Always the Last Place You Look: Two

[thalialunacy2]

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2

"There's an awful lot of blood around that water is thicker than." ~Mignon McLaughlin



"Merlin!"

Merlin jerks awake at the sound of Gwen's concerned exclamation. He blinks up at her, and when he can finally focus, it's to the picture of the whole crew from the day before, although thankfully sans the scary-as-fuck father. Merlin blinks more, then looks around, dazed and confused, to find he's still in Morgana's hospital room.

"Did you sleep here?" the blonde with the crackling hair asks, one hand on his shoulder and the other over her heart.

Did he? It seems like he just got there, but he feels the ache in his neck and jaw and realises he must've nodded off. "A little, yeah."

"You're like me," Gwaine says on his way around the bed, a grin on his face. "I could always sleep anywhere."

"And believe me, he has," the sharp-eyed man—Christ, Merlin doesn't even know these people's names—adds.

Gwaine looks a little torn between punching him and turning it into a boast. In the end, he just shrugs and grins unrepentantly. "It's true." Merlin can't help but shake his head with a smile.

"How's Morgana?" Gwen says, turning to the bed.

"She—" Merlin has to clear the sleep and amusement from his throat. "She looks good. She has a little more colour today."

"Oh!" she agrees, reaching out a hand towards Morgana's cheek. "She has a little more colour!"

"She'd be very unhappy to know that," the kind bearded man says wryly to Merlin. Merlin lets out a laugh.

Then it occurs to him to look at the time on his phone. "Oh, balls!"

Gwaine cocks an eyebrow at him. "You don't say?"

Merlin shoots him a look. "I have to go, I'm late, oh God she's liable to kill me—" He glances around at the group, and gives Morgana one last look. "Look, take care, everyone—"

"Oh, Merlin, you must come by this evening," Gwen interrupts earnestly, and she digs around in her purse for a card (honestly, she's like something out of a Regency novel) which she then hands to him. "That's our address. We'll have wine, and a roast, and crackers and everything, it'll be fun I promise."

"Well—" Merlin really has got to get to work, and it's going to take ages on the bus. "I'll try, I'll really try, thanks, but work is—and my boss is—" He trails off, unable to express, oh, pretty much anything.

"I can give you a ride, if you like?" Lance offers, like a mind-reader. "I've got to get to the station, anyway."

Merlin looks over, and his face is open and sincere. He glances at the time again, and tries not to twitch. He doesn't want to impose, but— "Honestly? That would be lovely, if it's not too much of a bother…"

"No bother at all." He leans down to kiss Gwen quickly. "I'll see you tonight, yeah?" She nods, squeezes his hand, and then he's turning to Merlin and they're out the door.

But not before Gwen can get out one last "We'll see you tonight as well, Merlin!"

Lance grins when Merlin winces. "She's pretty persuasive, that one," he say affectionately as they make their way out of Intensive Care.

"So I see."

"You really should come by tonight, though," Lance adds as they get into the lift and descend to the parking garage. "We've all known Morgana for so long."

Merlin watches the floor numbers tick by. "Yeah, it seems so. How did you all meet?"

He's busy stepping out of the lift and doesn't realize his error until Lance sighs. "I'm not surprised she didn't mention us. We've… grown apart, recently." At Merlin's curious look, he adds, "Not all her fault, of course. We've all been busy."

"Life happens," Merlin says agreeably. "But still, there's a story there, I can tell."

Lance chuckles. "Oh, sure, if you want to hear about me pulling on Morgana's pigtails when we were six."

Merlin laughs, too. "Sounds like a right awful story," he says as they approach a very practical-looking car.

"Or there was the time Elyan purposely tripped Gwaine in the middle of the canteen in year seven. Mind your head," he says to Merlin as they climb in. "Or Gwen and Arthur being the most dysfunctional childhood sweethearts in the history of the world."

Even more than figuring out which one is Elyan, this last bit piques Merlin's curiosity, seeing as Gwen and Lance are so obviously made for each other. "Arthur?" he asks as Lance starts the engine and pulls out of the garage.

"Morgana's brother. He's been in to see her but you must've been at home. He works… a lot. You'll meet him tonight at Gwen's."

