Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

--

Merlin doesn’t end up going to class that day after all.

The confrontation with Arthur left him drained and with a pounding migraine, so he swallows more painkillers than is probably advisable, and blacks out for the rest of the day. It’s stupid beyond belief, even for him, but by some kind of miracle he doesn’t suffer for it.

He wakes up a few hours after the sun has set, around the time he usually leaves for work. The thought of going back to the club makes him shudder, but it’s not like he has a choice.

He stumbles into the bathroom, and as the light turns up, Merlin recoils from his own reflection in the cracked mirror. Forget his nerves, nobody’s going to want to have him serve drinks while he looks like that.

He goes anyway after swallowing some pot noodles, trying his best not to taste them. It feels like he’s chewing carbon anyway.

His appearance has the effect of rolling bomb waiting to explode. Merlin is on the verge of hyperventilating under all the stares, when Simon materialises out of nowhere, wraps his arm around Merlin’s shoulders and steers him into his office faster than Merlin can stammer out a hello.

“Why on Earth would you come to work in this state?” Simon asks, but surprisingly it doesn’t sound hostile. His tone is almost concerned – or at least as close to it as it ever comes for Simon.

“I was thinking maybe I could help out in the kitchen or something,” Merlin mutters, his voice failing him half-through. “Please don’t fire me,” he blurts out, because the thought of losing his job terrifies him more than the idea of a second Kevin.

“Fire you?” Simon lifts his eyebrows. “Don’t be silly. Why would I fire you when you’ve been attracting so much business lately? Speaking of which, you could have told me that Arthur Pendragon was your boyfriend.”

Merlin chokes, a gulp of air going down the wrong pipe, and gaping at Simon with watery eyes. “He’s not my boyfriend.”

Simon shrugs, unimpressed. “Fair enough. I don’t think he does boyfriends. Boy toy of the month is good too. Still, Merlin, you should tell your boss things like that. Preferably before your fuck buddy bursts in here, threatening to close us down unless we provide proper screening for our employees and heighten security.”

“He what?”

“Oh, he said that and more. And by the way, did you lie on your application form, Merlin? Pendragon swears some of our staff aren’t twenty-one – I wonder who he might mean?”

“Oh God,” Merlin mutters, his hands shaking. “I’m so fired.”

“Relax.” Simon laughs. “It’s not like we can’t claim adult supervision here. Besides, firing you after he made all that noise would be more trouble than keeping you. Besides, believe it or not, you’re actually one of my best waiters.”

Merlin stares. Serving drinks involves a lot of balancing fragile objects, and Merlin is terrible at that.

Simon rolls his eyes. “It’s more about the performance in here, and you know it. You’re doing just fine, trust me, or I wouldn’t have kept you all this time. We have a waiting list a mile long for jobs here.”

“Oh,” Merlin says intelligently. “Thank you?”

Simon sighs in exasperation. “Go home, Merlin. Come back in three days if you’re feeling up to it. Just – borrow some makeup from the dancers and – actually, borrow one of the dancers along to help you put it on. Until then – shoo.”

Merlin nods and walks out as quickly as possible before Simon changes his mind. He didn’t think he could actually survive a work shift tonight, but not showing up and losing his place fore sure was far more terrifying. Three days off that Simon has given him are a blessing. Sure, Merlin won’t make anything in that time, but at least he gets to keep his job. That’s more than he’d hoped for after seeing his face in the mirror for the first time after the assault.

Pot noodles don’t taste any better when he gets home, but there’s a sampling of cheese at the corner shop below, and somehow it’s uplifting and wonderful. The girl smiles at him, and Merlin smiles back, and then buys some instant coffee, and eyes the eggs speculatively until he remembers he doesn’t have a pan to cook them in. He buys an apple instead, the smell of fresh fruit nearly doing his head in, and as he passes the promoter again on his way to the exit, she gives him the remaining samples – half a pack of cheese – on the sole condition he doesn’t rat her out about having finished early.

Back at home, he eats in his bedroom in the light of Kilgharrah’s screen. The coffee is bitter acid, but it’s strong, and it chases away the remainder of Merlin’s headache. He’s tempted to work on his pet project, but he should probably catch up on his coursework, so with a sigh, he settles to do just that.

He goes to bed around three, his panic about being too far behind mollified to a degree. He feels almost warm, wrapped in all his blankets.

He thinks that he should be angry at Arthur for being a meddling arsehole and putting Merlin’s job in jeopardy, but for some reason Merlin can’t summon enough energy for the emotion. In fact, there’s something pleasant about the situation that Merlin can’t quite put his finger on.

Just as he slides into sleep, he finally gets it.

Someone thought he could be Arthur Pendragon’s boyfriend.

Merlin snorts at himself quietly, and if it sounds too wistful for self-mockery, no one’s there to hear it.

--

Oddly enough, things start looking up after that. Merlin jokes that if he’d known that getting a bit of a fright would be all it took to get some karmic retribution from the universe for all the shite he’d had to deal with, he’d have gotten himself attacked a long time ago.

There’s a part of him that is dimly aware of him being an idiot and taking things way too lightly, but Merlin doesn’t want to listen to it. A poor country boy moving to a big city with no family to support him and having a tough time of it is as much of a cliché as being jumped at one point or other, or screwed in some way. His every life choice seemed to have led to that moment, no soap opera scenario would have been complete without it, and Merlin almost feels relieved now that that’s out of the way.

Besides, his options are limited. It’s making jokes about it, or curling into a ball in the corner and crying himself straight into clinical depression, and Merlin can’t afford that. There’ll be no one there to pull him out of it, and Merlin really doubts that he’s strong enough himself.

He’s vaguely aware that his is not the best way to deal with shit, but it’s good enough for the moment.

Mark doesn’t appreciate the joke. Mark shoots Merlin a look like Merlin is the bane of his existence and also too stupid to live. Merlin shrugs and beams at him, chattering the rest of the way, valiantly ignoring the lack of response.

It’s a new development in Merlin’s life as of late – Simon making Mark walk Merlin home after his shift. Officially, of course, it’s not for Merlin’s benefit. After the police-issued warning about an increase in the number of muggings in the area, Simon ordered all personnel finishing work before 6 a.m. to be escorted by one of the security guards. It mostly meant though escorting them to the car park and waiting until they drove away. Merlin is the only exception, and he feels on the spot enough without Simon’s smirks or his co-workers’ grumbling about preferential treatment.

Merlin tries to bribe Mark into letting the matter drop. He feels safer in the guard’s company, yes, but also incredibly uncomfortable being someone’s extra workload. He offers to split his tips with Mark on the second night they walk home, but Mark only glowers at him.

Merlin is nothing if not persistent, trying to dissuade Mark from walking him all the way home at least, but to no avail. He tries ditching Mark once, and regrets it almost instantly when his face is smashed into a brick wall, Mark panting heavily behind him.

That’s how Merlin learns that Mark is actually being paid for overtime, and the consequences of him losing Merlin would be less than pleasant. When Merlin confronts Simon, the club manager claims to know nothing about that, but the way he’s smirking isn’t reassuring.

Still, awkward as being someone’s overtime is, Merlin would feel so much worse about getting Mark, who, granted, is a sourpuss but generally a good guy, into trouble. The arrangement stands.

Merlin isn’t less tired exactly, but he feels calmer somehow, his mind clearer. It takes him a week to catch up on his coursework, and he can see the relief on his professors’ faces when he shows up for classes in time. His grades pull up to their previous level, and Merlin stops having sweat-breaking nightmares about losing his scholarship and being kicked out of uni.

Halfway into December, the students he tutors surprise him with an early Christmas present. Merlin gets flustered and tries to refuse – there’s no way in hell he’ll be able to afford to give them all back anything more expensive than a postcard. They insist, telling him it’s a ‘thank you for putting up with us and saving our arses’ gift, and there’s no way he can ruin their party by refusing in the midst of all the hugs and pre-holidays post-end-of-semester-exams cheer.

It’s a Currys gift card, and Merlin knows what this is about – they’ve been making jokes about his ancient mobile phone only every week.

He can deal without a new phone, so he ends up buying a space heater. It’s dark and sort of round-ish, and Merlin immediately labels it Dalek Seck, half in love already. Because his tutees have been more generous than reasonable (Merlin only allows it because when the sum is split between their number, it’s actually not that scary), he also grabs a small frying pan, and an electric blanket.

His electricity bill is going to jump, but Merlin can feel winter in the air, even if there’s been no actual snow yet, and it’s a survival thing, okay? He’s broke, not actually homeless.

He buys half a dozen eggs to try his new frying pan, cracks a couple of them onto it, and panics, realising he’s forgotten the grease. But the eggs slide into the plate smoothly all the same, because the pan has some non-stick coating that works so well it has to be magic and Merlin hadn’t even noticed that at the shop. He eats the eggs. He’s forgotten the salt, too, but he’s too ridiculously proud to care about minor details. It’s healthier like that anyway.

The first night he spreads the blanket over the lumpy mattress and turns it on is pure bliss. Merlin never wants to get up. In fact, getting up is pure torture at this point, and a trip to the bathroom is a stuff of nightmares. He’ll have to figure something out about that.

His last exam is on Friday, and he spends at least half of it daydreaming, his mind wandering from subject to subject without dropping the anchor in any of them. Due to a fluke in his schedule, he doesn’t have to go to work until Christmas Eve, and all his students have left for the break, so he’s going to have almost three days to himself. He loves holidays.

He walks out of the main Computer Science and Technology building, commonly referred to as the Lab, pulling his scarf tighter around his neck. The wind makes him shiver, but the sun is out for once, sweet yellow glow across the pale lead sky. Merlin lifts his face and smiles at it, and for a moment everything is fine with the world.

“Well, hello, stranger.”

Merlin’s eyes snap down, but he doesn’t have a split second to be frightened.

“Gwaine!”

Gwaine laughs and hops down from the stone parapet where he’s been idling, evidently indifferent to the cold. Merlin is so happy to see him that he readily goes for a hug, Gwaine’s laughter turning quickly from surprised to delighted.

“Nice tan.” Merlin beams at him.

Gwaine makes a face. “Yeah, they sent me over to Egypt for a couple of weeks. Let me tell you, revolutions are a lot less fun up close.”

“What a stretch,” Merlin deadpans.

Gwaine mock-scowls and knocks shoulders with him, laughing as they both reach to adjust Merlin’s messenger bag, dislodged by the motion. “Anyway, coffee? Or are you too smartarse for my company now?”

It gives Merlin pause just for a moment, but the day is too bright to let the doubt linger. “Sure,” he says. “That’d be great.”

One coffee turns into three, and hours later they’re still driving around the city, giddy on caffeine and too much laughter, because Gwaine’s stories are hysterically funny, and Merlin doesn’t remember the last time he felt so completely carefree and relaxed.

The sense of uneasiness that has become his constant companion ever since someone started hunting him perks up as Gwaine pulls into the car park across from Merlin’s building.

“Mind if I come up for a few?” Gwaine asks, grinning at him, and Merlin finds he can’t really say no, even if he’s now uncomfortable for a whole other reason. Arthur’s reaction at seeing the way he lives is still remarkably vivid before Merlin’s eyes.

He gropes for a convenient excuse, even though he hates to end the uncommonly wonderful evening, but Gwaine doesn’t really give him a chance to object, hopping out of the car and pulling Merlin’s door open.

Merlin gives him a nervous smile, and they trot across the empty street toward the grim-looking entrance, Gwaine whistling softly, some sort of tune that had been on top of the charts long before Merlin was born. He sounds a bit too cheerful.

Maybe Arthur is right, and Merlin is shockingly careless, or maybe it’s Gwaine’s presence that’s made him lower his guard, but as they climb up the stairs, he doesn’t tense up until he reached to open his door only to discover that it’s already open. Merlin freezes in place, his hand caught in the air mid-motion, his pulse jumping up to a maddening staccato at his temples.

Inside, he can hear voices, the sound of people moving, laughter, the clink – are those glasses clinking? Without quite having managed to work up to fright yet, Merlin frowns, confused and nervous, and jumps when Gwaine lays a hand on his shoulder.

“Hey. It’s okay.”

Merlin looks at him. “There are people in my flat.” He glances up to make sure it’s actually his door he’s staring at. Yep, definitely his. “Why – how are there people in my flat?”

“Well, your lock’s shit, for one thing.” Gwaine shrugs, rubbing his neck with his free hand. He’s not looking at Merlin, but there’s a grin fighting to get out, barely hidden in the corner of his mouth. Merlin doesn’t know if it makes him relax or tense even more. “Just go in.”

“What – I don’t—”

“It’s fine, I promise.”

Merlin hesitates for a moment longer, but he’s never been a fan of suspense, and, while he barely knows Gwaine, imagining him as a criminal mastermind who’d want to pull another Kevin on him is a tougher task than Merlin can handle.

He shrugs uncertainly, and opens the door. For a few dizzying moments, he stands in the doorway, taking it all in.

There are people in his flat, people he knows. It’s a bit of a shock that he even knows so many people, if he’s honest, but it’s nothing compared to the impact value of seeing them all in one place – in his place – having a party.

There’s Elena talking to Leon at the far side of the room, glasses in their hands, and Merlin doesn’t think he even had glasses. Leon is watching her in obvious fascination, while keeping one eye out for Ewan, his four-year-old energy ball of a son, whom Merlin had entertained once by drawing comics for him as he waited for his dad back at the police station one night/

Not too far from them, Morgana is turning Merlin’s paintings around with a confident hand, clearly not bothered that they might reveal some private content. The smile on her face is a little manic, and she’s wearing a lot of glitter. Merlin has to blink and look away.

His eyes slide to Percy, engaged in some kind of arm wrestling contest with Lance, and it looks a little painful and smells like testosterone. Lance manages to look mildly bored throughout it, like a tall glass of milk next to Percy’s fuming enthusiasm.

In the corner Owain is taking sneaky pictures of Morgana with his camera phone, looking too young and innocent to be in her presence, and what the hell – has the entire police force of Camelot decided to crash gate Merlin’s night?

Merlin registers the delicious smell drifting from the kitchen, his mouth watering immediately as the scent of spices and cooking meat hits his nostrils. Just then, Elyan comes out of the kitchen, wiping his hands on a dish towel that looks brand new, and beaming as he spots Merlin in the doorway.

“Merlin, my man!” Elyan enthuses loudly, opening his arms. “Everyone, our host is here!”

Before Merlin can get out so much as a word, he’s enveloped in a bear hug that makes him feel in equal parts warm and constricted. He’s only met Gwen’s brother a few times, and, while they had fun together at those occasions, Merlin didn’t consider it more than a passing acquaintance.

“What is going on?” Merlin tries to get out, but doesn’t quite succeed, as Ewan runs over to him with a smile that’s bigger than his face, crashing into Merlin’s knees and wrapping his arms around them.

It’s a blurry of hugs and kisses after that, and Merlin’s head is spinning. He’s breathless with the kind of happy confusion that makes one wonder if they’d slipped into an alternate reality somehow.

The next thing he knows, he’s in the kitchen, and Gwen is beaming at him. The sleeves of her blouse are pulled up, she’s got a spatula in her hand, and next to the huge, divinely smelling pan she looks the epitome of gorgeous and domesticity.

“I hope you don’t mind,” she breathes out as she pulls up on her toes to press a kiss against his cheek. “We wanted to have a pre-Christmas party before everyone goes on to spend the holidays with their families. And you’ve been to our flat – there’s no way it could fit all of us—”

“Nope, nor mine,” Leon says, clapping Merlin on the shoulder.

“—and you have all this space, and I really hope you don’t mind, Merlin.” Gwen is looking at him beseechingly. “Really. I mean it would be so awkward if you hate us being here, but we thought it would be the best way, and I really, really hope you don’t mind, we wanted you to have some fun, too, and you know how hard it is to get you out to ours, and—”

“Gwen.” Merlin lifts his hand up, laughing helplessly. “It’s fine, I don’t mind. I'm surprised as hell, but I'm happy to see you all. I just—”

He looks around, still disbelieving, to see smiling faces everywhere around him, and he can’t help but laugh at the absurdity of it all, because this is something friends would do for you, except Merlin has never had so many friends or any who’d want to go to such lengths for him.

Because he knows what this is, even if he can play along with the official story, but the truth is, his flat isn’t that much bigger than Gwen and Lance’s, and Merlin can see new things scattered all over his place – dishes and chairs and cushions and a nice-looking afghan made of the thickest wool. There’s a new space heater in the other room, and a smaller one in the kitchen, and there’s food everywhere, snacks and sandwiches and drinks, like a catering explosion.

Gwen’s making curry using the recipe Merlin had taught her once, the one Merlin’s mum had perfected over the years into something sinfully delicious for something so simple. There’s a look of grim determination on Gwen’s face, and Merlin knows that she’s making it just right, just the way he remembers, pulling out all stops to make it perfect for him.

And he and Owain had barely exchanged any words other than ‘Hey there, mate’ – ‘How you doing?’ And Percy has always intimidated Merlin a little, being the epitome of masculinity the way Merlin couldn’t ever hope to achieve, and he had to resent Merlin a little for that, but it’s clear now from the huge grin on Percy’s face that all his teasing was but a way to make Merlin more at ease. An awkward way, perhaps, but Merlin could so relate to that.

