Timshel -- Part Four
Timshel
And you have your choices / And these are what make man great / His ladder to the stars
NAVIGATION
Masterpost | Part One | Part Two | Part Three | Part Four | Epilogue
Acknowledgements | Soundtrack | Full document download
PART FOUR
Merlin takes the tube in to work that Monday morning, it being the first time in about six months he has woken up early enough to do so, rather than ending up in his usual routine of begging Gwen (through a mouthful a toothpaste) to call him one of the company's cars, and throwing himself in the back seat, half-dressed with a piece of toast in his mouth. He actually catches himself whistling on the way to the station, for Christ's sake, and he surreptitiously stops at every reflective surface to check his (still not bloody lying flat) hair. This is ridiculous, he tells himself firmly. It's ARTHUR. Yes, Arthur: Arthur who, less than forty-eight hours ago, was pressing kisses up the length of his spine; was kneeling before him, looking an intoxicating mixture of nervous and eager; was moaning his name into the back of his neck as if it were a prayer; was taking the length of his co--
Merlin bites his lip, hard, and admonishes himself for dwelling on such thoughts this early in the morning. It's the SCHOOL RUN, Merlin, he scolds, there are CHILDREN present. But try as he might, flashes of Arthur keep invading his vision -- the strong expanse of his back; his eyes, pupils blown; his full mouth, bitten red. It's quite a relief to arrive at the office where at least he might be able to persuade Arthur to have a little good morning snog up against that desk that he's so bloody proud of.
"Morning, Merlin!"
Merlin glances over to the source of the greeting, reddening slightly at his previous train of thought. Waving cheerily as he enters the lift is Leon. "Hey Leon," he nods, "How's things?"
"Bloody good," Leon replies, pressing the button for the second floor, "but not as good as for you, I hear!"
Merlin freezes. "What?" How on earth has the news about him and Arthur spread already? Unless Gwen has told Morgana and Morgana--
He's hardly listening to Leon, who is thumping him on the back. "...office. But it's fantastic news, it's a great opportunity."
Merlin says nothing, his mind racing. Maybe Arthur has told Morgana; after all, it's not like Gwen to blab. And if Arthur has told Morgana, that means he wants them to be open about everything and that is more than Merlin had hoped for this early on. A little fizz of hope bubbles somewhere near the base of his stomach.
"Er… anyway," Leon continues, looking vaguely confused, "This is me! So I'll, er, see you later, yeah."
Merlin waves a hand distractedly.
"Hey, Merlin," Leon says, putting a hand on the lift door to stop it from shutting, "Can you tell Morgana I have her umbrella at my flat?"
"Yeah, sure," Merlin replies. As the lift doors start to close, he realises what Leon has just said. "Hang on, why is Morgana's umbr-- Wait, that WAS you covered in lipstick at the party!"
As the lift pulls upwards, he hears Leon calling desperately, "I admitted nothing! Make sure you tell her that!"
Merlin shakes his head and laughs. Excellent ammunition. He and Arthur will definitely make full use of that little piece of information today, he thinks. Once they've got the snogging out of the way, naturally.
As he walks into the office, he's already planning the first round of mockery, but the sight of Morgana's face stops him in his tracks. She is as immaculate as usual, but her kohl-lined eyes are reddened, as if she's been crying. In all the time he's known her, Merlin has never seen Morgana even close to tears.
"Shit, Morgana, what's wrong?" he says, pulling a chair up to her desk. "Are you okay?"
"Merlin, I'm so sorry," she says, putting a hand to his arm.
"What? What's going on?"
She pushes a piece of paper towards him, shaking her head wordlessly.
Merlin reads:
It's like someone has poured cold water down the back of his neck, and a harsh shock thrills down his spine. Goosebumps prickle uncomfortably across his skin. "Morgana, what-- what is this?"
"Arthur called me yesterday evening to tell me. He wanted me to speak to you before you saw this. I-- I mean, it's a fantastic opportunity, Merlin. You'll have your own team and you'll be working on something that you're really passionate about--"
"Arthur knows about this?" Merlin asks. He can't quite get his brain to catch up with what Morgana is saying, his thoughts sluggish as if they're filtering through a thick fog.
Morgana nods miserably.
"I don't understand. This isn't-- he wants me out the office?"
"I don't know, Merlin. I wish I did. I asked him, of course I asked him. But he just said it was out of his hands."
"Oh God," Merlin says, burying his face in his hands. "Uther. Uther knows."
"Knows what?"
"He saw me taking Arthur away from the party. And Gorlois, Arthur's godfather, he saw us at the hospital-- and that night--" He pulls at his hair distractedly. Had he been seen leaving Arthur's flat? Or was what Gorlois had seen enough?
Morgana lays a hand on his knee, her lips pressed together in sympathy. "You and Arthur?"
Merlin doesn't answer, but he knows his silence will be enough.
"Fuck," Morgana curses. "That idiot."
Her anger shakes Merlin from his misery and he feels a quiet rage start to run hot through his spine. "He just-- he just let him do this. After everything. Is he here?" He glances over to Arthur's office door.
"No, no," Morgana says, hurriedly. "He said he wouldn't come in today."