Merlin refrains from replying with anything about the unlikeliness of that happening, considering the idea of going to Gwen's made him want to throw up a little. "Ah."

They're interrupted by navigation for a few moments as Merlin directs Lance towards the coffee shop, and then there are a few moments of silence. Not awkward, but not entirely comfortable.

Merlin thinks of stories.

"Do you have—family?" Lance asks, his voice quiet but sure.

Merlin shakes his head. "Nah," he says casually; after so long he can almost talk about it. And for some reason, he can very much almost talk about it with Lance. "My dad died when I was in primary school, so it was mostly just me and my mum. Then she got sick, so we moved from Wales for a research treatment program."

"'Research' here having the meaning of 'very expensive,' I'm guessing?"

Merlin smiles, a little wryly. "Yeah, right. I had to quit school and go to work fulltime to pay the bills. And after a few years, she'd had enough research, and she passed away. So now it's just me. And Eomer," he adds belatedly.

"Eomer?" Lance shoots him a look, and Merlin laughs out loud.

"I promise I'm not mad; he's just a cat and I didn't name him."

"Uh-huh. Well, if it makes you feel better, Arthur and Morgana had a cat named Chewie when they were kids."

"No! Really?"

"Really really."

Their laughter fades into a comfortable silence. "You're very lucky," Merlin finally ventures, because it's true. And because it makes a little part of him turn green with envy. "I can tell you all really love each other."

Okay, a large part of him.

Lance half-laughs, but his face is very serious. "I'd say we're beyond that, at this point. I wouldn't let anything happen to any of them, not with my last breath."

Merlin thinks about this, too. Thinks about his parents, and about every day he saw Morgana, and about that tiny hospital room full of people. "Neither would I."

Lance looks over at him. They're at a stoplight, so when it lingers, Merlin tries not to fidget. Wonders if he has something on his face.

Finally, Lance just says, simply, "I believe you wouldn't."

Merlin smiles, relieved, although he's not sure why.



He makes it about an hour into his shift before his head starts to rattle. The guilt, the illicit thrill, the guilt. He feels like he's going to pop open at any second.

"Freya," he finally says, trying not to sound desperate.

"Yes," comes from somewhere in front of the baked goods.

He says it before he can think better of it. "I have done something awful."

"And?"

He sighs. "No, really."

Freya, a tiny and delightful brunette who's the closest thing to a sister he's ever had, peers at him over the rows of muffins. "Really really?" Merlin nods, trying not to make what she calls his 'kicked puppy face don't you dare ever make it again' but probably failing.

"Merlin."

Yup, failing. "Freya."

"Is this an out back sort of situation?"

Merlin looks around the shop furtively. "Yes."

Freya considers him for about half a second, then hollers over her shoulder. "George, you've got the wheel for a few, cheers!"

Then she grabs Merlin's hand and they're tumbling out into the back alley. She holds out two fags and he takes one, even though it'll make him sick to his stomach. He doesn't much care at the moment.

"So," she says after the first drag. "Spill it."

Merlin buries his face in his hands, keeping careful hold of the fag. He pictures the cigarette smoke curling around him like out of a dragon's nose. "Oh god, I don't even know where to start."

"Let's start with a noun."

"I."

"Yes, good."

"I, Merlin."

"Specificity, I like it."

Then he peers through his fingers and it just all spills out at once on a puff of smoke: "I may have accidentally become engaged to a woman in a coma."

Whatever Freya was expecting, it's not that, because she stares at him blankly. "Beg pardon?"

Merlin rushes to explain, his hands moving wildly in the air, little flakes of ash going everywhere. "You remember, the woman—yesterday—God, was it really only yesterday?—she— There was all this commotion at the hospital, and you know how I tend to think out loud, and—all her friends and her dad were there, and this nurse— Oh my god, I—"

"Merlin."

"Yeah?"

"Breathe."

"…okay."

"So her nurse and her family—"

"Mostly friends. One father."

"—all think you're engaged to the woman you brought to hospital after she was mugged outside the store."

"Yes."

Freya leans back against the wall, taking a drag. "Well."

"Well what?"

"Well, you have just made my life ten times more interesting by proxy, so thanks for that."

"Oi."

"What?"

"What do I do?"