The kindness is doing Merlin’s head in, mostly because he can’t stop asking himself why they’re doing this, what could they want in response, but at the same time he knows that this is a group of people who don’t, in fact, need anything from him. They’re doing it out of the goodness of their hearts, pulling Merlin into their circle, adopting him for one of their own.

Part of him wants to hide in shame, even if it doesn’t feel like charity, and feels almost as though they – genuinely like him? He can’t wrap his mind around it, even confronted with undeniable warmth pouring onto him from all sides.

He’s trying not to show it, laughing at Gwaine’s jokes, but inside he can’t quite stop freaking out. He almost thinks about escaping to process it all, but then Elena, who’s known him the longest and can apparently read him like a book, presses a beer into his hand, wraps her arms around his neck, and holds him, and holds him, a fierce whisper in his ear, “Merry Christmas, you fucker.”

Merlin lets out a sound caught between a laugh and a whimper, and buries his face in her neck, smelling the familiar aroma of coffee that never quite gets off her skin, and clings to her for dear life.

Music comes streaming from someone’s iPod, and Gwen’s cooking is delicious and abundant. Merlin is a little drunk, not with alcohol so much as the excitement and friendship and all the hugs and jokes. His head is swimming, and he can’t stop smiling.

He’s in the kitchen for another refill, when he discovers the curious thing. His fridge is stuffed to the brim with dairy and greens and at least five kinds of cheese. All the kitchen cabinets are filled with the kind of groceries Merlin had never quite managed to make a stock of: pasta – not instant for once, rice, beans, canned soups, canned ham, olives, biscuits, nuts of every kind, and dry fruit.

Merlin surveys it for a few moments in blank stupor.

“Yes, about that,” Gwen’s voice drifts over his shoulder. “We might have brought a little extra food, just in case. You know, you can never tell with those parties how much people are actually going to eat, right? I hope you don’t mind if we just leave it here? There’s no way Lance and I are carrying this load home. I mean, not that there’s that much, obviously, it’s just that we’re leaving for the holidays, and well, it’d be a shame if all that went to waste.”

She falls silent, looking at him nervously, and Merlin gets it, sort of.

He knows she’s lying. There’s no way restocking his kitchen would ever qualify as ‘a little extra food.’ He also knows she’s waited as long as possible for this revelation, hoping to get him drunk and mellow, and it sort of worked, because looking at Gwen’s anxious, hopeful expression now, Merlin can’t fathom doing anything to upset her. His friends helped him out, and he’s still isn’t sure that he won’t wake up tomorrow to discover it has all been an elaborate dreamscape, he’s still thrown by the fact that he apparently has friends, but here and now he can’t do anything other than give up and give in.

“That’s okay,” Merlin says quietly, and watches as tension drains out of Gwen’s body. “Thank you.”

“Oh, Merlin.” She throws herself into his arms, making him step back with the inertia.

When she pulls back, Merlin asks suddenly, “Arthur couldn’t make it?”

Because sometimes there’s having an elephant in the room, and there’s having the absence of one. Merlin didn’t think to ask the question, he didn’t even know he was wondering this for the entire night, but now that the words were out, he feels sad all of a sudden, as though catching up to his emotions at long last.

Gwen looks down. “He, um... he was really busy. With the case.”

Merlin has to swallow against a sudden lump in his throat, but forces a smile back onto his face almost at once. It stings, a sharp twist in his gut, like a long forgotten injury making itself known, but he’s having too good a time to ruin it with pointless regret.

If anything, Arthur’s the one who’s punished here, having to miss such a great party for the sake of his pride.

Eventually, things start winding down. Leon leaves first, Ewan almost asleep on his shoulder. The others trickle out soon after one by one, until only Gwaine remains, having volunteered for cleaning duty.

Merlin’s not drunk, not quite, but his head is spinning from the overwhelming feeling of warmth that transcends the physical. Gwaine’s humming something tuneless and soft as they do the dishes, and Merlin finds himself grinning at the soaked peach-coloured kitchen towel he’s sure he didn’t have before.

Then suddenly they’re done, and Merlin isn’t thinking so much as drifting on some happy cloud, and his hands end up on Gwaine’s hips of their own volition. Gwaine is still for a second, then reaches to cup Merlin’s face with his hands. Merlin smiles at him in a way that is probably much more inane than seductive, and he’s never been so forward in his life, but his night has been so incredibly, amazingly good that the only thing that could make it better would, in fact, be making out with someone.

There have been very few instances in Merlin’s life when he knew he wouldn’t be rejected, but the thought doesn’t even enter his mind now. He drifts forward, thinking about Gwaine’s lips and not so much of the man himself, the gravity picks him up gleefully, carrying him on, and then – yes, this, so much better.

Gwaine makes a muffled, vaguely surprised sound, but it’s not unhappy, and Merlin suddenly feels the edge of the kitchen table digging into his lower back, and Gwaine is shorter than him, so it should be awkward, but somehow isn’t.

It’s easy and warm and kind of sweet, and Merlin can’t help smiling, which ruins the whole thing a bit, but Gwaine doesn’t seem to mind. He takes control from Merlin easily, fingers threading through Merlin’s hair soft as a whisper, and Merlin sighs happily into it, warm and mellow and pliant, and almost out of body in the way a good hit of weed would get you, only a little better.

“Hey. You with me, baby?” Gwaine asks, pulling back, trying to catch Merlin’s eye. “Are you sure it’s all right?”

Merlin opens his eyes reluctantly, pouting a little at the interruption. It’s like falling asleep on the beach, the sand cooling slowly after the day’s heat. He doesn’t want to wake up.

Gwaine’s eyes are sharp, though, suddenly sober, and he pulls back a little more, much to Merlin’s chagrin.

It means Merlin has to start thinking again, and remember all the reasons why this is a bad idea.

“I can do one-night stands,” is what comes out of his mouth, because his brain has never felt more unfiltered. He’s vaguely aware that he’s probably begging, and it would be embarrassing normally, but his body is humming with it, and something’s been missing through this entire nearly perfect night. Maybe not this, but something close, something so very close to this. “I'm cool. I won’t be weird afterwards, I promise.”

Gwaine’s expression contorts in an odd way as he stares at Merlin for a moment, and then incredulity takes over. “I can’t believe I have to be the responsible one in the face of this,” he mutters, and then his hands tighten, not letting Merlin get closer. “Merlin, baby, you have no idea how I'm tempted I am, but that’s the thing, isn’t it? You have no idea what you’re even offering.”

Merlin opens his mouth to say that he does, too, he’s not that innocent, but what comes out instead is, “So it’s just like Arthur said. You only wanted the story.”He squints at Gwaine, more curious than upset. “Am I really that hideous?”

Gwaine’s eyes narrow, and he tugs Merlin by the wrist to sit at the table. “What exactly did Arthur say?”

Merlin rolls his eyes, but none of it stings somehow. He’s too weary to care.

Gwaine’s face darkens more and more as Merlin tells him what he’d overheard at the hospital, and the way Arthur acted the next morning. When he’s done, Gwaine swears loudly, his hand curling into a fist on the table.

“Okay, first of all, I'm not trying to be your friend for a story, Merlin,” he says, leaning forward, as though trying to physically push the words on. “I'm not that kind of prick, but I'm not even mad at you for going with it, because I can see where you’re coming from, and I could kill that self-obsessed coward for the crap he pulled. No wonder you’re so—”

Merlin looks away, blinking too fast all of a sudden. “He didn’t even show up today,” he says before he knows what he’s saying. It’s like pulling the knife out of a wound you didn’t know was there. “Not that I – I mean, everyone was here. Everyone. I know he doesn’t care, but couldn’t he at least turn up for a moment to say hi? It still was their pre-Christmas party or whatever...”

There’s a loaded pause. When Gwaine speaks, his voice sounds strange.

“Merlin, the party was Arthur’s idea.”

It’s so shocking that Merlin turns to stare at him in blank stupor, certain he has misheard.

Gwaine nods. “It was. I’d love to say I’m the good wizard here, but that’s all Arthur. He’d organised his entire department; I think there were assignments involved. Gwen jumped at the chance of course, and Morgana thinks you’re the next coming of Van Gogh with a side order of cute as a puppy, and don’t get me started on Leon, but none of them would have known to do any of this without Arthur. He orchestrated the entire thing, he sent me on lookout, he called Elena, and told everyone what to bring, and the only reason he didn’t show up tonight was because he didn’t think you’d want to see him.”

Merlin stares at him, his mind unable to cope. Gwaine is still talking, explaining how he’d never even think about writing a story that could put anyone in danger, let alone Merlin, and that he genuinely feels the connection between the two of them, the kind of kindred spirit he doesn’t often – ever – find. He talks about how he’d have to be blind not to be attracted to Merlin, but Gwaine doesn’t have the best track record, and Merlin should be really sure if that’s what he wants. He talks and talks and talks, but the only thing Merlin hears is:

“Arthur planned the party for me?”

Gwaine blinks, pausing mid-word and staring at him for a moment, then sighs, running a hand over his face.

“Yeah, you’re mad young for me anyway.”

Merlin doesn’t really hear him. He’s vaguely paying attention as Gwaine explains about the new locks on the door, but mostly it goes over his head. Gwaine looks part amused, part aggravated, and in the end simply presses the keys into Merlin’s hand, curling his fingers for him.

Merlin drifts off to sleep that night under a pile of blankets with a disbelieving but invincible smile on his face.

--

Arthur is used to the first day of the New Year being quiet in a teeth-grinding, bone-tired sort of way. The station looks empty with most people still sorting out the drunken escapades of the night before all over town, and a few lucky ones sleeping it off. Normally, Arthur would be nursing a bit of a hangover himself – Morgana’s New Year parties are notorious for many things, creatively vile drinks of unknown origin being at the top of the list – but this year he had to miss it. He doesn’t remember the last time he left the station. After the Millers showed up, looking lost and despondent, the wife clutching the photograph of her baby girl to her chest, Arthur had acquired an acute case of tunnel vision.

He slumps back in his chair, rubbing at his eyes furiously. His stomach is churning from too much coffee, probably working a hole in the soft tissues even as Arthur sits there, and there’s a vague dullness at the back of his head which might be the beginning of a migraine. Days like this he isn’t sure why he ever thought he’d be any good at this job. He closes his eyes for a moment to escape the harsh accusing glare of the soulless fluorescent lamp.

When he opens his eyes, Merlin is standing beside his desk, neck wrapped in a thick woollen scarf that seems to transmit the feeling of cosy warmness, a hesitant smile on his lips.

“Hi,” Merlin says softly.

Arthur looks at him, breathing in the image, something in him relaxing at the sight. Merlin seems to belong to another world entirely, like a vision from some perfect, warm-coloured universe that has place in it for tentative smiles, crinkles in the corners of his eyes, pine-scented soap, and home-made pies, and no kidnapped children.

“Um. Arthur?” Merlin clears his throat, eyes darting down, nervous.

Arthur blinks. He’s been staring too long, caught in his wistful reverie. “Merlin,” he says, straightening up in his chair. “What can I do for you?”

They didn’t part on the best of terms the last time, but it seems so distant and ethereal now, and Arthur has to ruthlessly squash a sharp pang of longing. Part of him wishes Merlin would yell at him again, because the guy’s even hotter and somehow more adorable when angry – and Arthur’s never claimed to be a good person, but the truth is Arthur couldn’t master the energy right now to play along. All he wants – all he really wants is to wrap Merlin in a hug and never him let go.

Which probably isn’t in the cards, so—

“Um. Happy New Year?”

The snort is involuntary, and Arthur lifts up a hand almost at once. “Sorry – that wasn’t directed at you. Just not feeling the holiday cheer right now.”

“Anything I can help you with?” Merlin asks, eyeing Arthur’s desk with a slight frown. “Gwen mentioned you had another case.”

Arthur pauses for a moment, but for whatever reason Merlin genuinely seems interested and not defensive the way he usually is. And Arthur – Arthur apparently wants to spread the misery.

He gestures to a chair, and pushes the photo toward Merlin across the desk. “Jamie Miller, four years old. Went missing two days ago.”

Merlin traces the outline of the face with his finger almost absently. “Can I talk to the parents?”

“It’s no good.” Arthur shakes his head in frustration. “Not even with your skills. They didn’t see anything. Didn’t hear, didn’t get a feeling. She just wasn’t in her bed in the morning, and no one has seen her since.” He looks up at Merlin with a flicker of hope. “Can you – sense anything from the photo? Or maybe if you did talk to them...” He trails off. Not that it would be easy to explain, but if it helped, Arthur was willing to risk it.

Merlin is silent for a long time, staring at the photo intently. Finally, he shakes his head. “No, sorry. I keep telling you, I'm not actually magic. I just draw things and—”

Arthur nods tiredly. He’s not in the mood to argue with Merlin again.

“Thing is, I might—” Merlin bites his lip nervously, eyes still glued to the picture. “Did she have any magical talent, do you know?”

Arthur looks up. “Yes. She apparently could make her hair every colour of the rainbow at will.”

Merlin nods slowly, dropping the photo. “I might be able to – that is, it’s never worked before, but I added some new code last night, and maybe – I mean there’s no harm in trying, right?”

“Merlin.” Arthur stares at him in exasperation. “Whatever it is, for God’s sake, spit it out.”

“All right, the thing is, I – I used to have this friend, right? When I was at school back home. Her name was Freya, and she was – she was great, though shy, but so smart you wouldn’t believe, and—”

“Is this going somewhere?” Arthur asks, watching Merlin’s hands working nervously on the straps of his bag.

“She had magic, is my point,” Merlin says, a light flush creeping up his cheeks. “The real kind. She would turn into a bastet every midnight.”

“A bastet?”

“Think big black panther with wings.”

Arthur whistles. That was the kind of magic people were convinced no longer existed.

“Freya disappeared,” Merlin says, his feverish tone suddenly even and lifeless. “She just – she was there one day, and the next she wasn’t.” He glances at the photo. “Just like Jamie.”

“Did you ever find out what happened to her?”

Merlin shakes his head. “No. They told us her family moved, but that can’t happen overnight with no warning. And Freya, she was my friend. She would have told me if they were planning to leave. I know it.”

Arthur watches him, sympathy welling up in his own chest. Merlin didn’t need to say it for Arthur to see that the girl had obviously meant more to him than the word ‘friend’ could encompass.

“I tried to look for her, but I could never get far. And then I – I began to study programming codes and stuff.” Merlin’s finger taps against the cover of an old-looking laptop he’s pulled out of his bag. “When I went to Camelot, that’s what I chose to read. I focused on search engines, and I thought – I started working on something even before I came here, but I think now it’s finally – it may be complete.”

“What is it?”

Merlin turns on the laptop, proceeding to enter some sort of sequence that has to be the most complicated password Arthur has ever seen. Merlin’s hands, Arthur notices, fidgety and nervous before, are confident and dead-sure on the keys. Faintly, Arthur wonders if it’s the same way when Merlin paints.

“It’s a search engine, the special kind. I call it Kilgharrah. It can find – or at least that’s what it’s supposed to do – people with magical abilities. Like Freya.”

Arthur moves closer, staring at the complicated-looking control panel. “It’s not particularly user-friendly.”

“Wasn’t exactly a priority,” Merlin says. “I have to tell you, though, it never worked before. I never found Freya. It – at some point it told me someone with magic drives the bus I'm usually taking, but I could never find out if it was a glitch or not. I mean, it’s a bus – how exactly could I check for witches? But now I have a feeling it would work.” He glances at Jamie’s photo again. “I had – I think it was some kind of epiphany the night after Christmas. I've been working on the code ever since, and I think I might be onto something at last.”

“How does it work?” Arthur asks, even as he stares, transfixed, at Merlin’s hands flying over the keyboard. “How can it work? I mean, it’s not like there’s a database somewhere of everyone who’s ever displayed signs of magic and—”

“It uses a satellite feed to track location of a special kind of signal. I have this theory that all magic users project a kind of aura,” Merlin explains a little absently, focused on completing a profile for Jamie. He’s less nervous when he’s in his element, and Arthur has to bite back a rather dopy grin which would be highly inappropriate for the moment. “Actually, it’s not a theory so much as under-researched biological field. Professor Cooper wrote a monograph on that, and she postulated that people with magic have a certain signature, if you will, a combination of electro-magnetic distortion and biophysical residue, and it’s unique to every person – like fingerprints. It can be masked, of course, but it would require some serious magical effort, and most people aren’t even aware of it anyway.”

“So how do you—”

“The satellite I use can trace some of it, and then I had to hook to another one for the bio signature, and—”

“Merlin – the kind of technology you’re talking about. I'm pretty sure there’s nothing up in orbit capable of it that’s meant for commercial use.”

“Well, it’s not commercial strictly speaking, but a few research companies give the university access for tax deduction or something, and we do have a team project. It was easy to squeeze in another link with the kind of mess the others are making.”

Arthur shakes his head, fighting back an incredulous grin. To think that, when they first met, he’d thought Merlin to be a worthless junkie...

“Okay, I’m all set,” Merlin says. “I can’t make it look outside of Camelot, but you said everyone else had turned up within the city, so I’m hoping it’ll be enough. If it’s going to work, it’s going to work. If not, at least we’ve tried, right?”

“Right,” Arthur says, leaning over the desk for a better view and squeezing Merlin’s shoulder. “Go.”

Merlin types in the last command, and the screen goes dark.