Merlin doesn't believe her, not for a second, and he struggles hard to keep his hands from shaking. "I knew Arthur was many things, but I didn't know he was a coward. I can't believe he's done this. I can't believe he doesn't even have the decency to tell me himself. He's throwing away everything."
He knows that if Arthur can hear him, the words will sting, but he finds he doesn't care. He wants them to.
"Or maybe he just got what he wanted, got his fucking cheap thrills and now he's going back to pretending again. I don't know and I don't care. He's an idiot."
"I know, Merlin, I know; but you have to see the good things -- it really is a good job, you'll find it really rewarding, I'm sure--"
"I don't want his sodding job, Morgana! I never bloody did! I wasn't here for the money, or the business or for Uther fucking Pendragon! I was here for Arthur. And if he doesn't want me here any more, then I'm going."
Merlin stands up, slinging his bag over his shoulders. His blood is rushing hot and loud in his ears; he knows he should sit down, take his time, can hear Gwen begging him to curb his impulsiveness. But it doesn't matter, because he is sure of one thing: he never wants to work for Arthur Pendragon again.
"Merlin, please," Morgana says, laying a slim hand on his arm.
"No, Morgana. I'm sorry. I've loved working with you, you know I have, but Arthur has made his decision -- or at least Uther has made it for him -- and I'm making mine." His voice is loud even to his ears, his hand trembling as he tugs it through his hair in frustration. "One of us has got to have the strength to make our own choices and I should have known all along it wouldn't be him. But that's fine. He'll spend the rest of his life being paraded around like someone in a bloody beauty contest by his bloody father and be miserable. I'm not hanging around to watch that happen. I've done my best."
And he has, he thinks. He's exhausted with it all, exhausted with his mind and body thrumming with nervous excitement every time Arthur is around. Enough.
Morgana's green eyes run over his face, searching. He doesn't look away. "You mean it, don't you?" she says.
Merlin has never been more certain of anything in his life. He remembers Uther's wordless challenge from the party, remembers the way his chin lifted as if he was daring Merlin to defy him, and he hates that Uther has won. But he remembers that no matter how much Uther might have considered it his battle to fight, it wasn't -- it never was. It was Arthur's. And Arthur has chosen to let his father win.
Now all Merlin wants to get away from here, get away from everything and try to forget that it ever happened, forget about Arthur. "I do."
Morgana nods. "I'll tell him."
"Thank you for everything, Morgana," Merlin says, and bends down to kiss her cheek before walking out of the office for the last time, his eyes firmly set on anything other than the brass plate that reads "Arthur Pendragon".
Part of him wants to go back, wants to force his way into Arthur's office and press kisses to his jaw, his cheeks, his eyelids, wants to tell him that he's good enough, that he's perfect, that if Arthur will let him, he'll spend his whole life showing him that. But he's too angry, too proud, too embarrassed at having shared so much of himself with Arthur only to find himself discarded.
Besides, he thinks, staring blankly out of the window as his train pulls away, it won't do any good; Arthur has been faced with the two paths and if he's gone down the wrong one, the one that's lined with lies and frustration and leads to nothing but unhappiness, leads to Arthur ending up bitter and angry and unfulfilled because of his fucking father; well, that's his problem. All Merlin can do now is try and move on. Before it breaks his heart.
He somehow holds to that resolution until he gets home, at which point he finds Lance, asleep after a long night shift, and thrusts his phone into his hands. "Whatever I do, Lance, don't let me call Arthur, okay? No matter what."
He leaves Lance looking puzzled, and goes to lie face-down on the sofa to try to put his life back together.
*
After Merlin has left, Morgana unlocks the bottom drawer of the filing cabinet and pulls out a bottle of Scotch she keeps for emergencies. Every good PA has one, but she's never had cause to use it before. She pours a tumblerful, takes a large gulp herself, wincing, then tops it up to take to Arthur. As she pushes the door open, Arthur lifts his head to meet her gaze and she is almost frightened; he is ashen, wild-eyed. His hair is a mess from where he's been dragging his hands through it.
"Oh, Arthur," she says, her anger dissipating in the face of how broken Arthur looks.
"Don't, Morgana." His voice is gruff, ravaged, and she knows he hasn't slept. "I don't deserve it."
"No, you don't," Morgana says, "and I should be so angry at you right now for making me do that."
"I know. I know. I'm so sorry. I just… I couldn't." He presses his fists to his eyes. "I couldn't."
She sighs. "Oh, Arthur. Why are you doing this to yourself?"
Arthur pauses for a moment, downs the tumbler of alcohol with a grimace when she offers it. "I didn't have a choice. My father -- you know what he's like, Morgana, he made it quite clear-- He wanted me to fire him but of course I wouldn't, and I-- I thought Merlin would like that job, I--"
"You underestimate him, Arthur. As always."
Arthur doesn't reply.
"You just won't let yourself be happy, Arthur. I don't understand it."
"You don't understand my father!" Arthur barks. "I'm all he has left! And he wants -- he wants me to have a life, to have children and get married and run the business -- to do what he should have done, but couldn't. Because of me, because of what happened to my mother. And now I'm all he has. I can't disappoint him."
"Arthur, it's not your fault that--"
"It doesn't matter how much you hate him, he's my father," Arthur continues in a fierce rush, "and he's all that I have, too."
