Always the Last Place You Look: Eight

[thalialunacy2]

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8

"Then you must tell 'em dat love ain't somethin' lak uh grindstone dat's de same thing everywhere and do de same thing tuh everything it touch. Love is lak de sea. It's uh moving' thing, but still and all, it takes its shape from de shore it meets, and it's different with every shore." ~Zora Neale Hurston



The thing about people being in hospital, Merlin thinks as he looks around the canteen table at the motley crew he's somehow grown to love like no other, is that it gets rather hilarious after a while.

Same bad food. Same exhausted nurses. Same awful clichés.

It's the best time Merlin's had with stories in a long while, though, that's for sure. Some mornings he'll come in before his shift and just sit, watching families torn apart or reunited, watching miracles and tragedies. Working out their stories in his head. It's delicious, and rude, and he adds it to the pile of things that will be ruined once Morgana wakes up.

Which will be soon, if the doctors are correct. Her brain waves are improving, or something like that, and it's any day now, supposedly.

So now, more often than not, it's not just Merlin alone in her room, in the halls, in the canteen. Lance has become his partner in weird hours, for one, and although they sit together in silence for long periods, it's comfortable, comforting.

The others surprise Merlin in these quiet hours, too. For instance, Leon has an undiscovered talent for getting canteen coffee to taste decent. Gwaine has a knack for guessing which patient is sleeping with which visitor, although that's not too much of a stretch. Elyan likes to doodle, as he calls it, but really they're gorgeous line drawings of scenes around them, at angles you'd never think to take. Elena never fails to make everyone around her feel just the little bit brighter, with her smile and her hair and her effervescence.

And Gwen— Well, nobody hugs like Gwen. Full stop. The end.

Then there's Arthur. Who's rarely there, really, unless he's there when Merlin's not. He works hard, Gwen says if anyone dares bring it up.

So of course, the day after Merlin drunkenly accosts him in a back alley, he walks right in and sits down with them where they're having rubbish coffee in the canteen. Sits down into the only open chair, which is, of course, between Merlin and Gwen.

"Heya," Gwen says to him quietly, reaching over to put her fingers in the hair at the nape of his neck. He smiles at her gratefully, and Merlin can't help but be jealous of what they have, platonic though it might be at this point. There's something to be said for being able to see your history in the faces of your friends.

"Damn, Arthur, you look like hell," Gwaine says companionably. "Did you go out on the pull after all?"

Arthur leans into Gwen's hand a little, closing his eyes and shaking his head. There's a tic in his jaw. "Nah, mate. Went home and went to sleep."

And Merlin can tell he's lying. They all probably can, but he can't not say something. "You alright?" he asks quietly.

One of Arthur's eyes opens and looks at him. "Why, Merlin, I didn't think you cared."

"I don't," Merlin says, feeling his lips twitch. "I'm only asking because it's polite."

"Ah, well, in that case, I'll politely decline to disclose the answer."

Merlin arches an eyebrow. "Yeah? That embarrassing?"

Arthur rolls his eyes shut again. "No."

"Which means yes!" Gwaine chimes in. "Oh, this is getter better and better!" He puts his chin in his hands. "Do tell."

"It's nothing!" Arthur says, sitting up and giving them all a good glare. He rubs a finger along the rim of his cup of canteen coffee. Merlin tracks the movement absently. "I'm just— not sleeping well."

"That's all?" Merlin says. "Take some medicine. Alcoholic or otherwise."

"That's not all, you twit. I've just—I've been having these really, really… strangely realistic dreams."

Merlin's brow furrows with concern despite himself. "Nightmares?"

"Decidedly not," Arthur says wryly.

"Dirty dreams!" Gwaine crows. "Excellent!"

Arthur blushes, and it's the most absurdly amusing thing Merlin's seen ever, and he's grinning before he fully comprehends the rest of what Arthur's saying.

"…not even that dirty, they're just—so vivid. Dreams of me living with someone, some skinny bloke with no face, who likes coriander and to be the big spoon and…" He flushes again. "Blow jobs before breakfast, you know. Or as breakfast." He smirks a little, finally. "'Delicious and nutritious.'"

Merlin's hands have frozen around his coffee cup. He can't feel his toes. His fingers.

His heart.

Like ripples on a pond.

The blessing had turned out to be a curse again, after all.

"I've got to go," he says instantly, standing clumsily, nearly upending the table in his haste to escape.

"All right?" Gwaine says. Merlin looks down at them, around at all their caring faces, and his heart jabs at his ribs.

"Yeah, I'm—I'll be fine. I just—" He jerks his thumb towards the door. "Later, yeah?"



His left hand shakes the whole tube ride.



Ignoring the cat completely, he goes straight to the book in which he'd stashed his writing (Shakespeare's Complete Works; let's just say he he's not without a sense of blasphemy) and quickly scans the scribbled words he'd uttered out loud so few days ago.

That night, Merlin starts having a series of dreams. But not just any dreams. No, these are vivid dreams of what his life would be like with a man. And not just any man, of course. A perfect man, a man perfect for Merlin. Because in these dreams, Merlin is not victim to his own uncertainties. Or over-thinking. Or cares about the outside world.

It's only him, and this man, and their life.

Merlin crumples the page into a ball, throws it at the wall, and curses loudly. "No! This isn't bloody happening! First off, there is no such thing as a perfect man, and second off, there's no way in hell it's Arthur fucking Pendragon!"