Slowly, so very, very slowly that at first Arthur thinks it didn’t work, the city map grid starts unrolling across the screen, and then one by one miniscule dots of every colour begin to pop up like tiny bubbles on the surface of the water.

“It’s – Merlin. Is that—”

“It’s working,” Merlin breathes, stunned disbelief clear in his voice. “Holy fuck, it’s actually working!”

“What are you guys up to?” Leon asks from the doorway, a mug of coffee in his hand.

Arthur tears his eyes away from the screen reluctantly and starts explaining, but before he can really get to it, Percy and Gwen come in, so he has to start again. It’s frustrating beyond belief, and, in the end, Arthur simply calls the entire team inside and explains, while Merlin’s program keeps working.

It takes longer than their collective impatience would have preferred, but the process is fascinating. For a moment, Arthur almost feels like a kid watching a ‘magic’ show for the first time, trying to see how the tricks work, his delight growing as he continues to fail.

“Why are they all different colours?” Gwen asks, peeking at the screen over Lance’s shoulder. “And hey, look, this one’s bigger than the rest of them. And that one, too!”

“I think, if everything’s correct, different colours mean different abilities,” Merlin says, running his fingers through his hair in excitement, messing it up even more. “Like the red ones have affinity to flame, the blue ones – water, green – various transformations, white – a little bit of everything, I suppose.”

“And the size?”

“I think – I didn’t exactly write it that way, but there was a certain leeway, and I think the bigger the spot the higher the magical potential of that person is.”

“Wow, look at that,” Leon says, eyes growing wide. “They just keep coming. I had no idea there were so many magic folks still alive, let alone in Camelot. Merlin, how precise is this thing?”

“Very,” Merlin replies, tone confident. “It can pinpoint magic within a few feet radius.”

“Nice. Just how smart are you?”

Merlin grins bashfully, ducking his head. “I’ve been working on this a long time, Leon. A long time to get it to do—”

He trails off suddenly, as a tiny purple spot on the screen begins to blink, the view adapting quickly to zoom in on it.

“Do you think it’s her?” Arthur asks, leaning over. “Merlin?”

“I think so,” Merlin mutters distractedly, working quickly to adjust the settings. “Let me just—”

They all watch with bated breath, as the search square on the screen zooms in further and further, narrowing down the quarter, the street, and finally the building.

“All right, let’s go,” Arthur says, the address already committed to memory.

“But what if—”

“It’s still the best lead we have, and our 48-hour window is almost up. Gear up, people. Lance, you’re coming with us. Percy, get the van.”

“Wait,” Gwen says, pointing at the screen in the midst of the commotion. “There’s something else. Something’s happening.”

The flush of freshly released adrenaline in his veins, Arthur pauses impatiently, charged for action (at long last!), but the search engine is indeed acting weirdly. Seemingly without any input, the zoom refocuses on a different – and instantly familiar part of the city, closing in on the main police station building in a kind of feverish haze.

“Merlin?” Arthur asks in warning.

“I’m not doing anything!” Merlin pushes back from the desk, hands in the air. “I don’t know—”

A huge golden spot emerges inside the police building square. It’s so big and so bright that it eclipses every other flicker around it as Kilgharrah zooms in – and in, and in.

“Holy shit,” Leon mutters. “We’ve got someone really strong right here in the building.”

The screen blinks, and, instead of the city plan, the map changes to the building schematics, showing every floor and every room.

“Merlin,” Arthur says softly, a chill running down his spine at the thought. “I think you might want to—”

But it’s too late, because the closer it gets, the more inevitable the conclusion looks. Merlin is staring at the screen helplessly in numb shock, as his own creation goes through floor after floor, room after room, until it stops at the rectangular box that represents Arthur’s office.

Arthur doesn’t need to say anything, as his people start to file out one by one, backing to the door and the walls, everyone but Merlin.

The huge golden spot remains in place, shimmering on the screen in contentment.

“Well,” Leon says from the door, breaking the stunned silence. “That would explain a few things. And here I was, thinking of asking you to babysit for me.”

Merlin blinks, and looks around until he finds Arthur, his eyes huge with pure, unadulterated shock.

“But that’s not possible,” his voice comes as a hoarse whisper. “The program” – he clears his throat – “Kilgharrah must be wrong. This can’t be true. It can’t be.”

“Maybe,” Arthur says, hating himself already. “There’s only one way to find out.”

He pushes toward the door, sweeping his team up as he goes, and trying desperately to ignore the utterly crushed, terrified expression on Merlin’s face.

--

They find the girl. Somehow, Merlin managed to convince himself that they wouldn’t, and things would go back to their normal levels of fucked up again. He sits in Arthur’s office, as it steadily goes darker, feeling like an awful person and staring at a once-hot cup of tea that is glaring ice-daggers back at him.

Then Gwen bursts in, like an explosion of sound and colour, and between her fierce hugs and Leon’s enthusiastic clapping on the back, Merlin gets the gist of it.

Little Jamie is fine, they kept her asleep through most of it, so she won’t remember much. The thugs that had her had dropped dead before they could be questioned – ‘literally dropped dead, Merlin, wouldn’t believe it if I didn’t see it with my own eyes’ and ‘Lance doesn’t think it’s poison, but he’s running a tox screen, so we’ll see’. They found the girl exactly where Kilgharrah had pointed them, so the program is definitely working. Which means...

There’s a loud noise in his ears, and his vision whites out for a moment.

He has magic. Inexplicably, impossibly, somehow. He has magic. A lot of it.

“Merlin.”

He looks up to find Arthur, still dressed in his black assault suit, staring at him with an expression of undisguised concern.

“But it’s not possible,” Merlin whispers. “I can’t even light a bloody candle.”

“Thank gods for small mercies,” a cold voice says from the door, and Merlin blinks, startled.

Arthur turns around and annoyingly stops in a position that blocks the doorway from view. Merlin frowns, craning his neck to look around him.

Morgana, looking paler than even usual, is standing beside an unfamiliar woman, whose sharp blond locks and strict to the point of prudish business suit make for a terrifying combination.

“Arthur, step aside,” the woman snaps irritably, not rolling her eyes clearly only because it would be beneath her. “I'm not about to snap his neck, for goodness’s sake. Isn’t that why you called me?”

Arthur grumbles something indistinguishable under his breath and does move, but not too far. Merlin fights a truly pathetic urge to grab his hand, but he’s being stared down by a blond Amazon who might well be hiding a sword in her sleeve so he’s not too concerned about his masculinity at the moment.

“Hi?” he says uncertainly.

Morgana clears her throat. “Merlin, this is my sister Morgause. She teaches medieval studies at the university. She also—”

“Has magic,” Merlin says in awe, as Morgause’s eyes flicker to gold for a fraction of a second.

“Incredible,” Morgause says, ignoring the attempt at civility. “I've been trying to confound him since I walked in. He didn’t even feel a thing.”

“What?” Merlin yelps, startled. “Confound me?”

Arthur moves closer to him instantly, grabbing his arm, as if to forcefully pull him away from Morgause. She lifts an unimpressed eyebrow at them, as though they’re misbehaving children.

“Oh, come off it,” she tells Arthur coolly. “I wouldn’t have harmed him, but I had to test him, didn’t I? Things are worse than you all think they are.”

“How is that possible?” Arthur asks, a fatalistic note to his tone.

“I don’t really have magic?” Merlin says hopefully.

Morgause turns a smile at him that is anything but kind. “You most certainly do, little mouse. But it’s not that simple. You don’t simply have magic. You are a Source.”

Morgana gasps loudly, the rest of them simply stare, and Merlin asks with a sinking feeling, “I'm a what?”

“A Source. You are a focal point of magical energy. It’s like electricity. Some people have to light candles, some have to recharge batteries, few can illuminate a room. You? You are a nuclear power station.”

“But—”

“It doesn’t matter that you can’t tap into your own power yet. Obviously, you need to learn control before that, or you’d blow up half the island. But you most definitely are a Source. You carry so much magical power it’s a miracle you’re not constantly on fire.”

Merlin slowly becomes aware of Arthur’s arm around his shoulders, holding him up. He’s stupidly grateful.

“Is he dangerous?” Leon asks.

Merlin winces, not having thought about that. Arthur’s fingers tighten on his shoulder.

Morgause shrugs. “Under normal circumstances, I'd say we have nothing to worry about. Merlin obviously has a very strong defence mechanism in place that prevents him from using his power until he can handle it. But these aren’t normal circumstances. Someone has been kidnapping people with magic. We don’t know what would happen if Merlin is attacked next, and his magic thinks he’s in danger.”

“Merlin has been attacked twice already,” Percy pipes up from the corner.

Morgause’s eyes narrow. “Then you’ve been very, very lucky indeed.”

“So who are we looking for exactly?” Leon asks. “Some kind of radical Father Aredian fan? A religious fanatic who hates magic?”

“No, it doesn’t fit.” Arthur shakes his head, stepping away. Part of Merlin wants to reach after him on pure instinct. “Aredian, for all his rhetoric, is no Grand Inquisitor, he has no idea how to find people with magic. No one does – or at least no one did” – he looks at Merlin, then at a laptop on his desk – “until now.”

Arthur pauses, looking around at his people slowly, jaw set in determination. “Merlin’s program is dangerous. In the wrong hands it could start all manners of disaster. The knowledge of it doesn’t leave this room. Am I clear?”

Everyone nods, murmuring assent. Merlin feels feverish.

“The disappearances, all those people,” Arthur muses, “they all turned up either dead or insane and stripped of their magic.”

“I didn’t know it could be done,” Morgause says. “I mean, there are ways of preventing a person from using it, but taking it away completely is unheard of. It’s like ripping away part of your soul – or your genome, if you will.”

Arthur looks at her for a long moment before saying, “I think someone found a way to do it. Most people don’t survive it. Those who do go insane. It had first started twenty years ago, when my father was still an investigator here. If we go through the archives, knowing what to look for this time, we’ll probably find a string of disappearances through the years in-between up until recently, when whoever’s doing it has become too bold.”

“But how can we find such a person?” Owain asks, bewildered. “I mean what does he want? To ‘cure’ people of magic? So he is a religious nut after all?”

Arthur exchanges glances with Morgause; after a moment, she nods at him grimly.

“I don’t think it’s about curing people,” Arthur says slowly, turning to look directly at Merlin. “I think it’s about extortion.”

Merlin feels sick. “You mean – someone is—”

“Collecting other people’s magic, yes. Which would explain why they are so desperate to get to you.”

“Huh,” Merlin says.

It’s weird, but he feels more secure now that things are making sense. He straightens up, glancing at the concerned faces around him.

“Will it help if I go away somewhere? Far away?”

Morgause’s lips twist in wry amusement. “And how far would be far enough? You don’t know that. I don’t know that.”

“No, Merlin, it won’t help,” Arthur says grimly. “Not to you, and not to all the people your program—”

“Kilgharrah.”

“—Kilgharrah has identified. They are all in danger. We have to find a way to protect them.”

“How?” Leon asks sceptically. “We can’t exactly issue a public warning. First of all, we can’t ‘out’ every magic user in Camelot against their will. Some of them might not even know they have magic. Second of all, even if we do go public with this, we’re going to be laughed at. Magic as in real magic has been absent since the last Great Purge. There are going to be experts, historians, politicians, preachers – all kinds of opinions and debates, and all the while people will still be in danger.”

“Gentlemen, I think you’re underestimating the threat,” Morgause interjects coolly. “This person has been collecting magic for years, presumably consuming it. The destructive potential of that much magical power would be devastating. Remember the last World War? That would be a walk in the park compared to how much havoc a person with that much magical power could wreak.”

“If we can’t go public, what can we do?” Percy asks. “Looking for the guy, obviously, but in the meantime—”

“In the meantime,” Arthur says, “we protect as many people as possible without showing our hand. Morgause is right, whoever the perpetrator is, he’s extremely dangerous, and tipping him off that we’re on to him can provoke him into taking drastic action. We need to be discreet. No rumours, no conversations, no discussions outside this circle.”

“We can identify the areas most populated by magic users,” Leon says thoughtfully, studying Kilgharrah’s map, “and double routine patrols there.”

“Hold unscheduled drills,” Lance chimes in. “Nothing suspicious about that.”

“Good, we’ll do that.” Arthur nods. “If someone disappears again, Kilgharrah will help us find them. Now, as for the magic users we have here—”

“I can take care of myself,” Morgause snorts at him dismissively.

“Fine,” Arthur says. “Morgana, I'm hiring you a bodyguard.”

Morgana scoffs, but doesn’t argue, which is a clear indication of how frightened she is.

“And you.” Arthur turns to Merlin.

Merlin shrugs. “You can’t hire me a bodyguard. It’ll be like waving a banner that says ‘Hey you, we’ve caught up with your plan finally!’”

Leon frowns. “We can’t leave you unprotected, either. You heard Morgause. God only knows what would happen if whoever it is gets his hands on you. We’ll have to find some unobtrusive way to guard you...”

“He can move in with Arthur,” Morgana says. Everyone turns to stare at her, and she flashes them a bright smile. “No, really, it’s perfect, don’t you see? Merlin has been working here for months, at some point, he and Arthur started dating, Merlin is too broke to afford rent – sorry, Merlin – so it’s only logical that he moves in with his boyfriend. And then Arthur can pick him up and be with him whenever, and Merlin has even more excuses to hang around here with all of you, and no one from the outside suspects a thing. It’s perfect.”

“It’s not!” Merlin snaps, his heart hammering madly in his chest. He can’t look at Arthur. “I can’t just – move in with him!”

“Morgana, now is hardly the time for jokes,” Arthur says, his faze frozen in an odd way.

Morgana lifts her eyebrows. “Who’s joking? You have a spare bedroom you never use, so it’s not like you’re going to be inconvenienced much.”

“That’s not the point!” Arthur snaps. “Leon, help me out here, would you?”

Leon clears his throat, looking uncomfortable. “Well, actually, Arthur, when you think about it – I mean you said it yourself the other night—”

“Outside,” Arthur growls at him. “Now.”

They smash shoulders as they try to get through the doorway at the same time, the sounds of scuffle filtering in even after the door has closed.

“Well, I think I’d better go,” Merlin says brightly, reaching to collect his laptop.

He’s not fooling anyone. Percy frowns at him and moves to stand in front of the door, blocking the way. Morgana pats his arm with very fake sympathy.

“You’re not going anywhere, Merlin,” Lance says with quiet confidence that Merlin has always loved about him, but that is now incredibly infuriating.

“Why the hell not?” Merlin whirls at him, looking from face to face, searching for a weak link. “This is a crazy idea, no offence, Morgana. You’ll have to find some other way of settling the score with Arthur than saddling him with me.”

She shrugs, studying her nails. “I can find a million before my morning coffee, but why bother? This is one argument Arthur doesn’t stand a chance of winning.”

Just then, Arthur’s raised voice booms through the tightly shut doors.

“will make being in my own home utterly intolerable!”

Merlin winces. “He hates me.”

Morgana chuckles. “Oh, Merlin. If he did, he wouldn’t have had the slightest problem going along with my plan.”

Merlin blinks. “That doesn’t even make sense.”

Morgana just smiles enigmatically and ruffles his hair, as though he’s a cute (if dumb) puppy. But she must know something Merlin doesn’t, because, when Arthur returns to the room, he’s wearing an expression of someone resigned to his unpleasant but inevitable fate.

“Oh no,” Merlin says reflexively, stepping back. “No, no, no, no, no. This is a horrible idea.”

Arthur sighs and reaches to take the laptop bag from Merlin’s unresisting grip and hoist it on his own shoulder. “Can’t argue with you on that one.”

--

Merlin’s entire life is rearranged faster than it takes for them to reach the car park.

They’ll pick up Merlin’s things tomorrow. Arthur will be driving him to the campus and back. No boyfriend of Arthur Pendragon works at a nightclub, so Merlin will call Simon and give his notice. Someone will have to call Gwaine before he screws them all up by asking too many questions.

Arthur is still talking, laying out the points on a checklist as though he’s reciting a battle plan, but Merlin can’t hear him over the rising wave of white noise filling his ears. The sight of Arthur’s bright red fuck-fuel-economy monster of car makes the entire thing more real, and it’s suddenly hard to breathe, because there’s no air. Merlin sucks it in through his mouth greedily, panicking, his chest straining with the effort, but his lungs still feel empty, starving for air, and there are red spots before his eyes, his head spinning, ground falling from under his feet, as he reaches for something – for anything to hold on to.

“Merlin.”

Arthur’s hands grip his shoulders, not shaking, but gripping hard. Arthur is sitting on his knees on the ground in front of him, giving Merlin a point of reference to realise that he himself is sitting on the pavement, his back to the gleaming brutish car wheel.

“Merlin, come on, breathe with me,” Arthur orders, voice tight, controlled, blissfully cool. “Match me, come on. In and out, in and out, that’s it, in, out, in, out, you’re doing so good, that’s it, that’s it.”

Concentrating on that one thing is a relief. In. Out. Matching Arthur’s rhythm breath for breath. His head clears slowly, filled with crystal cold clarity with every slower inhale. The bright red pain in his chest recedes.

“You had a panic attack,” Arthur says eventually, tone gentle and careful. He releases Merlin’s shoulders, but doesn’t break the contact entirely, resting his hands on Merlin’s knees instead, rubbing slow circles into them. Merlin is stupidly grateful, almost tearing up. “Does this happen often?”