Morgana shakes her head and gets up to leave. "He's not all that you have. You have me." She pauses, looking at him from the doorway. "And you had Merlin."
She closes the door on Arthur's still figure and pretends not to hear as he chokes back a quiet sob.
Lance knows that Gwen loves Merlin, she really does, but he also knows that there are only so many hours she can spend on the sofa listening to Merlin rage about "sodding perfect haired poncing idiots with the spine of a… a… Lance, what's an animal without a spine? An INVERTEBRATE, that's it. No sodding spine, that's what he's got!" without snapping, especially when she's dealing with a double whammy of morning sickness and sciatica. And he also has a vague, nagging feeling that Merlin might not move out before the baby arrives and Gwen's fantasy nursery (cream and yellow, duck-themed) might stay as Merlin's den of misery forever.
"I can't take it for much longer, Lance," Gwen hisses, up to her elbows in soapy water. "It's been three months and I know he's had his heart broken and I feel really awful for him, but seriously, he's going to end up making the baby depressed. IN THE WOMB. Do you WANT a depressed baby, Lance? Do you? I don't think so. So what do we DO about him?"
Lance dries a wine glass slowly, thoughtful. "He needs something to get him out of the house," he says, holding it up to the wintry sunlight to make sure it's clean. "All this lying around moping doesn't help anyone."
Gwen tuts impatiently and takes the glass to put it away. "I know that, but what?"
"A job," Lance says, taking the glass back out of the cupboard to polish off Gwen's soapy fingerprints. "That's really what he needs."
"But he won't apply for any. He doesn't need the money for now, not with all his savings, and he doesn't seem to have the drive to do anything at the moment."
"Mm. What he needs is an offer he can't turn down. Something that really grabs him, to hell with the money." Lance hangs up the tea towel and hops up to sit on the worktop. "Let me talk to a few people at the hospital. Maybe there's something I can do. He's got great experience now, after all. I just think he needs to meet the right people."
Gwen folds herself into Lance's arms with a sigh. "Including some potential housemates, preferably."
"Yes, ideally," Lance replies, patting Gwen's belly affectionately. "How's Arthur doing, anyway?"
Gwen screws up her nose and shakes her head. "Not good. Morgana says that he hasn't said a word about it since it happened; he just works ridiculously long hours and shouts at people a lot."
"If only they weren't both so stubborn…"
"Pot, meet kettle," Gwen laughs, "you're just as bad. Albeit in a gentler sort of way."
"I am not as stubborn as Merlin is being at the moment," Lance counters, and Gwen inclines her head in agreement. They've wheedled and cajoled and threatened, but Merlin refuses to call Arthur, or even to email him.
Just as Lance is pondering who he would bet on in a staring competition, Arthur or Merlin, Merlin comes padding into the kitchen. It's four in the afternoon and he's still in boxers and a crumpled Radiohead t-shirt. "'Lo," he yawns, stretching like a cat. "What're we talking about?"
"About how if you weren't so stubborn you would call Arthur and everyone would be much happier," Gwen says absently.
"Ah," Merlin nods, mock-casual. "That old chestnut. Gwen, he's the one that practically fired me. If he wanted to speak to me, he would have called by now. He's clearly not bothered. And if he's not bothered, I'm not bothered."
"Merlin," Gwen sighs, "Have you stopped to think that perhaps he's struggling too, but he can't make the first move because that would mean choosing between his father and you?"
Merlin scowls at her. "He already chose between his father and me, Gwen. He chose his father."
Gwen throws the soapy dishcloth into the sink in disgust. "I give up with him, Lance. Give up! He's miserable, Arthur's miserable, and they'll both be miserable forever, see if I care. But I will have my bloody nursery!" Her face crumples and she dashes out of the room (somewhat slower than she probably wanted for dramatic purposes, being six months' pregnant) and leaves Merlin and Lance staring at her retreating back in astonishment.
"Well," Merlin says, a few seconds later, "that was… unusual."
Lance nods. "I know. She's a bit hormonal at the moment. But she's also worried about you, Merlin." He decides not to mention the 'Merlin's depressing the baby' theory. Probably for the best, he thinks.
"I'm fine, Lance. Honestly. I'm just going to move on and get over him. It. Over it."
"Mm," Lance says slowly, "but you don't seem to be doing much actual… moving on."
Merlin opens his mouth as if to snap back a retort, but then covers his face with his hands. "God. I know, I know. I know. It's just… everywhere I look, there's Arthur, you know?" He gestures around the room wildly. "That's the mug he broke when he came round for the first time, and that's the shirt I wore to our first big meeting and he said was the colour of vomit, and right there, pinned to the fridge, that's one of his bloody lists… I feel like I'm going mad, Lance. I've been through break-ups before, I have. I mean, Will was no picnic. But nothing like this. And we only sodding slept together once." He looks up at Lance, his face pale. "I just… I honestly thought it was… he was it, you know?"
Lance puts a hand to Merlin's shoulder. "I know."
They are silent for a few moments until Merlin rubs his face with both hands and shakes his head. "Ugh. I'll survive."
Lance pats him on the back in what he hopes is a manful but sympathetic way. "Hang on in there. It'll get easier."