Freya flicks ash off her fag, contemplating. "Are you ever going to see them again?"

"Well, they expect me to come to their belated Christmas supper tonight…"

"You should."

"Why?"

"So you can get free food."

"Freya."

"So you can tell them, you idiot. Go there, tell them all at once, it'll be like ripping off a plaster."

Merlin drops his cigarette, grinds it out, then kicks at the butt for good measure. "Ugh, I know. You're right."

"Just eat first, before you tell them."

"You are impossible."

"And maybe have some wine. In vino veritas, and all that rot."

"Impossible."



Hours of slinging coffee later, Merlin takes back everything nice he's ever said about his ridiculous, pain-in-the-arse, stupidly-named cat.

"Oh, come on," he says, rather loudly, to his empty-seeming flat. "I know you're hungry. Don't be a wanker."

He knows he's being a bit harsh; cats are cats, after all. But as he sits down to his frozen dinner, he's alright with his foul mood. He'd even daresay he's pleased he made it through his shift at work without throwing milk foam at anyone's face. Or curling up into the foetal position and mumbling Radiohead lyrics.

Eventually he hears the tinkling of a collar bell, and his feline companion stalks his way over to the table. "Come on," Merlin cajoles. "It's the good kind. Tips were good today." Merlin pauses, contemplating this. "Ironically."

Eomer sniffs at the food, then deigns to dig in. Merlin pets the cat absently as His Highness eats, trying to focus on the limp tray of human food in front of him.

Trying not to look at the little card stuck under the ancient Disneyland magnet on the fridge.

He stares at his food. Stirs it. Stares at it some more. Wonders if it'd taste better with brown sauce. Or vodka.

A lot of vodka.

He looks up at the fridge.

"Oh, sod it."



He's going to need a second job if he keeps making these spur-of-the-moment cross-town jaunts, he thinks to himself as the cab pulls away and leaves him staring up at an alarmingly posh house in Harrow. Freya's advice is spinning his head, but Merlin can't seem to summon the motivation to pin it down, make it real.

"Quite nice, isn't it?"

Lance's polite voice startles Merlin, and he nearly drops the bottle of wine he's got clutched to his belly. "It is, yeah. I feel like I should go home and change my clothes."

"Nah, mate, don't worry about it. They're all probably already tipsy enough to not care."

Merlin glances at Lance's civilian outfit and clearly-just-washed hair. "You come from work?"

Lance nods. "Most bizarre hours of any job I've ever had."

"Seems like, yeah."

"Wouldn't trade it for the world, though."

"No, you wouldn't. And you shouldn't. It… it suits you."

Lance looks at him, a smile spreading across his face. "Thank you. I take that as a very serious compliment."

Of course he does, Merlin thinks with affection.

The door swings open at that point, and Gwen's face peers out. "Merlin! You came!"

Merlin can feel his cheeks reddening, but he steps up to the house and presents his wine anyway, even gives it a little silly flourish. "I hope my offerings are sufficient?" he joshes, giving his best smile, the one that works on mothers and old ladies.

"Oh, you!" she laughs. "Of course it is." She gets one arm around his back and guides him—okay, pushes him—past her and into the house. He goes, chuckling, and politely ignores her much less platonic greeting for Lance, instead taking in his surroundings. It's quite a nice place, indeed. He wonders what the story is, here.

A boisterous male voice interrupts him. "Go on, off with it."

Merlin raises an eyebrow at Gwaine, who has appeared next to him and is standing with his arms out expectantly. "You think?"

Gwaine just smirks. "Your coat, Merlin. You weren't planning on having dinner in it, were you?"

"Maybe I was," Merlin says back as he starts to take off his coat. "Maybe I have a complex, and your mocking of it constitutes bullying. Are you a bully, Gwaine?" Merlin shrugs out of the coat completely and chucks it at Gwaine's face. Gwaine catches it easily, but they're both laughing.

A loud female laugh interrupts them. "If Gwaine is a bully, then I'm a butterfly." The blonde's smiling face appears, along with the sharp-eyed man's still slightly-suspicious face. She envelops Merlin in a fluttery hug. "My name's Elena, and you are Merlin, and I think we're going to be friends." Merlin's mind forms a picture of her flying off, lavender-coloured wings in the breeze. He smiles into her hair.