Merlin shakes his head, blinking quickly. “This is the first time.”

“Jesus,” Arthur whispers. “Come on. Move over.”

Merlin is still too shaken to grasp it at once, so Arthur has to nudge him a few times, until they’re sitting side by side on the cold ground, Arthur’s arm wrapped around Merlin’s shoulders, heavy, solid. Warm.

“I’m sorry,” Merlin ventures, not quite knowing what he’s apologising for.

“No,” Arthur says at once, firm. “I’m sorry we have to put you through this, Merlin. But Morgana is right, much as it pains me to admit it. So is Leon. We have to keep you safe. It’s living with me or arresting you for something horrible enough to land you in prison, and you would not do well in prison, Merlin.” A note of light teasing enters Arthur’s voice. “Not at all.”

More than anything in the world right now Merlin wants to turn into him, to cling to Arthur with his entire body and hold on, if only for a little while. But as his panic recedes, his pride returns, and he remembers that Arthur doesn’t want any of this, either.

“It’s not—” He clears his throat. “I’m not scared of whoever it is that attacks people. It’s just – what am I supposed to do when this whole thing is over? My flat, my job... I’ll have nothing.”

He can feel Arthur’s eyes on him. “Of all the things, this is what set you off?”

Merlin shrugs, lowering his head, his jaw tightening stubbornly. He might not have had a lot going on, but it was his and it was working. He didn’t live the life of luxury or even comfort, but it had taken him years to reach the point where he could hold his head above the water.

Now he is about to lose it. And having little is tragically, drastically different from having nothing.

“Merlin.” Arthur uses his hold to pull him in, turning the casual touch into a hug. With his free hand he tips Merlin’s chin up until their eyes meet. “I’d say I’ll take care of you, but that’s not what you want to hear, is it?” Arthur murmurs almost tenderly. “You want to stand tall, and there’s nothing wrong with that. Except sometimes you have to let someone else help you out. No one gets through life on their own. No one, Merlin. It’s – it’s all right to lean on someone sometimes.”

It’s not the words, but the way Arthur says them – as though twisting his tongue around unfamiliar syllables for the first time, finally understanding them himself, that makes Merlin nod at long last and go slack in Arthur’s hold.

For the first time in his life the saying about the blind leading the blind actually sounds reassuring.

--

Merlin’s landlord is surprised to see him go, but even more surprised to see him actually go instead of simply disappearing into the ether and never coming back the way his roommates had. All of Merlin’s possessions still fit into the old duffel bag he’d brought them in two years ago.

“Is that rubbish?” Morgana asks, wrinkling her nose and staring at the bag like it’s a health hazard. “I wouldn’t bother taking it out if I were you.”

Morgana is there to pack Merlin’s paintings, having volunteered to safe-keep them in her gallery. She goes through them confidently, as though already owning them, and Merlin can’t help feeling like a man whose wife is being felt up in front of him. He knows he should be happy that she wants some of them in her gallery, rather than in the storeroom, but at the moment he can’t feel any joy about that.

He calls Simon and, in a surprising twist of events, gets lectured. ‘Far be it for me to snub someone for finding a sugar daddy, but Arthur Pendragon just never goes for that. Merlin, you can’t simply have your job back when he’s done playing with you. The waiting list is still six months long.’

The fact that Simon of all people is looking out for Merlin’s interests makes the entire thing even more surreal and grotesque.

Early winter dusk finds Merlin sitting morosely on the ridiculously soft bed in Arthur’s guest bedroom, surrounded by the grey and burgundy of casual luxury, feeling small and helpless. Cliché as it is, he really does feel like a leaf in the wind, powerless and rootless. The fact that he possesses magic still doesn’t compute for him, Kilgharrah’s revelations feeling almost like a best friend’s betrayal.

Merlin tugs his knees tighter to his chest. He wants to go home. Except – oh, yes, he has no home.

“Merlin?” Arthur pokes his head through the door. “Dinner’s here, and I put a movie on, if you want.”

He leaves before Merlin can reply, and, for a moment, Merlin can almost imagine it being true, Arthur taking care of him because he loves him, not because he’s forced to. What a nice feeling that must be.

They eat in the living room, watching Cowboys vs Aliens on a big plasma screen that’s taking up half the wall. Merlin is pretty sure neither of them is paying attention. Dinner is takeaway, except Arthur’s takeaway comes from a four-star French restaurant, so the steak must be delicious, and the silverware is beautiful.

It’s a waste, Merlin thinks regretfully. He wishes he could enjoy the flavour, but he can’t feel the taste the same way he can’t laugh at the movie.

“What if you find him tomorrow?” Merlin asks without quite meaning to. “I don’t – I don’t even have anywhere to go.”

Arthur sets his plate aside, and turns to look at him. “I’m not going to throw you out on the street, Merlin. You can stay here for as long as you need.”

“Why? You don’t even like me that much.”

Arthur pushes his plate aside and cocks his head. “Is that what you think?”

Merlin stares down to where his fingers are demolishing a napkin in his lap, and doesn’t answer.

He can feel the movement, but he’s still unprepared when Arthur’s hand covers his, stilling the jerky, nervous motions.

“Merlin – you understand why this had to be done, don’t you?” Arthur asks softly. “It’s not just your life on the line anymore.”

“No, I get it,” Merlin snaps, unable to hold back the bitterness. “I’m some sort of time bomb, a danger to the city. And I can’t even—” He bites his lip in frustration. “That is so unfair.”

Arthur takes away the napkin and moves closer, wrapping his arm around Merlin’s shoulders. Ever since Merlin’s panic attack in the car park, Arthur has been touching him freely and more frequently, as though some kind of barrier has been broken.

Merlin feels like he should mind, but he doesn’t. He feels perpetually cold, and Arthur always runs hot like a walking space heater. Mostly, when Merlin does manage to make himself pull back, it’s for fear of getting used to it.

“It doesn’t have to be like that,” Arthur says softly. “You have a gift. It’s a beautiful thing. When this is all over, you can explore it, and I’m sure will do something wonderful with it.”

“How do you know that?” Merlin asks petulantly. “You don’t even know me.”

Arthur actually smiles and ruffles his hair. “I think I know enough.”

He stands up to collect the plates, and Merlin almost asks him to sit back down, missing the solidity of the touch, the safety of the embrace.

How did this happen? Arthur is the same person who yelled at Merlin for one thing or other almost every time that they met. The same person who had literally twisted his arm that one time – so carefully, Merlin understands it now, Arthur had been so very careful with him, almost – almost gentle. He’s gruff, he’s rude, he yells, he orders rather than asks, but he’s also—

“Merlin.” Arthur rests a hand on Merlin’s shoulder. “I know you’re scared. I know you didn’t ask for any of this. And I can’t help that this has happened, but I promise you, I will protect you at any cost. You’re safe here. You’re safe with me.”

—kind. He’s so impossibly kind and noble and generous that it brings tears to Merlin’s eyes, and makes him want to follow Arthur to hell and back – and Merlin had never wanted to follow anyone in anything his entire life.

“Fuck,” Merlin mutters, sitting there on the couch, listening to Arthur loading the dishwasher in the kitchen as the movie credits roll on screen.

So this is why he’d agreed to the frankly insane scheme, why he hadn’t picked up and run the way his instincts told him to do. For the first time in his life, he doesn’t want to run, even if staying feels like breathing underwater – chest burning, spots before his eyes.

It’s Arthur; it’s always been Arthur since the day they met.

And there’s nowhere left to run.

--

The clothes arrive the next day, and Merlin tries to put up a fight, but it’s useless.

“We have to keep up the ruse,” Arthur tells him calmly, buttering his toast. “There’s no way I’d let you keep those rags you call clothes if we really were in a relationship. It’s not even about fashion, you’ll freeze to death dressed like that.” He lays the piece of toast in front of Merlin and pushes the marmalade toward him. “Come on, Merlin, try and be reasonable for once, it doesn’t actually hurt. There’s being proud and there’s being stupid. Consider it part of being in protective custody.”

Merlin bristles, even as he reaches for the marmalade. “I don’t know what’s left of me anymore. I feel like you’ve taken over my life.”

Arthur looks at him over the rim of his coffee mug. “I asked Morgana to pick the clothes if it’s any consolation. I didn’t want to make you uncomfortable.”

Merlin snorts, but there’s little humour in it. “Right, because asking your sister to help dress your boy toy gives the entire thing so much dignity.”

Arthur lifts an eyebrow, amused. “Boy toy?”

Merlin blushes. “You know what I mean.”

“Yes, I have to admit, you’re remarkably articulate. Especially when something offends your delicate sensibilities.”

“I just – I feel so – cheap.”

Arthur snorts into his coffee. “Merlin, if I know anything about Morgana, it’s that she doesn’t believe in any other wool except cashmere and absolutely abhors mass-market. Cheap is definitely not the word you’re looking for.”

“And that makes it better how?”

Arthur considers him for a moment, the calm scrutiny unnerving. His tie is cornflower blue, offsetting his crisp white shirt, the collar still undone, teasing with a glimpse of skin.

Merlin didn’t think it was possible to feel more trapped.

“Can’t you consider it a gift from your friends?” Arthur asks softly at last.

“They’d have to be some friends to spend that kind of money,” Merlin mutters.

“Well then, operational necessity it is,” Arthur says firmly, pushing to his feet. “No, I don’t want to hear any more about it, Merlin. When we’re done, you can give it all to Goodwill, if you want, but until then kindly shut up and get changed. You’ll be late for classes.”

There’s nothing to it, but get up and obey, and Merlin does, grumbling under his breath the entire time.

The clothes feel foreign to him, the softness of textures, the perfect fit, the way he feels instantly warm the moment he puts them on. Morgana didn’t forget anything from underwear and socks to boots and upper coats, and there’s a dark blue scarf Merlin instantly falls in love with.

Arthur is already fully dressed and waiting impatiently, when Merlin emerges from his room. Something bright flashes in Arthur’s eyes when he sees Merlin, but he doesn’t comment, beyond looking at his wristwatch and telling Merlin to hurry up.

Merlin tells himself he’s not disappointed.

They drive to campus, accompanied by the scratchy sound of the police scanner. Merlin keeps tugging at the sleeves of his new sweater nervously, looking out the window into the grey mist. He feels almost too warm and restless, and wishing the ride would go on forever and be over already at the same time.

Arthur brazenly parks in front of the main entrance, disregarding the sign that says emergency services only, ignoring the honks and the stares.

“Do you have to be this obnoxious?” Merlin asks, very aware that everyone’s staring at them and feeling all the more nervous for it.

“Yes,” Arthur replies, matter-of-fact. “We need to draw attention. They have to know that you’re dating a police officer.”

“Yes, but—”

Whatever else he wanted to say dies in his throat, when Arthur leans over to plant a soft kiss on Merlin’s cheek.

He pulls back just barely, his breath warm on Merlin’s face, as he winks and says, “Have a nice day, baby.”

“Um.” Merlin swallows reflexively, eyes dropping to Arthur’s lips of their own volition.

“Fuck,” Arthur breathes, drifting closer like he can’t help it. “Oh, fuck,” he groans, “get the hell out of my car, for the love of God.”

“Right.” Merlin tries desperately to pull himself together, fingers searching for the door handle blindly. “I’ll see you later.”

He almost falls out of the car and sprints for the Computer Science building without looking back, turning the collar of his ridiculously warm grey coat against the stares as much as the mist.

Behind him, the engine roars loudly, hungry for the road.

The day passes in a daze. Merlin fends off the questions from people who’d never said a word to him before. He blushes and stumbles all over the place at first, but, by lunch, he’s so annoyed, he doesn’t think twice before blurting out, ‘Excuse me, I need to call my boyfriend.’

He can hear them whispering all kinds of things, from calling him a slut to wondering if he’s being harassed, but he doesn’t care. He digs up his battered headphones from the bottom of his bag, puts them on, and powers through.

It doesn’t matter. So many of his fellow students are in danger, without even knowing it. So many hide their magic, while others don’t suspect they even have a gift. That’s what’s important. Pesky rumours, Merlin can deal with.

What he’s finding hard to deal with is Arthur waiting for him when Merlin walks out after his mid-afternoon class. Before Merlin can so much as say hello, there’s a bag of Krispy Kreme doughnuts and a cup of coffee in his hands, and Arthur slings his arm around Merlin’s shoulders, walking him to the car and asking about his day.

It’s one of the most surreal experiences Merlin has ever lived through, and he’s having a hard time remembering it’s not real.

“Don’t look so stunned, it’s not attractive,” Arthur murmurs, opening the passenger door for him. “I can be nice.” He leans over and takes a bite of the doughnut Merlin’s still holding in his hand.

“I see it and I still don’t believe it,” Merlin mutters under his breath, drawing his hand up to wipe a smear of sugar powder off the corner of Arthur’s mouth.

Arthur stills under the touch, eyes wide and searching, and Merlin blushes furiously, his brain catching up to his actions.

“Sorry, I – you, er, had a little – never mind.” He leaves it as a lost cause and gets into the car.

He’s suddenly hoping against his own conscience and better judgment that it’ll take them a long, long time to find the killer.

--

It’s surprising how quickly they get into a rhythm.

Arthur drives Merlin to campus and picks him up after classes. They have lunch or stop for coffee – or both when Arthur’s feeling particularly stubborn about Merlin’s diet. Afterwards, they drive to the police station, where Merlin works with the rest of the team, bringing Kilgharrah to life to check up on missing people or talk to witnesses.

People keep teasing Arthur mercilessly for being too in love to stand being apart from his boyfriend – both those in the know and not – and, to Merlin’s surprise, Arthur deals with it with a staggering amount of good humour.

“Yeah, he’s not so easy to embarrass these days,” Gwaine complains once, nudging Merlin with his elbow. “Though he’s normally less of a good sport about it. Is it only me, or is he enjoying this too much?”

“It’s just you,” Merlin tells him dryly, but his heart flutters treacherously at the words.

Arthur does play his part incredibly well. His eyes frequently rest on Merlin. His arm is always on Merlin’s shoulder, or around his waist, and, if someone is staring especially hard, Arthur would kiss his cheek or nuzzle his hair, and Merlin would always – always – blush and try to push him off, which would only make Arthur grin at him, wide and happy.

They are obnoxious, they are that couple, and Merlin is beginning to seriously fear for Arthur’s professional reputation.

“Don’t worry.” Gwaine rolls his eyes. “They’d let him get away with more, because the more hopelessly smitten he looks? The more they can gloat that Mr Perfect is human after all. Nobody likes working with someone who’s too good for basic human stupidity. Those gigantic hearts in his eyes help more than hurt.”

“He doesn’t have hearts in his eyes,” Merlin mutters.

Gwaine laughs and ruffles his hair. “Whatever you say, sweetheart.”

--

Back at Arthur’s flat, Arthur cooks, which is possibly the biggest surprise of all.

“Our housekeeper taught me when I was little,” Arthur explains, trying his best not to look embarrassed and failing. “I obviously didn’t do it much before I left. When I came back, I had a lot of time on my hands at first. Then, I started this job and classes, and it wasn’t worth the time when it was just me. What?” he asks when Merlin shakes his head.

“Nothing. It’s just—” Merlin bites his lip. “If I could afford all this stuff, I’d cook all the time.” He chuckles. “I’d probably be pants at it, though.”

Arthur peers at him for a moment, then holds out the spatula. “Taste this for me.”

Merlin comes over, and lets Arthur feed him a spoonful of chilli.

“Enough salt?” Arthur murmurs.

Merlin licks his lips, the hot pepper setting his tongue on fire. “Yeah,” he breathes out. “It’s really good. Might burn a hole in my stomach, but it’s delicious.”

Arthur grins at him. “Perfect.”

--

“Listen, I’ve been thinking. Don’t you miss painting?”

“Sorry?” Merlin looks up from his laptop. It’s a rare night when he’s actually doing his homework instead of finding new and creative ways to track down the bad guys.

Arthur pushes his hands into the front pockets of his jeans and shrugs. “I just thought your easel would fit nicely over there.” He points at the empty space in the end of the living room closest to the window. “The light is probably better there than anywhere else around here, and if you were worried about the smell of paint or something, I don’t care.”

Merlin lifts his eyebrows. “You say that now.”

Arthur rubs the back of his neck. “No, I’m sort of used to it. I spent half of Sixth Form practically living in Morgana’s studio, back when she thought she could paint. I don’t mind.”

“That’s... very kind of you. Thank you.”

“It was just a thought.” Arthur shrugs and leaves before Merlin can thank him again.

--

Merlin does put up the easel a few days later, but he sticks to watercolours. Arthur watches him paint for several hours that night, and Merlin can’t remember for the life of him what they are talking about, but he will remember being drunk on the sound of Arthur’s laughter.

It’s the most beautiful, peaceful night he’s had in a long, long time.

--

Except of course the peaceful part can’t last.

“How come you don’t have a boyfriend?” Merlin blurts out a few days later, because it’s too late in the day for filters to be working properly, they closed another missing person case that day, and red wine is evil.

Arthur gives him a curt look. “I do now.”

“Yeah, but that’s not real.”

Arthur purses his lips and says nothing for a long moment, his attention on whatever ingredients he has in the mixer bowl, because brownies made at moonrise are apparently all the hype.

“Guess nobody wants me,” he says at last, shrugging it off.