Merlin nods. "Yeah, I know. Just all seems a bit… pointless."
As he watches Merlin disappear upstairs (crossing with Gwen in the hallway where they exchange a wordless hug of apology), Lance tries to imagine a life without Gwen and can't help the shudder that runs through him. Gwen pads back into the kitchen and offers him a small smile.
"Sorry--" she starts, but before she can continue he pulls her into a tight embrace and buries his face into her curls.
"D'you know what?" he mumbles, inhaling her soft, familiar scent. "For an educated man, that Arthur Pendragon isn't half an idiot."
In the aftermath of Merlin's resignation, it didn't take very long for Morgana to work out that mentioning it -- or, indeed, Merlin himself -- in Arthur's presence is a very bad idea. Probably the worst incident came about a month after it happened, and Owain, the head of Marketing, had asked Arthur for Merlin's number. "Why would I have his number?" Arthur had snapped, but it was too quick, too angry a response to an innocuous question, and the muttering had started.
Four months on, and Arthur has maintained his silence. She had wondered if the girls would start up again in an attempt to quell the gossip, but it seems Arthur doesn't care any more. He's just going through the motions; he comes in early, works late, bids her goodnight, and goes home. And she has the horrible feeling that he does nothing else, just works and eats and goes running, and stares at the ceiling, waiting for sleep to come.
She and Merlin had vaguely attempted to stay in touch, but it was too awkward; they couldn't talk about Arthur, couldn't talk about work, and so now they have stopped returning each other's calls and texts, as sad as that makes her. But she still sees Gwen, so she knows how Merlin is doing, and it's because of her most recent visit with Gwen that she has to talk to Arthur today.
Has to.
She knows she has to, but that doesn't make it any easier, doesn't make her legs feel any less shaky as she pushes open Arthur's door.
Stop being pathetic, Morgana, she tells herself, and takes a deep breath.
He is bent over his desk, writing.
"Arthur… I need to speak to you."
"Yes?" he says, not looking up. The room is dim, the blinds drawn, and she wonders briefly if Arthur is hungover; if he's taken to drinking himself to sleep instead of staring at the ceiling.
She clicks the door shut, biting her lip, and pulls a chair up to his desk.
"It's about Merlin."
Now he looks up. His eyes are thunderous. "What about him?"
"Arthur… look, I can't just… not tell you this, okay? I'm not saying you have to do anything, but I can't not tell you. I just can't."
"Spit it out, Morgana."
"He's got a new job," she says, slowly. "Working for Médecins Sans Frontières. Copy-writing for the website, press releases -- that sort of thing."
Arthur nods, tightly. "That sounds like the sort of thing he would-- But I don't know why you're telling me, I'm sure HR dealt with his reference."
Morgana takes a breath. "It's not based in the UK. He'll be abroad for the next two years. At least."
Arthur stiffens. "Two years?"
"Yes." Impulsively, Morgana reaches across the desk, takes Arthur's hand. "Oh, Arthur, can't you--"
He slides his hand away, drops it to his lap. "Thank you for letting me know, Morgana." His eyes fall back to his work.
"Arthur, come on--"
"That will be all."
She presses her fingertips to her forehead in frustration, but she knows when she's dismissed. Outside, at her own desk, she sends Gwen a quick text.
She's sad; sad for herself, sad for Merlin, but mostly sad for Arthur, who doesn't seem to realise what he's throwing away… or that he always had the choice to take it back.
*
Later that afternoon, Morgana hears a crash coming from Arthur's office and finds him knelt over the remnants of the glass he has hurled at the wall, his hands bleeding onto his shirt, leaving blossoms of scarlet on the crisp white fabric.
"Oh God, Arthur," she cries, and kneels on the floor next to him, and she can't help but wrap her arm around his shoulders.
He is shaking, staring down at his hands with a look of shock. "I'm so sorry," he says, turning to her. His eyes are hollow. "I'll clear it up. Don't worry."
"Go home, Arthur," Morgana says, stroking his hair away from his forehead. "Just go home, okay? Just for today." She hugs him, pulling his stiff body into her own.
He nods, looking from his hands to the wall wildly. "I think-- I think I should. Will you cancel my meetings?"
"Of course," she says, "Just go. Try and get some sleep."
She packs him into the lift, forcing him to leave his laptop and his briefcase, and goes back to his office to shut down his computer and double-check his paper diary for any appointments she's missed.
Lying open on his desk is his notebook.
Morgana isn't a nosy person; she's a PA, it is more than her job is worth not to avert her eyes when necessary. But it's open to a page headed, in Arthur's strong, neat hand TV programmes Merlin and Morgana are always talking about, and she's too curious to resist.
She picks up the notebook and flicks through pages at random.
Potential hangover cures. Ten reasons the merger proposal may will may get rejected. Potential birthday presents for Merlin. Embarrassing things that idiot has made me do. Topics to discuss at merger party. Vitamins important in pregnancy. Places I can take Merlin.
One makes tears come, unbidden -- a page headed Things I know about my mother, and underneath, nothing.
List after list after list.
And finally, one headed Things I want to say to him, with today's date, and she can't help but read.
He's my father. I can't help but love him. I can't leave him.
The time I spent with you taught me what it is to be happy.
I miss you, every day.
