to give Morgana enough information for her to stop prying, but not so much that he makes a problem for Merlin.
His father, however, chooses that moment to clear his throat and ask them, in a very stern tone that Arthur doesn't remember ever being so glad to hear, “Morgana, Arthur. Would you care to join the discussion?”
Morgana doesn't get another opportunity to grill Arthur for the rest of the evening, something Arthur is immensely glad for, but he can feel her eyes on him nonetheless.
~*~
At the end of the evening, Arthur is exhausted. It could be the lack of sleep, or the stress of his late night adventures, or the recent strain on the relationship with his father, but mingling and making polite small talk is more draining than the last time he had to participate in it. Putting on his coat and scarf makes him feel, oddly, lighter, relieved now that he can leave, now that he can relax. The air outside is so cold that his cheeks and nose start tingling almost as soon as he's out the door; once again, the meteorologists were wrong - it's not snowing, it's just freezing. It's too cold, in fact, for snow, there's just ice. This is Arthur's least favourite weather, especially when he's driving at night, he's had one too many close calls on the roads in winter.
Of course, the refreshing respite of being alone in the dark, not being a CEO of a major company, not being the underachieving son, not being a supportive friend, just being human, is too good to last. He hears Morgana calling him, her voice muffled by her own scarf. He turns around reluctantly. It's been a long day and he just wants to go home and rest.
“We didn't get the chance to talk much,” Morgana says, pulling her scarf down, when she approaches him.
“I know, it's a tragedy,” Arthur teases. Truth be told, he's conflicted on that front again - on one hand, he's glad he didn't have to think of lame excuses to withhold some answers, but on the other, he likes talking to Morgana; there's something about her that gives him that perfect balance of being an overgrown child and having fun, and knowing when to get serious and take a moment to reflect. Merlin has a similar effect on him, he thinks in the back of his mind, a random stray thought, almost as if just to remind him who he's coming home to.
“Isn't it just?” Morgana teases back with a smile that is just lopsided enough to show Arthur that Morgana's had one glass of wine too many. “Going home?”
“Yeah.”
“Look, Arthur,” Morgana says, leaning in and putting a hand on his shoulder. Arthur has come to know that tone and gesture as a sign that she's about to lecture him. He rolls his eyes, partially because he really, really doesn't feel like freezing his ass off on his father's driveway while being lectured by his tipsy sister, and partially because it's his duty as a younger brother to be exasperated in these moments. Then suddenly Morgana steps back. “No, you know what? It doesn't matter.” It's probably the first time Morgana's backed down from an opportunity to appear smarter and more grown up in front of Arthur. For some reason, Arthur feels like this is a big moment in their relationship, even though Morgana's memories of it will probably be hazy at best. “Just... I know you're doing what you think is best for him. But you need to talk to him about this, you need to make him talk about it. Ignoring it won't make it go away.”
A tinge of panic nibbles at Arthur's insides without warning (he's not ready to talk, he's not ready to hear, he's not ready to know, he doesn't know how to respond- and the worst of it all, it's all about him and his feelings, which, if he thinks about it, is not all that surprising - he is after all, his father's son, selfishness is probably encoded in his DNA), like he needs to talk to Merlin right now, but he squashes it with the long learnt skill of a businessman who needs to keep his cool and hide his insecurities; it's something his father taught him long ago, along with the fact that attack is the best defence.
“Morgana, no offence, but don't you think Merlin should decide that? He'll talk to me when he's ready.”
Morgana snorts and throws her long hair over her shoulder. “Please. He won't talk to you, and you know that! It's easier like this, pretending nothing happened. That's exactly why he goes to you for help, he knows that deep down you're as big of a coward about this as he is and you won't ask questions!”
Sometimes, Arthur forgets that Morgana too went through their father's rigorous training and that she mastered it way better than he did. Then something like this happens and reminds him. (Sometimes he also wonders if she has some secret powers of mind reading or seeing the future, because she always seems to know more than he'd like her to.)
“Well, when he decides to come to you, feel free to grill him all you want. But as long as he's not talking, I'm not making him,” Arthur replies sternly, not wanting to get into an argument he will regret (and probably lose). He leaves pretending not to hear Morgana yelling after him, “I just want to help him!”
~*~
When Arthur gets home, half asleep, cold, too numb to still be frustrated, Merlin is asleep on the couch. He doesn't look very comfortable, but he is resting, which Arthur takes as a good sign and decides not to wake him up by moving him to a bed. He puts another spare blanket over Merlin's still form, then goes to sleep, without turning the lights on, showering or even undressing. There's always tomorrow.
6: now my compassion slowly drowns me