Merlin rolls his eyes. “Oh, come on. You’re gorgeous looking – shut up, it’s not a compliment, just a fact, and you know it, you have a job, you’re kind of loaded, you cook, for God’s sake, and you’re generally not as much of an arsehole as you seem to be at first.”

“Why, thank you.”

“No, for real, though. When you forget to be a prick you’re – you’re nice. And you’re kind, and noble, and – I’m just saying. A lot of blokes would be sweet on that. Who wouldn’t be sweet on that? Unless—”

“What?”

“Oh, that figures.”

“What figures, Merlin? Enlighten me, since your numerous degrees in human psychology and keen observational skills clearly make you an expert.”

“That right there. It’s got to be your arrogance. Probably treat everyone like they’re not good enough for you.”

Arthur’s hands freeze, and the line of his jaw tightens. He turns around, flour on his shirt, his eyes hard.

“You think so, do you?” he asks, taking a step forward. “Well, how about this? My father used to get roaring drunk and yell at me that I’m the reason my mother’s dead and he wished they never had me. Nothing I did had ever been good enough for him, which is as much of a fucking cliché as it gets. I guess the script was that Morgana spends the rest of her life going from one rehab to another, while I become my father’s less powerful, less impressive image. So it didn’t go over as planned, but it’s not like we’ve won anything. My sister changes lovers so fast, it’s no use trying to learn their names, and I—”

“Arthur—”

“—I’m a workaholic who always puts his job first. I’m apparently emotionally unavailable, if not downright constipated. I don’t know how to do any of those ‘sweet things’ lovers are supposed to do, I never learned. Maybe it was arrogant of me, I wouldn’t know.”

Merlin takes a deep breath, heart beating in his throat. “You make coffee before you wake me up in the morning,” he says quietly.

Arthur hits the counter with his palm. “That’s not – sweet. You’re worse of a zombie in the mornings than I am; that’s just self-preservation.”

“Arthur—”

“I’m an insomniac, and when I do fall asleep, I have nightmares. I’m a control freak, and I need everything to be done my way. I hate being told what to do. I’m possessive, and when I get jealous, it’s not pretty.” He puts his hands on the counter at either side of Merlin, locking him in. “If you were really mine, do you think I’d tolerate the way Gwaine looks at you? It would drive me crazy, Merlin.” He bites at the air, rather than take a breath. “Does me being single still sound weird to you?”

Merlin swallows, his throat painfully dry, and tries to come up with a reasonable answer, but Arthur is crowding him too close, and Merlin’s brain is still stuck on ‘really mine’ with no hope of recovery.

Except, there’s a sharp edge in Arthur’s eyes, a mixture of hope, prematurely defeated, and desperation in the unhappy set of his mouth, and the way he would allow himself to go this far, but no further when he has to know – he has to know by now—

“You deserve better than to be lonely,” Merlin hears himself say.

A shudder runs through Arthur’s entire frame; it’s like watching a mountain crumble into the sea in mere seconds. Merlin wants to reach out, to help, but he doesn’t know how.

Arthur closes his eyes, bowing his head. “Go to bed, Merlin.” His voice sounds strangled.

“I’m not sleepy.”

“Then watch a movie or something. Just go.”

“But—”

“Go.”

Merlin does. He goes through two episodes of Walking Dead, before Arthur joins him, uncharacteristically hesitant as he pads through his own living room to sit on the other end of the couch. He’s tense in a way that makes it feel he’d shatter at the slightest touch.

“I’m sorry,” Merlin offers softly after a few silent moments.

Arthur blinks slowly, turning to look at him. “You’re sorry?”

Cautiously, Merlin shifts a little closer. “I didn’t mean to pry. I – mostly meant it as a joke.”

“No, you didn’t. You framed it as a joke. But you meant it.”

Colour rising in his cheeks again, Merlin bites his lip, but meets Arthur’s eyes. “No, you’re right, I really – it just doesn’t compute for me, okay? That someone like you—”

“Can be bad at relationships?” Arthur suggests with a tired smile. “Yeah, I’m pretty fucked up, as Morgana never tires of reminding me.”

“I just always thought,” Merlin says, blushing, but desperate to explain himself, “I thought that it’s different, the whole dating lark. That it’s easy for people like you.”

“People like me?”

Merlin feels his entire face flush at the sweet, teasing tone Arthur uses. “You’re fishing. I already told you, you were gorgeous once today. I’m not saying it again.”

There’s a beat of silence, and then Arthur moves, so fast it’s almost supernatural. Merlin gasps as Arthur presses him against the back of the couch, arms holding him down, lips pressed against the hollow of Merlin’s neck. Arthur takes a deep breath and Merlin lets out a soft, embarrassing little sound that he’d die to take back.

“You should really stop saying shit like that,” Arthur murmurs low in his ear. “Back in the kitchen, and now... My self-control has a limit, you little imp. I have to live through hell every single day, seeing you just out of bed, just out of the fucking shower, smiling that smile that makes you so damn adorable, it’s unbearable. Where do you get off teasing me like this? So fucking innocent, like you don’t know what you’re doing, it’s driving me up the fucking wall.”

Arthur pushes up to look in his face. Their eyes meet, and Merlin almost forgets how to breathe. His heart is hammering in his chest, the electrifying pulse of desire setting every cell in body on fire. It feels as though the universe is throwing his dearest wish at him, daring him to take it, and Merlin wants to, trembles with want, but he’s too spellbound, too terrified of it coming true to reach for it.

The shrill ring of Arthur’s mobile cuts through the tension, and Merlin can’t tell if he sags with disappointment or relief. Arthur drops his forehead against Merlin’s chest for a moment, before straightening up with a groan and reaching for his phone.

“Pendragon.”

Merlin watches his face, trying to keep up with Arthur’s conversation with Percy, but failing spectacularly. All he can really think about is what almost happened and if he wanted for that moment to come back.

“Fine, I’ll be right there,” Arthur says and disconnects the call. When he turns to look at Merlin, he’s once again a consummate professional. “I need to go. Annis called for an urgent department meeting.”

“At 10 p.m?”

“There’s no rest for the wicked, Merlin. Looks like someone had finally noticed that we’re up to something, believe it or not. It’s only taken them a couple of weeks.”

Merlin grabs his arm. “Are you in trouble?”

Arthur shrugs, sliding up to his feet. “I don’t know. It’ll mostly depend on how good a story I can spin.”

Merlin follows him to the door, watching as Arthur pulls on his jacket.

“Lock after me, don’t go anywhere, and keep an eye on Kilgharrah,” Arthur says, obviously trying his best not to meet Merlin’s eyes. It’s like the moment on the couch never happened.

“You want me to go with you?”

“No.” The emphasis in Arthur’s tone is unmistakable, and he does look at Merlin now. “I most certainly do not. The less Annis knows about you, the better. Lock up, and don’t set one foot out this door.”

“Yes, Sire,” Merlin drawls sarcastically, but Arthur’s already gone.

Merlin activates Arthur’s elaborate security system on autopilot.

Then, he calls Elena.

--

Elena doesn’t laugh at him outright, which cements her position as Merlin’s best friend forever and ever. She exhales a cloud of cigarette smoke in his face (“I’m quitting next week, I swear”), takes a sip of her ten-shots-of-syrup-one-shot-of-espresso coffee, and squints at the grey snake body of the river, glistening under a rare smile of sunlight.

They’re using her twenty-minute break to take a walk along the frozen bank. Arthur wouldn’t approve Merlin straying away from campus, but Merlin is beginning to feel suffocated by the impromptu house arrest, no matter how hot the jailor.

“Are you sure, though?” Elena asks, voice hoarse from too little sleep. “I had this relationship once. I thought I was head over heels and all, but it turned out I was simply grateful, because I wasn’t like all the other girls, and he made me feel wanted. And then I felt horrible about having to break up with him, but it turned out he loved me more as a pet project than anything. He didn’t get it, though, so it was pretty ugly in the end.”

Merlin frowns. “What are you getting at?”

She studies him through spiky dark-blond lashes with no signs of mascara. “You’re really vulnerable right now. Arthur is literally your everything. You live with him, you depend on him for protection. I’m your only friend who wasn’t his friend first. He’s with you all the time, and, let’s face it, he’s not exactly ugly or anything.”

“So what you’re saying is—”

“That sometimes it’s easier to fall in love with the idea of someone than with the real person.”

Merlin tries to digest it. “My head hurts.”

Elena laughs, shaking her head. “Boys,” she manages through the giggles. “Don’t know why I’m wasting my breath. All you think about is sleeping with him, isn’t it?”

Merlin blushes and punches her arm, which makes her laugh harder. “No, I just... Well, that, too, if you must know, but I really—” He trails off, staring at his feet. “We pretend to be boyfriends, and I just” – he swallows –“I want it so badly to be real.”

Elena turns him around and hugs him. “Oh, sweetie, it’ll be all right,” she murmurs. “You just have to wait till you’re on more equal ground. He’s obviously attracted to you—”

“Not like that,” Merlin mutters.

She gives him a reproachful look. “Exactly like that, from what Leon told me.”

Merlin blinks. “Leon? Since when are you talking to Leon?”

Elena rolls her eyes. “Since he asked for my phone number at your Christmas party, silly.”

“He’s like ten years older than you.”

She gives him a look. “He’s thirty-three, Merlin, that’s hardly ancient. And anyway, you’re the last person that should be commenting on that one.”

He throws his hands in the air. “Sorry. So what did he tell you?”

Elena grins. “Among other things, that Arthur was scared shitless to pretend-play house with you; that he acts like he’s lost all sense and reason in regards to you; and that Arthur has never ever been a good actor.”

Merlin has to look away from her beaming face. His palms are sweaty, his mouth is dry, and he grins at the white-grey-golden sky so hard his entire face hurts.

Behind him, Elena curses darkly, and digs through the pockets of her jeans for another cigarette.

--

Arthur knows they’re too late the moment Merlin’s voice in his ear turns frantic as he says, “I lost him, Arthur. He was bright green right at the bottom of the screen, and now he’s not there. He’s just not there!”

Arthur can see him so clearly, sitting in Arthur’s office at the station, hunched over Kilgharrah’s screen, the headset making him look like a crazy tech from some 80s movie, Percy hovering at his shoulder.

“Has he changed position before he disappeared?”

“No. He was just there – and gone.”

“Right.” Arthur switches the mic off and looks around the van, seeing grim understanding on every face. “We’re running out of time. Go.”

They storm through the building, an abandoned warehouse at the very outskirts of the city. There’s nothing to find except rubbish, dust, empty bottles, and threatening graffiti on the crumbling walls.

And in the basement, right where Merlin’s miracle program had placed him, the boy lying prone on his back, a menacing-looking metal band circling his forehead, a thin trail of blood trickling from his temple down the side of his neck.

“We’re too late,” Leon spits, angry, appearing at Arthur’s elbow. “The building’s clear. I don’t know how they managed to leave so quickly, but they’re gone.”

Arthur nods. There have been about half a dozen of these raids since Merlin unveiled his creation, and most of the time they managed to rescue the kidnapped people in time, like Jamie Miller, but they’d never ever caught so much as a glimpse of the people who took them again.

“Arthur, he’s alive,” Lance calls from where he’s crouched by the boy’s side, checking on his vitals. “We have to get him to the hospital right away, though.”

Arthur nods again and moves closer, as Leon calls for an ambulance.

“Careful,” Lance says quietly as Arthur gets close, and Arthur knows why.

Alive, yes. But the look in the mesmerising green eyes is feral, dangerous, with no hint of recognising reality.

Insane.

“Arthur, you okay?”

He isn’t. He can’t tear his eyes away from the prone figure. In his mind, he knows who he’s looking at. Mordred Verrens, 16, failed to return home from school two days ago, it had taken is guardian that long to report him missing.

But as he stares at the twitching, tortured body on the dirty stone floor, all Arthur can see is Merlin. The unfortunate boy looks disturbingly like him – pale skin, dark hair, bright eyes, slim build. Arthur blinks and blinks and blinks, but he can’t shake off the vision of Merlin lying prostrate in front of him, restrained, his face bloody, no sign of intelligence in his beautiful rebellious eyes...

“The ambulance is on its way,” Leon says, approaching. “Arthur?”

“Yeah?”

“You’re shaking.”

Arthur lifts his head just in time to see Lance and Leon exchange worried glances.

“I’m fine,” he says gruffly, and forces himself to step away – to look away. “Sweep the building.”

“You know they never leave anything—”

“Well, maybe this time they did,” he snaps. “Sweep it anyway.”

“Yes, sir.”

He needs to hear Merlin’s voice. He needs it like air, but the line remains dead. He knows it’s normal. Merlin always leaves him to it once the chase is complete. Right now, Merlin is probably packing his things to go home.

But Arthur can’t get the horrible image out of his head. He needs to see Merlin now.

He steps out of the way of the ambulance as it comes to a halt in front of the building, raising a wave of gravel.

“Arthur!”

Arthur grits his teeth, but stops, allowing Leon to catch up with him.

“Where are you going?”

“I need to get Merlin.”

“Why? You don’t think he can pick something up from the scene? He hasn’t so far.”

“No, I just – I need to—”

“Arthur.” Leon grabs his arm. “He’s fine. He’s safe. Percy’s with him. You know that.”

Arthur does know that, except he doesn’t know that. He never had a reaction like this, not under enemy fire in Afghanistan, not in a hundred tight spots he’s been since. That sharp metallic taste in his mouth, his guts twisted into knots, skin too hot, too tight with the feral, animal need to secure his own, so powerful he can’t stand it.

It must show on his face, because Leon’s grip tightens. “Arthur, listen to me. Annis said you’re to report to her personally every time, or the entire operation is off. You know we can’t afford that.” In a quieter tone, he adds, “And you need to talk to the boy’s guardian.”

Arthur’s shoulders droop, bile rising in his throat. “Yeah.”

--

It’s 3 a.m. when he finally gets home. There’s light in the living room, the TV is stuck on the image of a DVD menu, and Merlin is asleep on the couch, his neck craned awkwardly, his t-shirt wrinkled and riding high, revealing a sliver of skin above the waist of his jeans. He’s frowning even in his sleep, an unhappy wedge between his eyebrows that Arthur wants to smoothen with his fingers.

Arthur stares at him for a long time, his body tense with the effort of holding back. He’s used to it by now, used to the constant reminder to keep his hands off, to looking away, to ice cold showers in the mornings, and to the endless, relentless lure of trust in Merlin’s eyes, all the more precious because Merlin isn’t used to trusting anyone. He opens up for Arthur, only for Arthur, like a bloody flower, with every reflexive sarcastic line, every shared meal, every allowed touch.

Living with Merlin is hell. Arthur is bone-tired of resisting.

“Arthur?” Merlin stirs, blinking up at him owlishly. “When did you get back?”

Arthur clears his throat. “Just now.”

Merlin sits up, squinting at the DVD clock. “It’s three in the morning.” He looks up, the corners of his mouth going down. “He didn’t make it, did he?”

Arthur closes his eyes. “He survived. But...”

When he opens his eyes again, Merlin is standing in front of him, so close Arthur can see the hint of freckles on his nose.

“I’m sorry,” Merlin whispers. “I’m so sorry, Arthur.”

This is what surrender feels like, Arthur thinks bleakly, hands moving of their own volition to rest on Merlin’s waist, tugging him closer. He rests his forehead against Merlin’s, breathing his air.

“Yeah. Me too.”

Merlin reaches to cup Arthur’s face with his hands, and Arthur looks at him, willing himself to pull away, but it’s no good. He lost that battle before it even began. He lost.

He is lost.

Merlin’s kiss is tentative, like he’s afraid to be pushed away, and so sweet that it pierces through Arthur’s whole body. Arthur grabs him, muscles still charged with excessive adrenaline, twirls him around and pushes him up against a wall, forceful, taking ownership, catching Merlin’s startled gasp on his tongue, smirking at how fucking easy it is in the end. The kiss is rougher than he means it to be, but Merlin arches into it, his mouth slick, tight, and pliant, yielding to Arthur willingly, pulling him deeper in.

“God,” Arthur breathes hoarsely when he comes up for air. “I want you so fucking bad, Merlin, you’ve no—”

“Yes,” Merlin murmurs, tugging Arthur closer by the hips, moaning softly as they slide against each other. “Yes, Arthur, God, please. Yes.”

Arthur growls and bites Merlin’s lower lip to shut him up, savouring another gasp he gets for his trouble. He trails hungry, open-mouthed kisses down the seductive, long line of Merlin’s throat, sucks hard on the tender spot where his neck meets shoulder, hands sliding under Merlin’s t-shirt. Merlin moans loudly, shock and desire making his body taut, and he’s shaking in Arthur’s arms, short nails digging into the skin of Arthur’s back through the layers of clothing. Arthur grabs his knee, pulling it up until Merlin gets the idea and hooks it over Arthur’s hip. Merlin’s head falls back, mouth open helplessly, as they rub against each other through the fabric, hot and tight and not enough but too good to stop. Arthur mouths at Merlin’s throat, making curt, desperate sounds he can hardly believe, fingers pressing greedily into Merlin’s thigh through the fabric of his jeans, scratching at the obstacle.

Thought flees as they stumble into Arthur’s bedroom, tugging at each other’s clothes. Arthur is more impatient, and Merlin is wearing less, so he ends up on the bed naked with Arthur pressing him down, still wearing his trousers. Merlin tugs at his fly, and Arthur lets him, moaning when Merlin wraps his long fingers around his cock, stroking and staring with awed, hungry eyes.