I hate what I become without you here.
You are all I want. Were always all I wanted.
I loved you all along.
I love you still.
She claps her hand to her mouth to keep from crying at the thought of Arthur scratching away at this, pouring his heart out through his fingertips to a blank page that can't answer.
She can think only one thing: Merlin has to see this notebook.
When the doorbell goes, Merlin is not really in the ideal position for answering it, being sat, as he is, in the middle of a very carefully constructed cardboard box fort. Still, neither Gwen nor Lance are in so he knows he has to extricate himself somehow; and, cursing himself for not leaving a doorway, he clambers over the box labelled "Books (storage)" and leaps down the stairs, congratulating himself for making it in only three jumps -- a new record.
He's peeling packing tape from his left forearm when he realises it's Morgana at the door, and he's not sure what gives him the bigger shock: how much it hurts to rip out arm hair with tape, or the fact that Morgana is here for the first time in months. He is decidedly happier about the latter than the former.
"Morgana!" he says, pulling her into a hug. "You fantastic creature, I've missed you a ton. Come in, come in. I'm packing, so bear with me." He leads her upstairs to his tiny bedroom and indicates a box for her to sit on. "That one's fairly sturdy and not too precious," he says.
"CDs (Sixth Form)?" she reads, raising one eyebrow.
Merlin nods. "Uh-huh. I got the urge to arrange them chronologically after seeing High Fidelity. There's a lot of shoegazer indie in that box. Hence why you can sit on it."
He grins at her and she beams back. "Oh, Merlin," she says, "I have missed you. But you look good; you look great, actually."
He inclines his head in thanks, widens his smile in determination as he pushes back the stray thoughts of Arthur that are never far from his mind no matter how hard he tries to ignore them. "I am good. I am. I'm really excited about this job -- I guess Gwen told you, right? I can't wait. Can't wait to get out of London, to be honest." He tries to keep the sharp note of regret from his voice. So much for your destiny being in London, he thinks, bitterly, and turns to label another box to hide his face.
"I'm glad," Morgana says, but she doesn't sound glad, not at all.
There's a silence for a few moments.
"So, um…" Merlin starts, but Morgana cuts in.
"Look, I'm really glad you're doing so well, I am. But Arthur isn't, Merlin."
Merlin sighs. He should have known why she would come here. "That's not my problem any more."
"But it is," she continues, insistent as he turns from her. "He's a mess, you don't know-- he's drinking and not sleeping and he's so angry. I found him bleeding today, Merlin, bleeding from trying to clean up the glass he'd thrown against the wall because he found out you were leaving and he doesn't want anyone to know how much that hurt. He won't let anyone in. He misses you so much."
Merlin bites his lip, his back to Morgana, watching the cars wind their ways home on the street below. He can't deny that it hurts, aches, hearing this, thinking of Arthur, alone, struggling. Can't deny that still, after all these months, he wants nothing more than to be with him, every minute of every day. "But that was his choice, Morgana. All of this was. And if he regretted it, he should have come to tell me himself. It's too late now. I'm leaving."
"Do you still love him?" Morgana asks bluntly.
"I never said I loved him in the first place."
Morgana tuts, and waves her hand. "Merlin, I'm not an idiot. A child could have seen that you two were in love with each other. I just want to know if you still are."
Merlin is silent.
Does he still love Arthur? Of course he still loves Arthur.
Four months isn't long enough to forget someone like that. Someone who was invitingly, addictively frustrating and delightful in equal measure. Someone who drove him crazy every day. Someone who was never, not for one second, anything other than fascinating. Someone who, behind all the walls, behind the overwhelming sense of propriety, behind the stiff suits and smirks, was warm and sincere and wonderfully true.
And it's definitely not long enough to get over someone he is sure -- so stupidly, naïvely sure -- is the love of his sodding life.
Morgana interrupts Merlin's frenzied thoughts by pushing a small black notebook into his hands. "Look," she says. "I know you don't owe him anything. But you should read this, for your sake. If you still love him."
She kisses him on the cheek, squeezes his arm. "I know he's difficult. But sometimes you are, too. And for what it's worth, I think you made each other something better. And I don't think you find someone like that every day."
Merlin barely registers the click of the door as she leaves; just stands amongst the scattered remnants of his life, turning the notebook over and over in his hands.
As a little boy, Arthur hadn't really missed having a mother; after all, he had his father, who he loved with a fierce loyalty that made it okay when he didn't see him for days on end, and a series of nannies who showered him with kisses and cuddles and gifts. But sometimes, just sometimes, he would wake in the night after a nightmare and something inside him, something primordial, would cry out for his mother before he was even half-awake.
He hasn't done it since he was small and had mostly forgotten it had even happened, forgotten the feeling of waking up feeling so utterly alone. But he remembers what it feels like now, his heart racing and mind filled with confusing visions of his father's anger and Morgana's pitying face and a pair of bright blue, searching eyes, hangovers from dreams that stay with him as he sits up with a start. And this time, the cry that dies on his lips is not for his mother, but for Merlin.
He sits up, swings his legs over the side of the bed and rubs his face with both hands. He can taste his hangover, sour in the back of his throat, and the smell of the whiskey from the tumbler next to his bed makes him recoil. He checks the clock, stands up with a groan and makes his way to the shower.