He stands there, arms crossed, his brain ticking like a time bomb. This, he reminds himself angrily, is the reason he'd quit fucking with fate in the first place. Because it fucks back. But he can't figure out how to fix it, how to reverse it without unthreading something. Eomer starts to twine around his legs, he's stood there for so long.

But in the end, he can see no other option.

Finally, resigned to tempting the powers that be one more time, he picks up the ball of smushed paper, smoothes it out on his kitchen table, and, swearing this will be the last of it, looks for a pen.



And on this day, Merlin learns that what one discovers as a child is likely to stay true for the rest of one's life. And he stops dreaming impossible things.



He keeps writing, scribbling down all the possible permutations so there's no possible misinterpretations by whom- or whatever thinks this is all very funny indeed.

Then he looks around furtively, ducks his head, and begins to read aloud.



When it's over, he feels like he's just run a bloody marathon. Or been fished out of a river of glitter, he thinks sardonically. He's about to fall down onto his couch for a bit of a nap when there's a knock on his door.

He rubs his eyes with his hand as he walks over and opens it. "Who is it, for the love of—Oh. Arthur."

Arthur's looking tired still, so tired, and Merlin's heart—Well, he'd rather not discuss what his heart's doing at that moment, thanks very much.

Arthur looks past Merlin, his expression a bit suspicious. "Who were you just talking to?"

Merlin sighs and gestures Arthur inside. "Myself," he admits as he shuts the door behind them.

Arthur turns to him, a sceptical look on his face. "I figured you'd use the cat as an excuse."

"No, I think I even scared him away with my ranting." He shrugs, too strung out to be self-conscious. "I might be a little bit crazy."

"Might be?"

Merlin glares. "Did you come here just to deride me?"

"Deride? Did you swallow a dictionary?"

"And thank you for proving my point."

"Ah, no," Arthur says, suddenly awkward, which is an incredibly strange look on him. Merlin doesn't like it so much, especially when he doesn't understand it. "I came here to give you a gift. An engagement gift."

Merlin feels so sick he actually brings a hand to his belly for a moment. "You really shouldn't have."

Arthur shrugs. "I did anyway. Now just take it."

And he holds out a small, slender box.

"If this is a necklace," Merlin says, his eyes crinkling with mirth, "I think you've got the wrong flat."

Arthur shakes his head, a corner of his mouth quirking up. "It's not. It's just… it's just something I thought you'd appreciate."

Merlin shoots him a questioning look as he opens it up. "Appreciate as in it's a really clever joke, or— Oh, holy shit."

Because inside the box is a black and platinum Parker Duofold, a fountain pen the likes of which Merlin has merely gazed at through shop windows his whole life. Gazed at longingly.

He looks up at Arthur, his mouth open and his heart in his throat.

"I, er—had them grind down the nib? So it'd be good for a leftie straight away?" Arthur gestures at Merlin's hands.

Merlin stands there, staring at Arthur, his fingers tight and motionless around their precious, precious cargo. He'll swear later that his heart actually makes a noise, like a ska-doosh, and then a thud.

He's honestly surprised Arthur doesn't hear it.



"You don't like it," Arthur says finally, and Merlin realizes he's let the silence go on for far too long.

"No! God, Christ no, it's—Arthur. It's perfect. I—" He feels like words are skittering around in his brain, scuttling just out of reach. He looks up and holds Arthur's gaze, hoping that will be adequate. Knowing it never could be. "Thank you."

Arthur makes a gruff noise. "It's nothing, really, I just… saw it."

"You just saw it."

"Merlin…"

"A four hundred pound pen."

"Three-fifty," Arthur protests. "I knew the shop owner."

But Merlin's heart is full, full of hope and despair simultaneously, because Arthur's face— "You're being ridiculous again."

Arthur's expression tightens, and Merlin falters. "No, I'm not. I just wanted to get you something, because—"

Never let it be said he's not persistent in spelling out his own demise. "Because why?"

"Because you're marrying my sister! And she's—" He rubs a frustrated hand over the back of his neck. "She's very lucky, alright?"

Merlin can practically hear the cracks forming in his heart. "Alright."

There's an awkward silence, then Arthur nods. "Well. Glad you like it. I'll just—" He indicates over his shoulder. "See you at the hospital tomorrow?"

"Yeah, all right."

And Arthur gets out the flat door and down the stairs before Merlin manages to unstick his feet. He steps out into the hallway. "Arthur!"

Arthur turns, looks up at Merlin. His face is more drawn than Merlin can recall seeing it. Merlin hates that he's had a hand in making it so. "Yes?"

Merlin's clutching onto the pen so tightly his knuckles are white. "Can you— Can you think of any reason why I shouldn't marry your sister?"

Arthur is absolutely still, like the perfect statue, except for a muscle in his jaw. Finally, he shakes his head once, shortly. "No. No, I can't."

Merlin feels his eyes start to burn. "Goodbye, then."

Arthur hesitates, but just for a split second. "Goodbye."

Merlin can't watch him go. He just can't. He stomps back into his flat, throws shut the door, and hurls himself onto his bed like he's seven.

Because he feels like he's seven again. Feels like everything he's ever found happy about this world has just been snatched from him.

As it will be, the moment Morgana wakes up.

And he's not even sure what he wants, really. He just knows he wants a better ending than this.

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