Arthur growls and pushes him back, stretches Merlin’s arms over his head and presses down until Merlin wraps his fingers around the bars of the bed.

“Hold them there.”

Merlin’s obedience is immediate and electrifying, and Arthur has to kiss him for it, because Merlin never just obeys, and it makes Arthur’s head spin.

When he pulls back, Merlin is looking up at him, the very picture of temptation, skin flushed, lips swollen red and glistening, black hair tousled and wild, his body tense like a string on display for Arthur, because Arthur wanted it so. His eyes are trained on Arthur, part-scared, pained with suspense, dark with want, fierce and vulnerable, every defence down.

The look goes straight to Arthur’s head like a hit of potent old wine, his cock swells between his legs, still half-trapped by the confines of his trousers, polyester rough on the sensitised skin. His hand shakes as he traces the taut surface of Merlin’s stomach, revelling in the shiver it provokes. Arthur moves over him, kissing his chest, his throat, his stomach, breathing Merlin in, drunk on the little gasps and whimpers Merlin’s making, like it’s the first time someone’s touched him, like even the softest kiss is too much to bear.

“Please, Arthur.” It comes out as a high-pitched whine. “Please.”

Arthur grins up at him. “Please what?”

“Anything,” Merlin blurts out, tongue too thick in his mouth. “Anything, just—”

Arthur smirks. He scoots down the bed, makes sure Merlin is watching, and very slowly, very deliberately takes Merlin’s cock into his mouth.

Merlin’s head falls back helplessly, the sound torn from his lips almost inhuman. Arthur almost forgets to breathe at the sight, fingers leaving bruises on Merlin’s hips, holding him down, because Merlin can’t stay still, writhing underneath him. His hands reach down instinctively, as though the lure of Arthur’s hair is too much, then jerk back viper-fast to grab at the bars of the headboard again at a single look from Arthur, and that’s so hot Arthur groans around him, sucking harder, rough with a hint of teeth. Merlin’s back arches helplessly off the bed, and he whimpers, biting his lips raw to stop the sound from spilling, and failing.

Never pulling off, Arthur trails his fingers down the exposed skin of Merlin’s inner thigh, back and forth until he can feel the muscle tremble from tension.

“Arthur, please, I—”

Arthur’s thumb presses against Merlin’s entrance, rubbing softly, sensitising the tender skin to the point where it has to become unbearable before pushing in.

Merlin cries out, a shocked, hoarse sound, as Arthur moves inside him, just the fingertip, drawing circles, pulling ever so slightly at the tight, resisting flesh.

“Arthur...” A broken, torn sound, as though Merlin has been screaming for hours, and this is all that’s left of his voice.

Arthur pushes his finger in to the knuckle; it doesn’t hurt, but it’s uncomfortable dry, an edge of pain where his lips and tongue lavish pleasure, and Merlin is shaking beneath him, whimpering uncontrollably, begging.

Arthur pulls back, kicking his trousers and pants the rest of the way off, running a soothing hand up Merlin’s side. Merlin doesn’t make a noise at the withdrawal, not really, but his pupils are blown so wide his eyes look bottomless, and he’s trembling.

Unable to help himself, Arthur stretches over him, capturing his lips again, deep, drugging kisses that almost make him forget the urgency, but not quite, not with all that gorgeous bare skin beneath him.

He reaches for the nightstand, pulling out lube and condoms, and tips Merlin’s chin up to meet his eyes.

“Hey. You’ve done this before?”

Merlin swallows, lips dark and bruised. “Yeah. Once. It wasn’t – very good.”

Arthur’s hands clench into fists, and the kiss is hard, demanding, jealous, tongue pushing in roughly, and Merlin gasps as teeth graze his abused lips, but doesn’t pull back. Arthur softens the kiss, licking apologies into Merlin’s mouth, not letting him up for air, as he opens him up with slick fingers, slowly and thoroughly, until Merlin is panting and begging beneath him, an unstoppable litany of pleas that no sane man can resist.

When Arthur finally pushes in, he’s at the end of his endurance, grinding his teeth to prevent himself from pounding Merlin into the mattress. Merlin’s mouth falls open in a soundless gasp, his hands going white-knuckled on the headboard, and it hurts, it has to, but it’s too good for both of them to stop.

“Fuck me.” Merlin’s voice is broken, filthy-beautiful, demanding in an angel-turned-demon sort of way.

Arthur gasps in surprise, sliding all the way in, feeling with every inch the incredible way Merlin’s body stretches to accept him, tight, so tight and so good he has to feel it again, pulling back and thrusting back in, faster this time, and faster still. Merlin’s ankles lock around his waist, and Arthur puts his hands on top of Merlin’s on the bars of the bed, gripping hard, as he follows the order he’s been given.

It’s a frenzy of motion, the rhythm of their bodies desperate and beautiful, Merlin’s breath knocked out of him on every hard stroke, Arthur’s name hovering on his lips, never quite spilling. Arthur frees one hand to press it against Merlin’s pulse point, before he dives in to suck at the already forming bruise, while his hips snap forward, relentless, as though Merlin is a spoil of war he has to claim.

Arthur’s orgasm starts thick and hot, honey-slow at the base of his spine, rolling through him like a tidal wave, sweeping him under, and, just as it’s about to crest, he holds it back, just a little, the sweet torture of fighting the inevitable for fractions of a moment, as he wraps his hand around Merlin’s cock, stroking him hard and fast.

“Come on, baby. Give in. Give over to me. Just give in.”

As though it’s been waiting for the order, and Arthur really can command it just like that, Merlin’s body goes tight around him, eyes open wide, drugged gaze sharpening with desperation for mere seconds, Arthur’s name spilling from his lips, a breathless, husky sound that Arthur has to taste, and it’s champagne-tingly and searing bright, like the swirl of gold and white snow eclipsing is vision.

Arthur is loath to move, and, even though it can’t be comfortable, Merlin doesn’t seem to be in a hurry to separate either. They untangle eventually, every motion sluggish, tired smiles, and soft, humming kisses.

Then Arthur looks up for a moment, reaching to push Merlin’s hair off his face, and gasps.

“What?” Merlin murmurs sleepily.

“Merlin,” Arthur breathes out, barely audible. “Your eyes.”

They’re golden. Beautiful, liquid gold that makes Arthur’s breath catch. He’d seen eyes like that in the pictures in fairytales books. He never realised that part of magic lore was so literally true.

Or that it was quite so... magical.

“What about my eyes?” Merlin frowns and rubs at them absently. The glow doesn’t fade. “Arthur?”

“Nothing,” Arthur says, his voice not quite his own. “They’re beautiful is all.” He bends down to kiss Merlin’s eyelids. “Go to sleep.”

And either the spell still lasts, or Merlin is too tired to argue, but he does just that, snuggling close to Arthur’s side under the covers, almost purring his contentment as Arthur runs his fingers through Merlin’s hair.

--

Arthur doesn’t sleep that night at all.

--

--

The first thing Merlin feels when he wakes up is a pleasant ache in his entire body. He could say he’d forgotten what it feels like, but the truth is he’d never really known it quite like that. Grinning, he stretches and rolls around in bed, relishing the languid, dull soreness. He blushes and giggles into the pillow, the images of the night before stark clear in his head.

He’s alone, which is somewhat disappointing, but he’d already known that Arthur doesn’t really understand the advantages of lying in on a Saturday morning. Laughing a little, Merlin wonders if he’ll be able to change that.

He showers quickly and puts on some of his old clothes. He feels like painting today, and ruining a pair of four-hundred-pound jeans Morgana selected would put a damper on things.

He trots to the kitchen, barefoot, whistling something off key, and is surprised to find Arthur sitting at the breakfast aisle, dressed for work and nursing a cup of coffee.

Merlin stops to stare at him, his grin slowly fading. “God, Arthur. You look terrible. Has something else happened? Why didn’t you wake me?”

Arthur looks up. “Good morning to you, too,” he says without a trace of humour. “Coffee?”

“Um.”

“We need to talk.”

Merlin’s heart misses a beat. “Okay.”

Despite his words, Arthur doesn’t seem in a hurry to say anything.

Merlin pads closer, resisting the urge to hug himself. He’s suddenly cold. “What’s up?”

Arthur frowns at him, as though Merlin has interrupted his thought process. “Merlin, last night – what we did” – he takes a deep breath –“it was a mistake.”

Merlin stills. “What?”

“I’m sorry,” Arthur says, and for the first time there’s a hint of emotion in his voice. “It’s my fault. I shouldn’t have let it go so far. I know we were joking about it, and – well, what with the roles we play, but I shouldn’t have let it actually happen. You’re in my custody, and I – I got carried away. It’s unacceptable.”

“Carried away?” Merlin repeats blankly.

Arthur scowls. “You want me to say it? Fine. You’re very attractive and I’m human.”

Suddenly Merlin wishes he was sitting. He’s heard that line before – usually worded much cruder and said with a drunken slur, but he’s heard that line so many times at the Eclipse he can barely give an estimate. He knows a response is expected, but for a moment he can’t talk for the wave of nausea rising in his throat.

“Merlin, are you all right?” Arthur half-rises from his chair, a note of alarm in his voice.

“I’m fine,” Merlin replies, trying not to open his mouth too much. “I just – wasn’t expecting that.”

From you. I wasn’t expecting that from you.

“I’m sorry,” Arthur repeats. “I was really upset last night, and I wasn’t – really in control.” He swallows with difficulty as though the words are physically painful for him to say. “I told you, I’m hardly perfect.”

“You did. So I guess it’s my own fault for not listening.”

“No, Merlin.” Arthur is suddenly right in front of him, cupping his face so gently that Merlin wants to cry. “None of this is your fault. It’s mine. I’m supposed to be protecting you, not – taking advantage of you. If someone had told me I’m capable of doing this, I would have punched them, but I suppose it only proves that I think better of myself than I deserve. Just because you’re here, doesn’t mean I should—”

Arthur drops his hands, stepping back as though only just becoming aware of his actions. “We should stay professional,” he says, pulling himself together. “Too many lives depend on this for me to get distracted by my... whims. I can’t afford to screw this up. It’s too important.”

‘I’m in love with you,’ Merlin thinks sadly. ‘How’s that for important?’

“You’re my witness,” Arthur says, his tone getting stronger, more aloof with every word. It’s like watching him don his armour, turning back into the arrogant, unapproachable person he was when they’d first met. “What happened between us was a moment’s weakness. I apologise, and you can report me if you like. You probably should.”

It takes a couple of false starts before Merlin can speak. His voice is hoarse. “I don’t want to report you.”

Arthur’s gaze on him is relentless. “I don’t think I can forgive myself as easily.”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Merlin snaps, suddenly angry. “There’s no need for all this Victorian era drama, Arthur. I don’t have a mighty protector to come challenge you over my ruined virtue – I don’t need one – what the everloving fuck? We’re both consenting adults, we both wanted it, so it happened. You don’t want it to happen again – just bloody well say so. I got you the first ten times you said it was a mistake. Believe it or not, I’m actually old enough to get that.”

Arthur winces. “And there is that, which I also conveniently forgot last night. God, I really wasn’t thinking.”

“Do you have to rub it in?”

“Merlin—”

“For the last time – I got it! I won’t throw myself at you again. Message received. Now, weren’t you going somewhere?”

Arthur looks conflicted for a moment, obviously unhappy with Merlin’s response, although Merlin can’t fathom why. But then Arthur’s mobile emits an impatient ping from his pocket, and Arthur steps back, ceding the field for now.

Merlin grits his teeth, forcing himself to stay still. Victory has never tasted so bitter.

“That’s probably Annis,” Arthur says flatly. “I really am late, I was supposed to be there half an hour ago, but I wanted—”

“Well, then,” Merlin cuts him off. He’s being a brat and he knows it, but he’d do anything to get Arthur out the door right now. The humiliation is too strong to stand another minute with him. “Don’t let me distract you.”

But Arthur stares at him for another torturous minute before finally brushing past him toward the door.

“Lock up after me, and don’t go anywhere. If you need anything, call. I’ll be back as soon as I can. We’ll talk.”

Merlin doesn’t bother answering, flinching at the sound of the heavy door pushed closed as Arthur finally, mercifully leaves.

--

The thing is, Merlin isn’t actually stupid. He doesn’t want to put himself or anyone else at risk. He doesn’t actually have a death wish.

It’s just that he can’t stand staying under Arthur’s roof a second longer.

He’s wearing his old clothes, so it seems fitting to tug on his old coat. It hasn’t been that long since Morgana had turned him into her personal Ken doll, but his old, familiar to tears coat feels alien as he puts it on, too small somehow, as if in a few short weeks he’d outgrown it.

Leaving Kilgharrah behind is like leaving an old friend, but it’s too unsafe to take it. Merlin doesn’t have the slightest idea where he’s headed after all.

The day is brisk and crispy, the chill crawling in through his inadequate clothes, greeting Merlin like a long lost brother. Merlin shivers, grinning a little at the thought of how quickly he became spoiled by the good things. The irony is sour. He should never have let his guard down.

He follows the curves of the river as it twists and turns under the winter sun, taking him further into Riverside, and from there to the edges of Watersgate, the houses looking particularly shabby and grim, unwelcoming as ever.

Merlin’s head is curiously void of thoughts as he walks, trying to figure his life out. He should be heartbroken and scared, but strangely enough he’s neither. Maybe because he’d hoped but never truly believed that Arthur could really love him back. They come from different worlds, and the distance has obviously been too great to meet in the middle.

Or maybe because he’s still in denial and will bowl his eyes out when the shock lets up.

There’s nothing stopping him from going back. He could. He should. It’s the smart thing to do.

He knows he won’t.

He sits on a frozen bench, rubbing his hands together and trying to relax. There’s a trick to staying warm in the cold, and not letting your muscles tense up is the first step.

There’s a book dropped carelessly beside an overflowing rubbish can. It’s in a miserable condition, pages stained with grease, some missing. Merlin picks it up, smiling when he sees the cover. It’s a copy of Daniel Defoe’s Robinson Crusoe.

Laughing a little, Merlin flips through the pages, eyes sliding over familiar paragraphs. He’d found the book unbearably boring as a child, but he thinks he might have a new appreciation for it now.

He never notices the motion until a shadow blocks his light; there’s a stab of sharp white-hot pain at the base of his neck, and then his entire world goes dark and quiet.

--

Arthur knows what happened within seconds of walking into the dark and empty flat. He sweeps through the rooms just in case, his heart seizing painfully in his chest when he sees Kilgharrah sitting reproachfully on the nightstand, and Merlin’s new winter coat abandoned carelessly on the rack.

He calls Elena without much hope, not being remotely surprised when Leon picks up the conversation on her end after a while, as she hurries to get dressed. Merlin didn’t call her, because Arthur obviously hadn’t deserved it easy.

The station is mostly dark except for Arthur’s office, where his team plus Elena and Gwaine assemble within ten minutes of his arrival, wearing near-identical grim expressions.

“I don’t understand,” Leon says, frowning. “He’s been on his best behaviour for weeks now. Why would he do something so stupid as to walk out unescorted now? Did you forget to get the milk or something?”

Arthur purses his lips. “We had a—”

“Fight?”

“—misunderstanding. Obviously.”

“Oh my God, Arthur, what did you do?” Gwaine asks, but Leon cuts him off.

“Not now. Are you sure he’s not staying with a friend or—”

“All his friends are in this room,” Arthur says tiredly, looking from Elena to Gwen to Gwaine. “He isn’t answering his phone, I can’t even track his phone, and he’s neither home nor at the library, and no, not even at that club, I checked. They got him. At the most generous estimation, for over six hours.”

He looks around, watching their faces transform as the implication sinks.

“Have you tried—” Gwen points at the laptop, sitting menacingly on Arthur’s desk.

“I can’t make it work,” Arthur says, pushing it toward her. “You try.”

But it doesn’t work for Gwen, either. The software is clearly operational, teasing them with the by-now-familiar display of the stripped-down map of Camelot, but the search doesn’t work.

“Do you think it’s damaged?” Arthur asks, breathing down Gwen’s neck. “Can you repair whatever’s wrong with it?”

Gwen’s expression turns from tense to puzzled as she studies the screen. “There’s nothing wrong with it, Arthur. But maybe—”

“What?”

She looks at him. “Maybe it’s like Merlin’s sketches. Maybe this thing needs actual magic to make it work. See, this” – she points –“is a pretty classic code. Sure, it’s inventive in parts and very cleverly intertwined with satellite feeds, but on the surface there’s nothing in here to enable it to do what it does when Merlin operates it. I don’t know if it’s attuned specifically to Merlin or if anyone with magic will do, but I don’t think anyone in this room stands a chance of making it work.”

Arthur pulls out his phone. “I’m calling Morgana.”

“Gwen can do it,” Leon says firmly, grabbing Arthur’s elbow. “You and me, a word outside.”

Arthur follows him out reluctantly, loath to relinquish control even for a minute.

Leon turns to face him. “Okay. So what did you do?”

There’s no point hiding in the well of his own guilt, bottomless as it might be, so Arthur tells him.

Leon swears. “You act like an army commander so much sometimes, I keep forgetting you’re still a damn puppy. Why on Earth have you got to be so stupid?”