An envelope, lying on the mat, makes him stop. It's too early for the post, so it must be hand-delivered. Something in the pit of his stomach fizzes nervously as he goes to pick it up, and he can't believe how hard his heart suddenly thumps when he recognises the handwriting as Merlin's.
He opens the envelope carefully, trying to steady his fingers and calm his breathing as he pulls out the thick cream paper inside. He recognises it as a page from his own notebook and is filled with horror as he realises he left it on his desk, open, where anyone could find it. Where Morgana could find it.
"Oh God," he whispers, anguished.
He reads:
Ten Reasons Why You, Arthur Pendragon, Would Never Win Miss World
1. You don't want world peace. Or maybe you do, but not as much as you want a first class carriage on Underground trains, the abolishment of the congestion charge and another series of Blackadder.
2. You would not look good in a bikini. Or an evening gown.
3. Your teeth are crooked.
4. With a name like Pendragon, you'd have no choice but to go Welsh for the national costume round, and I can't really see you in a red shawl and high hat. Although I am quite enjoying imagining it.
5. The chances of you being voted Miss Congeniality by your fellow contestants are about as good as the chances of me getting through a day without coffee.
6. Your talents are either a) not suitable for a Miss World candidate (e.g. carpentry) or b) not suitable for public display (e.g. cocksucking).
7. Whilst your charity work (including buying new suits for scruffy office workers) would make you a shoe-in for the Beauty With A Purpose round, you'd have no chance in the Miss Sports round, seeing as you are rubbish at all sports. Yes, even cricket.
8. When you think nobody is looking, or you're concentrating, or you're annoyed, or tired, or angry, or amused, or plotting, or basically doing anything at all, you make the most ridiculous faces. No, really. You do. Ask Morgana.
9. On first impressions, you can come across as something of a shiny-shoed ponce.
As he reads this first side, Arthur oscillates between confusion and dissent and amusement and shock and an overwhelming, aching fondness. He doesn't know what this means, doesn't know if it's sent to amuse or to wound, but he can hear Merlin's voice in his head and it hurts, it actually hurts to realise how much he's missed it.
He takes a deep, trembling breath before turning the page over to read the final point.
But most importantly:
10. Somebody fell in love with you despite -- or perhaps because of -- all the above reasons. Hopefully, because of that, you would have no cause nor motivation to change them, but might just be brave enough to choose to be yourself. And so you wouldn't win Miss World, Arthur. But you would have won me.
And it's here that he loses it, here that his vision blurs and his throat aches and he sinks to the foot of the stairs, hands pressed together to try to stop them from shaking, and it takes a moment before he trusts himself to read through the list again. This time, when he reaches point ten, he just sits in silence, staring at the wall, his mind churning with a thousand things.
After long minutes, he comes to a decision. He reaches for his Blackberry and presses the call button.
"Morgana? It's Arthur. I'm sorry to call you on a Saturday, but I need your help."
As much as he loves her, Merlin can't help but scowl slightly when he first sees Morgana. She's standing outside the entrance to the Camelot building, a splash of bottle green against the grey stone. "This file best be bloody important, Morgana," he says, pulling her into a hug.
"Oh, Merlin, thank God," she says, chewing her lip. "It is. I woke up this morning thinking about it and I got the oddest feeling I hadn't saved it properly, and I just thought, fuck, I don't care that it's Saturday, I have to check it's there. And it's not, I can't find it anywhere, and if it's gone… fuck, I don't know. I will actually get fired, I think. God," she moans, running a hand through her hair. "He'll kill me."
She looks wretched, and Merlin's heart softens. "Okay, okay. C'mon, don't panic until I've had a look, all right?"
"Thank you," she says, slipping her arm through his and squeezing. "I don't know what I'll do without you." She swipes her keycard and pushes open the glass doors.
"I didn't even know the building was open on a Saturday," Merlin mutters, his skin prickling with the strangest déjà vu as he walks through the lobby he used to know so well.
"It's not really," Morgana replies, leading him up the stairs, "You have to have special access. The only people allowed here at the weekend are the management and their Pas, basically. And security guards. Which reminds me, you definitely shouldn't be here, so if we see someone coming, you have to hide, okay?"
Merlin rolls his eyes. "Bloody hell, Morgana, if I'd known fixing your computer would be a James Bond mission I would have brought my silenced PP7."
She looks at him out the corner of her eye. "That's a nerd joke, right?"
Merlin nods.
"Thought so. Anyway, it's really kind of you to--" Suddenly her voice drops to a whisper. "Oh my God, what's that? Do you hear that? Is that someone coming?"
Merlin can't hear anything and opens his mouth to say so, but before he can speak, Morgana has opened a door and shoved him into the room, shutting the door on his protests.
He's left staring at the wood, shaking his head in vague amusement. That is until he hears a cough he knows all too well and with a sudden rush of realisation that coils down his spine he knows where he is.
The boiler room.
And of course Arthur is there, and he's standing beneath the same goddamn window, the same patch of light, still looking as fucking beautiful as the day Merlin first met him, and Merlin can't help but laugh because it's all so ridiculous. "As if Morgana would need my help with her computer," he says, shaking his head. "What an idiot I am."
Arthur looks like he might grin, but thinks better of it, the corners of his mouth twitching. "I was counting on the fact that you would go into full knight in shining armour mode and not think about it too hard."
Merlin rolls his eyes, but he can't bring himself to feel any malice, not with Arthur standing in front of him like this, looking so gaunt and drawn and tired and-- pleading, Merlin thinks.
"Merlin--" Arthur begins, and then takes a step towards him, his voice faltering. "I-- Do you-- Do you remember this room?"
Merlin hides a smile. Of course he does. "I seem to remember encountering an idiot in here, yes. A long time ago."
"The worst kind of idiot," Arthur says, somber, a little wrecked, even. "The kind that didn't realise what he wanted, didn't know what was important. I was a fool, Merlin."
"You still are, on occasion," Merlin replies.
"I know. I know. I'm an idiot. I know I am. I knew it the day you walked out of here, I've felt it every single day, Merlin -- you don't know, you don't know what it's been like." He's not looking at Merlin now, his eyes on the floor, brow furrowed.
"I do know, Arthur," Merlin says. There's a little anger in his voice now, and it feels safer; safer knowing he's not just going to fall back into a trap blindly. "I know because I bloody went through it, too."
"You read my lists?" Arthur asks after a moment, looking up.
Merlin nods.
"There was one… with things I wanted to say to you," Arthur continues, careful. "Did you read that one?"
Another nod. "You got my list, too?" Merlin asks, his heart stuttering.
"I did," Arthur says, "and I can't thank you enough-- before that, I didn't even dare to hope that you might consider-- but maybe I'm getting ahead of myself, maybe you won't, and I wouldn't blame you. I behaved abominably, Merlin, I know I did, and I really-- I can't tell you how sorry I am, but I-- I want to show you. I quit my job," he says, taking one step closer to Merlin. "I called my father and left him a message and I told him I that I was leaving, and I won't go back, Merlin, I won't. I won't be held to ransom any more. I love my father, and God, I understand now what losing my mother must have done to him, but I can't live my whole life being haunted by that. It's not my fault she's is gone. It's not. I have to make my own choices. And I choose you."
For a minute, Merlin's not sure he can trust himself to speak. He looks at Arthur and wonders at the changes: insignificant things, a myriad of them, small things that only someone so helplessly attuned to Arthur would notice.
An uneven line of hair at the nape of his neck that shows how long it's been since Arthur last had his hair cut. His shirtsleeves unbuttoned, rolled up to the elbows. Grey hollows beneath his eyes. His trousers too loose, held in place by a belt that's pulled several notches tighter than before. Two days' worth of stubble across his throat and jaw.
But more than that, there's something in Arthur's eyes that Merlin hasn't seen before -- a sort of surrender, a willingness. A freedom.
"Is this it, Arthur?" he starts, biting his lip. "I need to know. I need to know that this is really it for you. Because I can't get hurt like that again."
"Nor can I," Arthur says, soft. "This is it for me, Merlin. You're it."
Merlin holds his gaze for a long moment. Arthur doesn't blink, and in that moment, Merlin sees; he feels it, that familiar prickling warmth; and he just knows in his very bones, knows that this connection between them that has always drawn him in -- right from when Arthur was nothing more than that arrogant, beautiful, shiny-shoed stranger -- it's not going to go away, no matter what gets thrown in their path. Just so long as they're strong enough to walk it.
Merlin knows it's his turn to choose now. And he takes a step towards Arthur.
This time, it's Arthur that starts it, clutching at Merlin's shirt like a man drowning. He crushes their mouths together, and it's too hard, Merlin can feel lips catching on teeth but he understands it, he gets it, gets this need to possess and be possessed, to hold on, fiercely, tightly, to something so necessary, something so close to being lost, something so unbearably dear. He pushes a hand through Arthur's hair, remembering the feel of it, breathes in deep, pressing the length of his body against Arthur's as close as he can. "I'm sorry," Arthur is whispering, between kisses, and "I love you," and Merlin just nods, because he knows, and he whispers back, "It's okay, it's okay."
And it is.
He's not sure how long they're there, remembering each other's taste, each other's touch, but there's a noise from outside that breaks the spell. "Shit," Merlin says, laughing against Arthur's mouth. "I'm not supposed to be here."
"Technically," Arthur says, "neither am I."
Laughter bubbles from their throats as they approach the door, silently, and Merlin pushes the handle down to open it just a crack, but a weight on the other side sends him tumbling backwards -- and Morgana and Gwen collapse into the room.
"Shit," Morgana curses, from somewhere at Merlin's feet.
"You bloody harpies!" Merlin cries, cackling. "What on earth do you think you're doing? And how did YOU get involved?" he says, pulling Gwen in for a hug.
"Not my doing," Arthur says. "I only coerced Morgana."
"Well," Gwen says, "the plan was to not let you leave this room until you'd sorted things out, and I wasn't sure Morgana would be able to hold the door on her own."
Merlin raises an eyebrow. "And seven-month-pregnant you was going to help, were you?"
"Er… not exactly," Gwen says, eyeing the doorway. Hovering in the corridor, whistling guiltily, is a rather sheepish-looking Lance. He mouths "Sorry!" and does an exaggerated little mime that Merlin thinks is meant to mean my girlfriend is pregnant, I have to do as I'm told.