“How am I stupid? If you recall, I was the only one objecting to that crazy plan of Morgana’s, but you lot wouldn’t hear a word of reason—”

“That, I actually don’t care about, the plan was good – and not just because we could laugh at you, but because Merlin was actually safe with you.”

“Safe with me, not from me.”

“What in the hell are you talking about? You didn’t force him, did you?”

Arthur blanches. “No. Leon, God, how can you even ask me that?”

“I asked, because you need to get it through your head. The only actual atrocity here is you telling him that load of bullshit to try and cover the fact that you’re in over your head. Which brings us back to the matter of your unbelievable stupidity.”

“He’s a key witness to this case, Leon. He was under my protection. What I did was—”

“Oh, for the love of God. It happens, Arthur. Nurses fall in love with patients, teachers with students, and yes, bodyguards with their charges sometimes. Falling in love is not a crime, for fuck’s sake. It happens to the best of us, and you really need to get over yourself. Granted, this might not be ideal in a situation like this—”

“You think?”

“—but there’s still nothing wrong with it. Not when he feels the same way about you.”

Arthur feels the floor lurch under his feet. Reaching for the wall for balance, he tries to find the words. “How do you know—”

Leon sighs, shaking his head. “A bloody pup. I’m not sure I’m up to taking orders from you after this display of idiocy.” He catches the look on Arthur’s face, and his expression softens. “You really had no clue, did you? And I thought Lance and Gwen were bad.”

Arthur’s chest feels tight and heavy, lungs struggling to breathe. “I hand-delivered him to them, didn’t I? I practically sent him out there.”

“You don’t know that. Maybe he just stepped out to clear his head. He’s the impulsive kind, Arthur; has been from day one.”

“Yeah, but he knows better. He only took what he thought of as his, but he left the laptop, because he knew we needed it. He wasn’t planning on coming back.”

Leon throws his hands in the air. “Well, he is nineteen, so he has that excuse for being an idiot. The rest of us will have to do without.”

Arthur tries to stretch his lips in a smile, acknowledging the peace offering of ‘us’ instead of the accusing ‘you,’ but it falls flat.

Leon rests a hand on his shoulder. “We’ll find him, Arthur. But we can’t do it without you.”

“Yeah,” Arthur says, forcefully pushing his emotions deeper inside. He has to keep it together if he’s to be of any use to Merlin now.

Thankfully, he had a lot of practice doing that, and the blanket of numbness drapes over him with the easy force of habit. Leon studies his face and nods, stepping back.

They turn in sync at the sound of Morgana’s dark skirts whispering as she marches in from the far side of the corridor, eyes blazing with angry tears.

“Don’t talk to me unless you have to,” she orders, pushing Arthur in the chest with the tips of her fingers. He’ll feel the bruises for days. “I had a dream, and you’re a moron.”

“Not that I disagree, but now’s not the time—”

“Oh, shut up and just take me to the bloody thing. And you’d better pray that Merlin’s talents and mine are compatible.”

“Already there.” Arthur sighs and turns toward the door. “This way.”

--

There’s probably something wrong with your life choices if you come to the moment when waking up from a drug induced blackout feels familiar. This time, there’s no feeling of overwhelming heat he might not survive. Instead, waking up feels like forcefully dragging himself up from a swamp by his own hair.

Merlin opens his eyes slowly, blinking, not sure if it’s the first or the thirty-first attempt. His body feels rigid the way living tissue gets after lying for a long time on a hard cold surface. Everywhere he looks there’s darkness, odd shapes tearing through it, making no sense. He thinks about acoustics for no apparent reason, and then he gets it, the feeling of being watched, of being small and unprotected, and the fear of heights all wrapped into one. Even unseen, the space around him feels enormous.

Merlin sits up slowly, focusing on the sluggish, pained response of his body. He looks around, his night vision kicking in at last, but he has to blink and rub his eyes to believe what the sparse light reveals.

He’s in a cave. And not just any old cavern, the kind he used to explore at the outskirts of Ealdor as a child. This place could easily fit five Camelot Cathedrals put one on top of the other like a pyramid and still have room to spare. There’s a huge rock at the centre of it, its top unseen in the gloomy height, a spiral of steps carved in stone curling around it.

For a few dazed moments, Merlin isn’t sure if he’s hallucinating, still under the influence of whatever it was that knocked him out. He’s never heard of a place like that anywhere near Camelot.

Then, he hears a chuckle.

“Oh, you’re not dreaming, my dear boy. You are still in Camelot, in the very heart of it, to be precise. I thought it would be symbolic.”

Merlin turns his head to find there’s another set of steps coming down from what appears to be a small entrance in the cave wall. A man is slowly descending them, a leisurely pace of someone who feels utterly at home.

Merlin scrambles to his feet, still woozy, but determined to face his kidnapper standing tall. As tall as his trembling limbs would allow anyway. What the hell kind of shit did they give him?

Up close, the speaker doesn’t cut an impressive figure. He’s shorter than Merlin, thin, dressed in non-descript baggy clothes. His hair is of the kind that always looks greasy even when it’s not, and the cut that would flatter a more striking face underlines instead the small, mousy features, deep-sunken eyes of unidentifiable colour, sharp pointy nose, and a weak, shapeless chin.

A rat, Merlin thinks. Disgusting. Smart. Dangerous.

“Have you never heard of the King’s Cave beneath the Citadel, Merlin? Although maybe you wouldn’t. You’re not from around here after all.”

“Who are you?” Merlin asks. His throat feels as if it hadn’t been used in days.

The man smiles pleasantly, a welcoming host at a dinner reception. “Of course, my young friend, where are my manners? The name’s Cornelius. At your service.” He sketches a bow.

Something stirs at the back of Merlin’s mind at the name, like a tantalising, just-out-of-reach memory or a déjà vu.

“Why have you brought me here?” Merlin asks. He has a vague inkling that asking a homicidal psychopath questions might not be the best plan, but he has no idea what he’s supposed to do. Things look pretty dire anyway, and it’s not like he believes that he has a chance of getting out of this if he’s really, really smart. Curiously, he’s not as scared as he should reasonably be. Maybe the drugs haven’t been all bad after all. “Are you the one who killed all those people?”

“Now, ‘killed’ is such a strong word,” Cornelius dismisses casually. “I had no intention of murdering them. They simply weren’t strong enough.”

It’s the light, conversational tone that sets chills down Merlin’s back. In this, Cornelius isn’t acting. He genuinely doesn’t care.

Merlin casts a glance around, as though hoping for an escape route to sprang at him from somewhere, complete with neon green arrows pointing the way.

“But let me look at you,” Cornelius simpers, sickeningly sweet. “You are the long awaited prize of my collection, after all, and I’ve hardly even seen what you look like.”

He makes a wide gesture with his hands, and suddenly Merlin can’t move, pinned to – thin air, it would seem, his arms and legs outstretched, as he’s lifted off the ground and rotated around slowly, like a postcard stand at the Citadel Boulevard.

“Yes, yes, very nice,” Cornelius murmurs. “You’re not that impressive at all, are you? Who’d have thought that such an – ordinary – package conceals such valuable a treasure. Priceless even, one could say. You know what I’m talking about, don’t you? Looks can be deceiving, and I hear you’re a smart one. Outsmarted both my crews and your friend Kevin. But third time is the charm, isn’t it?”

He chuckles, and in the next moment, whatever’s been holding Merlin suspended in midair lifts, dropping him hard to his knees, making him bite down a scream.

“You know why you’re here, Merlin,” Cornelius tells him, bending closer, no trace of fake-humour in his voice. “I know you’ve figured it out.”

“You steal people’s magic,” Merlin breathes out through waves of red-hot pain in his crushed knees. “And I’m – I’m some sort of source—”

“You’re the Source, Merlin,” Cornelius crows, his tone bursting with delight. “The only true remaining Source of magic in the entire Albion. Maybe even in the world. Do you know what it means? Your magical power is inexhaustible. And soon it’ll be all mine.”

Merlin blinks, forgetting about the agony rising from his likely broken knees for a moment. “Does that line actually work for anyone? I mean, did you learn how to be a villain from a comic novel?”

Cornelius pulls back, his manic grin dwindling to a thin-lipped smile. “A smart mouth. So you’re exactly as stupid as you look.”

Without warning, he slaps Merlin hard across the face, knocking him backward, head smashing into the stone wall. Merlin sees stars, realising belatedly that his body was frozen solid once again. He couldn’t have reacted even if he was fast enough.

“I don’t like back talk,” Cornelius tells him calmly. “I see I’ve made a mistake hoping we could converse like civilised people before we proceed. A pity, really. You’re the only one of your kind, and you wouldn’t be up to much talking after I start with you. Well, if that’s how it is, then—”

“Wait,” Merlin says with difficulty, feeling blood at the back of his throat. He struggles to sit with his back against the cave wall, and, to his surprise, he manages, his legs hurting, but not to a crippling degree, as if—

“Gods have mercy,” Cornelius whispers, staring at him with wide eyes. “I’ve broken your legs in three places, boy, and you’re – you’re healed! I didn’t believe it when Kevin said you’d burned through the drugs too fast to be humanly possible. I thought he’d messed up as usual, but I guess he hadn’t, huh?”

“I don’t know what happened then,” Merlin pushes out between fast, shallow breaths.

“I do!” Cornelius explains gleefully, like a kid in primary school beating his classmates to an answer. For the first time, Merlin realises that the man in front of him is truly, irrevocably mad. “Your magic is a jealous little bitch, that’s what happened. It owns you, and it wouldn’t let anyone else have you. Good thing we dozed you with enough sedatives to leave half a dozen people in a permanent coma. And all it did was knock you out for a few hours. Oh, but this is marvellous! I can’t wait to get all of that in me! Bert, Gordon, get him set.”

For the first time, Merlin notices that they aren’t alone. The shadowy figures, faceless men dressed in black, the same or identical to the ones who had chased him down the alley the night Arthur came to the Eclipse, surround him, immobilising him quickly with the efficiency of drones. Merlin tries to resist, but whatever hold Cornelius has on him holds.

“Magic is a curious thing, isn’t it?” Cornelius murmurs somewhere close, as Merlin is stretched on a flat stone palm, wrists and ankles shoved into iron cuffs, securing him in place. “You have so much of it, more than any man alive or dead, and yet – here you are, helpless, unable to reach it.”

Infuriated, Merlin tries, bucking against the restraints, trying to unlock the power that everyone kept talking about, the power he still can’t even feel, but it’s no good. All he feels is a knock-out mixture of white-hot rage and sickening, nauseating streaks of fear.

“It was said that the magic will return when the world forgets about it,” Cornelius says, leaning close over Merlin’s prone form, their faces inches away. “Do you think it’s time to remind them?”

Before Merlin can so much as take a breath to reply or spit in Cornelius’s face, a heavy band of metal descends on his forehead, wide enough to block his sight, and tight, so tight, squeezing his temples.

And then he’s no longer alone in his own head.

--

“What the hell does this mean?” Arthur asks, as they all stare at the screen, confounded.

The big golden spot that represents Merlin, that has always represented Merlin, is blinking in and out of existence, eclipsed every other second by an equally big dark spot. It’s like watching twin stars, with only one of them emitting light.

Morgana mops the sweat from her brow. Kilgharrah did work for her, grudgingly and excruciatingly slow, but it left her looking as though she’d lost five pounds just sitting there.

“This is Merlin,” she says tiredly, pointing at the golden dot. “And this is the man you’ve been looking for.”

“I thought there was no such thing as dark magic,” Leon mutters.

“There isn’t,” Morgana says, shaking her head. “Merlin created one hell of a program. It’s intuitive and it’s learning, because I’m pretty sure Merlin himself had no idea—”

“Morgana,” Arthur cuts her off impatiently.

“Right, sorry. This man” – she points at the dark spot –“doesn’t have ‘dark magic.’ He doesn’t have any kind of magic, just the opposite.” She looks up meeting their bewildered gazes, and huffs in frustration. “Look, the opposite of love isn’t hate, it’s indifference. It’s the same here. The opposite of magic isn’t dark magic, it’s the absence of it. Every person whom we consider ‘normal’ might not have magic per se, but possesses the potential to have it. Like a latent gene. This man” – she points at the screen again – “doesn’t have that potential. He’s physically anti-magic.”

“Like matter and anti-matter?” Gwen pipes up excitedly.

“Precisely.” Morgana beams at her.

“I’m not a theoretical physicist,” Arthur snaps. “In English, please.”

Morgana glares at him. “He craves what he doesn’t have. He’s obviously discovered a way to strip people off their magic and consume it. But he wasn’t built with an ability to retain it, so his appetites grow as he carries on. He’s a magic addict, if you will, but that’s not the worst part.”

She pauses to press a tissue under her nose delicately. “It’s just the tension,” she says quickly as they all gasp at the sight of blood. “I’m nowhere near as strong as Merlin.”

Gwen passes her a glass of water, and Morgana nods gratefully.

“The worst part is that he’s consuming magic at an exponential rate, and he isn’t equipped to deal with it. He’s becoming a human equivalent of a black hole. He’s been growing stronger and more powerful with every little bit he absorbs, but Merlin’s power is unquantifiable. It’ll be like fighting a nuclear reactor meltdown with a fire extinguisher.”

“He’ll self-destruct,” Gwen whispers, horrified.

Morgana nods. “Taking the entire city with him.”

“Can he be stopped?” Arthur asks, breaking the grim silence. “Have there been any precedents?”

Morgana lifts an eyebrow. “Is your history better than physics? The only precedent on record was almost fifteen hundred years ago. Remember Cornelius Sigan?”

“Yes, he was a dark warlock who tried to overthrow the—” Arthur trips, but finishes all the same, “the Pendragon dynasty.”

Morgana laughs bitterly. “History is written by the winners, and that particular episode was being described during the second Great Purge, so of course that’s what they’d say. Sigan was the first anti-magic on record, even though he wasn’t recognised as such at the time.”

“How do you know all this?” Leon asks in awe.

Morgana frowns. “My dreams began when I was thirteen. It took me a while to learn that I’m an actual Seer, the first in three generations, and not a candidate for a mental institution. Wouldn’t you want to find out everything you could about yourself if that were you?”

“I guess,” Leon admits, scratching his beard. “So how was Sigan taken down?”

“He wasn’t. He was contained.” She leans forward, grabbing Arthur’s wrist. “You have to understand something, Arthur. Anti-magics are, in point of fact, unnatural. There’s no way that this man” – a nod at the screen – “has chosen the King’s Cave by coincidence. Sigan’s grave was rumoured to be lost there, in the labyrinth somewhere. That’s why the place had been put off limits originally, though no one remembers it now.”

“You mean to say we’re dealing with a ghost?” Leon asks, eyebrows high.

“No.” Morgana shakes her head. “I’m saying we’re dealing with Cornelius Sigan. Who probably wants to finish what he’d started fifteen hundred years ago.”

“The explosion in the Mayor’s office,” Arthur whispers.

“And the curse on your job,” Lance supplies. “Every attempt on your life since you’ve been back.”

Arthur’s head is spinning. “We need to get Merlin out of there. We need to stop that bastard.”

“We need to tell Annis,” Owain says slowly, as though trying to cling to the normalcy of police procedures.

“No,” Arthur says flatly, sharing a look with Leon. Annis is the kind of officer who’d rather shoot the hostage than negotiate with terrorists. Her righteousness has always mattered more to her than her conscience. “Do you think she’d leave Merlin be if she knew what he really is?”

“She’s see him as the main source of danger, not Sigan,” Leon says grimly.

Arthur looks around, taking in various shades of shock and dismay on every face.

“Look,” he says finally. “I can’t ask you to circumvent orders. I can’t ask you to not tell Annis. All I’m asking is that you give me a little time. I’m going to the King’s Cave.” He tugs on the straps of his probably useless bulletproof vest. “If Morgana’s right, the entire Camelot is in danger, and it happened on our watch. But that’s not the main reason I’m going. I think – I think you all know why I’m going. And why I can’t order anyone to go with me. I doubt it’ll help anyway.”

He pauses. This isn’t how he’d thought he’d be saying goodbye to his team, but nothing in life ever is.

“Just give me as much time as you can, okay? Annis is going to know something’s up. Don’t lie to her. It probably won’t matter by then anyway. Oh, and—” He pulls his gun out and takes the safety off. “Morgana, move aside.”

She does without question, and Arthur puts a round through Kilgharrah’s plastic frame. The screen goes dark. Dead.

“Sorry, Merlin,” Arthur mutters, staring at the ash-grey smoke for a second, before turning toward the door. “See you on the other side,” he throws back at the others.

And that’s when tiny, benevolent Gwen blocks his way, checking the safety on her own gun matter-of-factly.

“Yeah, I don’t think so,” she says, meeting his eyes with clear defiance. “Not without us.”

Arthur closes his eyes. He so hoped to avoid that.

--

Merlin expects pain, but when it does come, it’s insignificant and distant like a faraway echo. He senses confusion that is not his own, the mounting sensation that something isn’t going the way it should.

Images float before his eyes, memories he never had. The Camelot Castle at the height of its power, looking dark and intimidating, dwarfing the filthy little town at its feet. Soldiers marching in the courtyard. A sweep of a black fur cloak. The emerald eyes of Brunhilda, the Mad Queen of Albion. Water boiling in the wells, stones crushing from the citadel walls; chaos in the streets; a forgotten torch that sets the nearest house on fire, a child, sitting at the window, wailing in fear.