"Have you, er-- been listening the whole time?" Arthur suddenly asks, looking a bit pink.
Morgana grins. "No, only when we couldn't hear voices any more. We just wanted to make sure you were snogging, and not, y'know…"
"Shagging?" Merlin puts in, helpfully. Mostly just to see Arthur turn from pink to full-on scarlet.
"… hitting each other," Morgana finishes, swatting Merlin on the shoulder. "No shagging on company premises or I shall be forced to report you."
Merlin snorts. "Oh, as if you've never done it," he says. Morgana coughs and reddens slightly. "Speaking of which," he adds, airily, watching as Gwen's mouth drops open in shock. "Did you ever get your umbrella back from Leon's place?"
In the ensuing chaos, Merlin sidles up to Arthur and takes his hand. "So," he murmurs, "what say we get out of here and go back to your flat?"
He feels Arthur's smile next to him. "Should we leave the harridans behind?" Arthur says out the corner of his mouth.
"Doesn't matter." Merlin returns, "I'm planning on making you moan so loud they'll hear you from the other side of London."
Arthur's only answer is to squeeze his hand tightly -- and he doesn't let go the whole way home.
*
It's not all easy, of course, that night. Back in Arthur's flat, Merlin can't help but remember the last time he was there, and there are more recriminations and apologies and explanations to be given before they take things any further. And so by the time they are curled up in Arthur's bed, Arthur's spine pressed up against Merlin's chest, exhausted and sated, the sun has dipped behind the horizon, and Merlin can feel Arthur's breathing settling into a soft, regular rhythm. Merlin marvels at the fact that even though he's never seen Arthur sleeping before -- he briefly wonders how long it's been since anyone has -- it still feels warm and familiar and like home.
He pushes himself out of bed, carefully so as to not wake Arthur, and pads to the kitchen to get a glass of water. He stands at the window, watching faceless commuters hurrying past, back to their own lives, and wonders what will happen now. This time, though, he doesn't feel nervous. It just feels right.
In the gloom of the twilight, he suddenly spots a figure walking down the path, towards Arthur's front door, and realises with a start that it's Uthere.
He's at the door in a flash, pulling it open before Uther can press the buzzer, steeling himself. He refuses to let Uther ruin this evening, refuses to let him wake Arthur up when he's sleeping, properly sleeping, for what Merlin suspects might be the first time in a while, and somehow that makes him brave enough to stand here (suddenly uncomfortably aware that he's wearing nothing but boxers and Arthur's t-shirt) in front of the most intimidating man he's ever met.
But he doesn't look intimidating now, Merlin thinks. He looks tired. He looks old.
"Good evening," Merlin says, keeping his voice steady.
Uther clears his throat. "Is Arthur-- ah--"
"He's sleeping." Even in his anger, Merlin is struck by Uther's mannerisms, the stiff, proud way in which he holds himself, how he bites off the ends of his sentences. Just like Arthur.
"Will you give him a message for me?"
Merlin nods.
"Please tell him that I spoke to Morgana, and I do not accept his resignation, and I expect to see him in the office on Monday morning."
"I'll tell him," Merlin says.
"And tell him--" Uther pauses, rubbing a hand across his jaw and his forehead. "Tell him that I would like him to come to dinner tomorrow evening. And-- if you're not busy-- I suppose you should-- well." He trails off uncomfortably.
Merlin refuses to fill the silence, still angry for the months he has lost because of this man.
"Merlin," Uther continues after a moment. "Arthur is everything to me, do you understand? Everything. He's my son. And I can't-- I can't lose him. Not him. And if he thinks he has to choose between you and I, then-- then we need to make him see that he doesn't."
"You asked him to choose," Merlin says, setting his jaw. It doesn't matter how lost Uther might seem, Merlin wants him to feel it, to feel the weight of the decision he put on Arthur's shoulders, to own to the fact that he was wrong to do so.
Uther is silent for a moment. "Yes. I was wrong."
Merlin wonders how many people have heard Uther Pendragon admit that.
"I'll tell him what you said," he says slowly. "But after that… what he does next is Arthur's choice, okay?"
Uther nods. "I understand. Then perhaps I'll see you both tomorrow."
Merlin shrugs. "It's up to Arthur."
"Yes." Uther turns, but when he reaches the end of the path he stops, leaning one hand on the gatepost, suddenly looking weary.
Merlin is struck by how small Uther seems, this great leader with all the money and power he could ever desire at his feet. He wears the haunted look of a man who nearly lost the only thing he truly needs.
Uther lifts his head, looking back at Merlin. "I just want-- I only ever wanted him to be happy."
Merlin gives him a small smile; it's the tiniest of olive branches, but it's an olive branch nonetheless. "He will be," he promises, as much to himself as to Uther -- but mostly to the sleeping form inside the house.
And later, as he slips back into bed, pulling Arthur towards him, wrapping an arm tight around his waist, he whispers the promise again, soft into the back of Arthur's neck.
<< Part Three | Epilogue > >NAVIGATION
Masterpost | Part One | Part Two | Part Three | Part Four | Epilogue
Acknowledgements | Soundtrack | Full document download