And another set of images, another life. A small boy diving under the table as his drunk father throws a bottle at him. Mayor Uther Pendragon, looking impossibly young in his brand new police sergeant’s uniform, locking the cell door with a smirk, saying, ‘This used to be the first Camelot prison; technically it’s still under the Met’s supervision. They say the ghosts of all the witches tortured here during the Purges still haunt the corridors at night. A night here will teach you to steal from the City Museum. And maybe you’ll be able to tell me what you did with that crystal in the morning.’

Images flash fast after that. Faces. So many faces. Young, old, male and female. All scared, all begging not to hurt them, confused, lost, desperate.

Merlin feels nauseous at the sensation of blood on his hands, the clammy skin of his victims that are not his victims; he has to get away, has to get clean, has to get out.

White-hot pain shoots through him, and he screams, feeling as though he’s been dropped into boiling lead. He screams and screams, writhing, feeling his flesh melt around him until there should be nothing left, but the agony persists, lingers, until—

It’s like being thrown out clear of an explosion. Merlin blinks, abruptly back in his own body on the cave floor, the remnants of heavy metallic restraints shapeless and broken on the stone plate beside him. He’s alone on the pedestal, and the cave around him is on fire.

Merlin sits up, blinking rapidly, feeling as if every bone in his body has been broken and mended in a matter of seconds, to find himself in the middle of a battlefield. Through the flames and smoke, he can see Cornelius’s black – servants? guards? – fight with of all things the police taskforce.

To Merlin’s left, Leon is pinned to the rock by two men. Even as Merlin watches, Leon empties an entire magazine into his attackers to no avail – the bullets don’t even slow them down. At the other side of the smaller staircase, Percy is throwing punches left and right, holding his own for now, but more and more opponents are coming at him, and it’s a matter of time until he’s subdued.

Up on top, Gwaine is – impossibly – taking shots with his camera, until a black-clad figure doesn’t reach him. He pulls out a knife, and Merlin loses sight of them as they roll away.

Merlin pushes up to his knees, without really feeling them, desperate and frustrated. He spots Owain being backed into a corner to his far left. Gwen is shooting from an ancient looking silver-studded crossbow that Merlin is pretty sure he’d seen on the wall in Morgana’s study at uni. The short, silver-coated bolts seem to be more effective than bullets and at least slow down the targets.

A shout makes Merlin jerk his head and straighten up. Hardly noticing the flames, he coughs, walking through the smoke in the direction of the sound, and sees Arthur and Cornelius locked in a frenzied fight.

It’s a sickening game of cat and mouse. Cornelius would pin Arthur down with his magic, then lift the hold. Arthur would grab for his weapon, and Cornelius would jerk his gun, and then his knife out of reach. He’s serving blows and punches without ever touching Arthur’s body, and Merlin wants to scream in rage, feeling every bruise as if it blossomed on his own skin.

Arthur catches sight of him, eyes widening in terror.

“Run!” he yells, blood bubbling on his lips. “Run, you idiot!”

Cornelius twists around, smirking as he spots Merlin. “Your friends here were most persistent to join the party,” he shouts over his shoulder, knocking Arthur back yet another time. “Who was I to deny them?”

“Stop,” Merlin wants to shout, but only a gurgling noise makes it past his lips.

His vision darkens, stomach twisting with pain, and he falls to his knees like a ragdoll, as Cornelius laughs. He turns back to Arthur, flicks his fingers, and by the way Arthur shouts Merlin knows that bones are broken.

Merlin can’t breathe. It’s like the panic attack all over again, only it’s worse, so much worse. Everywhere he looks his friends are being tortured to be surely killed by the end of it. There are too many opponents, too many magic-powered, invincible fighters coming at them, and in the middle of it all is Cornelius, and he is mad.

Merlin looks at Arthur’s strong, beautiful face, contorted in pain, and it’s all he can see in the world where sounds are fading, and everything else is eclipsed by that one horrific sight.

He knows what he has to do as surely as though someone had whispered it in his ear over the cacophony of battle around him.

He has to go back to that place of white-hot agony, of bone-melting pain that emerged every time his magic had come to his rescue. A safeguard something, someone had put in place, protecting him, protecting the others from him – it doesn’t matter.

Arthur screams, and there’s not even a moment’s hesitation.

Merlin breaks down the locks he’s only just found inside of him and jumps headfirst into the familiar, searing agony.

For a few endless moments, he can’t breathe, blind and deaf to everything but the excruciating pain that seems a hundred times worse now that he’s doing it on purpose. He doesn’t know, will probably never find out how he manages to fight through it, to feel himself in his own body as it screams around him with every single receptor stimulated past the point of sanity, but he does.

Looking through the blinding white haze, he sees the cave, the fight around him, but he sees it differently. Between pain-induced hallucinations and Kilgharrah’s intuitive algorithms, he sees white-red flickers of light, surrounded by burning black torches.

He doesn’t know what to do, but he doesn’t need to, concentrating on the gleaming black columns one by one, visualising them crumbling to ashes. On his half-imagined half-real field of vision, they disappear under his gaze, as he pushes his wish through the invisible barbed wire.

He wants to scream, but there’s no air to spare for it, as only one gleaming black spot remains, pulsing like a clotted, metastasized growth, swelling with slime and something so repulsive it shouldn’t ever have been brought into existence.

It feels as though his eyes are pierced by red-hot needles, shooting straight into his brain, and Merlin shouts in an inhuman, ultra clear voice, bypassing every octave known to humanity, and strikes.

The entire cave whites out for a moment, and, as Merlin sinks back down to the stone floor, blood streaming from his nose, his mouth, his ears, from under his fingertips, he sees Cornelius explode as though he’d swallowed a grenade, Arthur throwing his arm up to protect his face from an outpour of blood and ashes.

--

--

Merlin hates hospitals.

There’s no mistaking it even by the sounds – the soft beeping of equipment, the hasty shuffle of feet outside the door. Maybe if he doesn’t wake up now, it’ll turn out to be just a dream after all...

“I know you’re awake.”

Reluctantly, Merlin opens his eyes.

He is in the hospital, no doubt about it, but it’s almost worth it to see Arthur – alive, safe, healthy – smiling at him from the bedside chair. Noticing Merlin’s scowl, he chuckles, standing up and coming to sit at the side of Merlin’s bunk, looking down at him.

“How are you feeling?”

Merlin thinks about it. “Woozy,” he says at last. “I don’t think anything hurts. It’s – strange?”

Arthur looks him up and down, checking for himself. “They diagnosed you with extreme exhaustion. Good Doctor Reyes is out there somewhere, writing down his suspicions that I’m an abusive boyfriend.”

The idea is so absurd that Merlin stares at him for a moment, before bursting out laughing. His entire body protests as he does, but the soreness is almost welcome. Arthur, on the other hand, wraps an arm around his ribs, and winces, even if he’s grinning again the next second.

“Broken?” Merlin asks, reaching up to slide his palm against Arthur’s ribcage. He can feel bandages through the fabric of his t-shirt.

Arthur shakes his head, peering at Merlin closely. “Bruised. Should have been broken, but somehow weren’t. Just as Lance’s arm, Leon’s burns, and Percy’s shoulder.”

Merlin shifts under his scrutiny, avoiding his eyes. “Must be magic.”

Arthur grins. “I think so, too.” He leans over and plants a kiss on Merlin’s forehead. “Thanks.”

Merlin doesn’t know what to do with that, except blush and look away. A change of subject is definitely in order. “What happened? I’m not sure I remember it right—”

Arthur fills him in. Apparently, Merlin had somehow managed to immobilise Sigan’s fighters, and then to blow up the man himself. After he was gone, his men fell unconscious. All of them are now in the vegetative state with no recovery in the prognosis.

“I can’t believe I did that,” Merlin whispers, trying to assimilate the knowledge that he had ki—

Arthur catches his chin and turns Merlin’s face around until they make eye contact. “He kidnapped and murdered over a hundred people, Merlin. He kidnapped and tortured you. You were defending yourself and us. You saved all of our lives.”

“If you didn’t come to get me, I don’t think I’d have broken out,” Merlin says, thinking back. “Why did you? You didn’t have to.”

“Idiot,” Arthur sighs and ruffles his hair.

“Are you in trouble?” Merlin asks, realising for the first time that Arthur is dressed casually. “With the Met?”

Arthur shrugs carelessly. “They weren’t happy about being kept in the dark, but that’s neither here nor there. I’m officially on probation until the hearings are concluded.”

“You don’t look too worried.”

“In view of recent events, they’re creating a special taskforce within the Met to investigate crimes involving magic. With all the press I’ve been getting, they’ll be hard pressed to put someone else in charge of it.”

“Press?” Merlin frowns.

Arthur’s grin grows wider. “Gwaine’s photos have miraculously survived our crazy quest to get you. I refused to let him release your name, so you’re the ‘young warlock whose actions saved numerous lives and whose name shall remain undisclosed.’ My face, on the other hand, is plastered all over the front page.”

Merlin studies said face for a moment, before reaching for Arthur’s hand. “Thank you.”

Arthur adopts a look of confusion. It’s not very convincing. “What for?”

“There’s no way Gwaine would have passed on the chance to print my life story now that there’s no danger. You traded yourself for me, didn’t you?”

Arthur looks away. “I’ve been his cannon fodder for months anyway. And I didn’t think you’d want—”

“I wouldn’t,” Merlin says. “Thank you.”

They are silent for a while, Arthur twining his fingers with Merlin’s as though absently, Merlin pretending he doesn’t notice.

“You’ve been asleep for nearly two days,” Arthur says at last. “If you’re up to it, I’ll drive you home now.”

“Home,” Merlin repeats slowly. “Arthur, I don’t—”

“Shh, listen to me,” Arthur says, bending closer, until their faces are inches apart. “Merlin, what I said that morning, what I did – it was the stupidest thing I’ve ever done, and I nearly lost you for it. I will never forgive myself for that.”

His eyes are intense, painfully earnest, and so guilt-ridden that Merlin wants to soothe him, to tell him it’s okay. As if sensing his wish, Arthur presses a finger against Merlin’s lips gently.

“I never said that to anyone, never thought I would, never wanted to. You – you are for me. And I’m for you. I don’t know how I didn’t know it the first time I saw you, but it’s there. I can’t run away from it, I don’t want to. Come home with me. Stay with me, Merlin. Stay with me always. I can’t – I’m not sure I can stand the possibility of losing you again.”

Merlin swallows, his throat suddenly dry, his pulse deafening. “What if you change your mind again?”

“I won’t,” Arthur says. “I love you.”

Merlin closes his eyes, trembling. “I can’t think like that. With you here. I can’t.”

“Merlin,” Arthur starts, and Merlin can tell he’s gearing up to make his case, and there’s nothing Merlin can do to stop him – except Arthur sighs and pulls back.

“I’m sorry,” Arthur says, lips stretching in a shaky smile. “I promised myself I won’t rush this, won’t rush you. But I just – seeing you now, it’s... They told me you were fine, Lance told me a million times, but I needed to see you wake up to believe.”

“Arthur—”

“Let me take you home. You need to recuperate while you decide what to do, and no one will bother you at my place. It’s my fault you don’t have a place anyway. I’ll give you space, I can move to a hotel for a while, if you want me to. Whatever you need. Just let me get you out of here.”

Merlin finds it difficult to speak. The way Arthur is looking at him makes his head spin, and his words are a sweet, desperate plea – words of a man too far gone to care for pride. Arthur had never looked at him like that, not even that night.

“Okay,” Merlin says, closing his eyes.

He can feel Arthur’s entire frame sag in relief, and it’s humbling beyond words to hear Arthur whisper, “Thank you.”

--

Arthur’s flat looks exactly the same as the day Merlin had left it. His things are still wandering all over the place, the easel up in the living room, the brushes drying in a cup beside it.

“Kilgharrah?” Merlin asks, catching sight of an empty laptop bag.

“I’m sorry.” Arthur shakes his head. “I had to destroy it. It was too dangerous to leave it for Annis to find.”

Merlin nods. He would have probably done the same thing, but he still feels a sharp pang of pain in his chest. It feels like losing an old friend.

Arthur squeezes his shoulder for a moment. “I’ll let you get settled.”

True to his word, Arthur lets him be. Over the next few days, Merlin only sees him during meals. Arthur tells him about the hearings and the new details they discover about the latest Cornelius Sigan wannabe and his victims.

He teases Merlin a little about this thing or that, but he doesn’t slip into outright flirtation, and he doesn’t touch Merlin more than necessary.

But the way he’d look at Merlin sometimes when he thinks he won’t get caught never fails to leave Merlin breathless and feverish, losing his trail of conversation, and dropping whatever he’s holding. Arthur only smiles, but says nothing.

It’s not that Merlin doesn’t want to say yes. He wants it more than anything. He lies in his bed at night, sleepless, getting up to go to Arthur half a dozen times and stopping himself at the last moment, his hand on the door handle.

‘I love you.’

‘It was a mistake.’

‘I love you.’

He steps back, sitting down on his bed, head in his hands. He has no idea what to do.

--

Merlin looks at the pancake dough with a satisfied grin. He’s getting quite good at it, might want to keep it as a Sunday morning ritual.

Arthur is humming softly, flipping through the paper, still flushed after his morning run. He took a shower, but the smell of spring still clings to him, tangled in is hair, all the more irresistible now while the winter still has the ball.

The phone rings, surprising them both. Arthur glances at Merlin as he picks up. After a short exchange, he hands the receiver over to Merlin.

“It’s for you. Morgana.”

Surprised, Merlin puts down the bowl, wiping his hands on his t-shirt absently. “Morgana? Hi.”

“Hello, sweetie. Hope I didn’t wake you?”

“Since when are you worried about that?”

“You wound me, Merlin. I’m always looking out for you. This is actually why I’m calling. You remember how you let me take your paintings for safe keeping? Well, long story short, we were down an artist at yesterday’s gala, and I put out two of yours – just to keep the appearances, you know? You don’t mind, do you?”

Merlin knows that Morgana doesn’t have unplanned emergencies, and the story seems even more farfetched after she’d pestered him to exhibit his works for months.

“Sure,” he says fatalistically. “If it helps you out.”

“You’re such a sweetheart. Anyway, two of them sold last night, can you believe it?”

Merlin chokes on his coffee. “What?”

“I know, right? No one was more surprised than me, trust me.”

“Of course you were.”

“In any case, darling, I have five thousand pounds waiting to be transferred to your account.”

Merlin sits down so abruptly, he nearly misses the chair. Arthur glances up at him in alarm.

“Five thousand pounds?” Merlin asks in a choked voice. “Are you joking?”

The money isn’t that outrageous, but for Merlin it seems almost too big an amount to fathom.

“Not even a little bit.” Morgana manages to sound offended. “I know it’s not as much as they deserve, but now that people are starting to take interest, the prices for your next ones are going to be higher. I’ve been fending off calls all morning. Everybody wants you.”

“Morgana, I don’t – know what to say.”

“Say nothing, darling, it was my pleasure. Just thought I’d let you know, since you’re still hauled up at Arthur’s. In case you wanted to move out and put him out of his misery.”

“I—”

“Talk to you later, got to go. Oh, and congratulations, maitre.”

Merlin hangs up, fingers numb. He turns to Arthur, still reeling. “She said—”

“I heard,” Arthur cuts him off. “Morgana gets shrill when she’s excited.”

“I – well.” Merlin clears his throat. “I can’t believe it.”

Arthur shrugs, giving him a wan smile. “I can. I know nothing about art, but I love your drawings. I suppose congratulations are in order.”

He walks over to Merlin and offers him his hand, the gesture so stiff and formal that Merlin has to look twice.

“Arthur—”

Arthur grabs his hand and shakes it firmly, before dropping it and pulling back. “I suppose you would want to move out now,” he says in a strangled, unnatural voice. “I can – I can get you in touch with a few people to help you find your own place—”

He trails off, and that’s when Merlin knows it. He’s almost giddy with relief, because he finally has his answer, and it’s been in front of him all along.

He slides off the stool and walks over to Arthur, who’s watching him with wary, pained eyes.

“I don’t want to move out,” Merlin says, unable to fight his grin any longer. “I don’t think I’ll be going anywhere.”

Arthur grabs him, jerking him close, eyes bright with hope. “You mean it? Merlin, I can’t take it if you’re joking or—”

Merlin grins and kisses him, and it’s like waking up from the best kind of dream to find out he wasn’t actually dreaming, Arthur’s arms wrapping around him, strong and careful, and just right in a way no one else has ever been.

“Thank God,” Arthur breathes out, breaking the kiss, burying his face in Merlin’s hair, holding him close. “You have no idea what these last few days have cost me. Wanted to touch you so badly, but I promised to give you space, and then thinking you’d leave me, and I wouldn’t even have what little I could have—”

“Arthur,” Merlin interrupts him softly, tracing the stubborn outline of Arthur’s jaw with his teeth. “I’m here. I’m staying. Shut up?”

Arthur does, but the gleam in his eyes is wicked, promising revenge. Merlin shivers in anticipation, and he knows he’ll be begging later and loving every minute of it, but for now he wants to keep kissing Arthur, keep being kissed by Arthur until he can’t breathe, until Arthur is all he knows in the world, because Arthur is home.

And it turns out that it’s the most easily granted wish in the world that requires no incantations, no charms, just a look and a smile and a string, drawn from one beating heart to another.

--