After she releases him, the sharp-eyed man shakes his hand firmly. "Elyan," he says, a wry smile on his face. "I promise, that's my actual name."

"It really is," Gwen chimes in as she hangs Lance's coat up beside Merlin's. "Our mum is weird."

"Truth."

"Well, my name is Merlin, isn't it?"

"I dunno, I was hoping that was your stripper name."

"Gwaine!"

But Merlin's laughing. "My mum would love you so much, Gwaine." Then he remembers. "Where's—" He puffs out his chest and mums stomping his feet a little.

They all kind of look at him askance until a laugh bursts out of Gwen. "Oh, Lord, do you mean Uther? Morgana's father?"

Merlin grins sheepishly. "Yeah."

She makes a dismissive face, which sits awkwardly on her features. "We don't—Erm, he doesn't—" She wrings her hands; Merlin wants very badly to take back the question. "I'm sure he's very busy," she finally concludes with a nod. Then she brightens. "But for a second I thought you were talking about Arthur." She blinks at him. "Oh! You haven't met Arthur!"

"Which is funny," Gwaine drops in, "because you're exactly his type."

Merlin almost feels air whistle in his ears, so quickly does his head turn. "Beg pardon?"

Gwaine has the smirkiest of smirks on his face. "No need to beg. He should be here at some point tonight."

"Gwaine. You are impossible." Gwen shoves at him, then gives Merlin an apologetic look. "Sorry about him. You'll get used to it eventually."

Merlin tries to ignore that he's gone red in the face. "S'all right, I grew up with a lad like him."

Elena's bearded man claps him on the shoulder. "You are a brave man, then. My name's Leon, by the way."

"Oh, lovely. Nice to meet you, Leon. I'm Merlin."

Leon chuckles, a warm sound that makes everything a little lighter. "So I've heard. Brave Merlin, now. And a brave man like you deserves to have a drink."

Merlin is only too quick to acquiesce. "Too right," he says, with not a little cheek.

They all laugh, and soon he finds himself stood in the kitchen, a glass of wine in his hand and some cheese and crackers at his elbow, hearing some surprisingly blackmail-worthy stories about the childhood of a woman he's never met.

"Oh my god, do you remember—" Gwen is saying, her wine sloshing a little in her glass as she gesticulates, "—when she and Arthur re-enacted that scene from Star Wars, and Uther about had a fit?"

"About? I swear the man's face was purple."

"I don't understand," Merlin says, though he's already laughing at the idea of Morgana in the Leia hair-do.

"Oh, they wanted to shock him—they were always little shits—so they wrote this whole reduction of the Luke/Leia plotline, right, and presented it to Uther. Who of course has never actually seen Star Wars, so he invited friends and relatives and lord knows who else."

"My mum was even there," Gwaine says, looking like he's enjoying reliving the memory. "It was amazing."

Merlin finally cottons on. "Oh, God, so they—they kissed and everything?"

Gwen nods, a sheepish grin on her face. "They both rinsed with mouthwash about fifty times after, but said it was completely worth it to see the look on Uther's face."

"They must've given him ulcers as children."

There's some throat clearing, and a lot of looking down at wine glasses, and Merlin knows he fucked something up. There's a story here. And it's likely not a pleasant one.

He sets about defusing the bomb he'd unintentionally lit. "It's all right; my mate Will once let a goat into our kitchen, just to see what would happen. Mum forced us to clean it up, of course. I smelled of shit and hay for a week, swear to God, no matter how much I washed."

Surprised, relieved laughter ripples through the room. "You realize you're not helping your homeland's reputation, right?

Merlin laughs. "As if I would ever even attempt it, with English gits such as you."

"Oh, please, you can't even say that without meeting Arthur." Gwen puffs out her chest in a credible imitation of Merlin's imitation earlier. "He's so English he makes me feel like I should check my passport at the door."

"Well, then, we'll be sure to get along famously."

Gwaine snorts. "Absolutely."

A very nice meal later, Gwen makes good on tradition and brings out the crackers. She distributes them with a kiss on the cheek, and winks at Merlin, who is sat by Gwaine. Merlin shakes his head, but he's smiling as he meets Gwaine's twinkling eyes and they pull.

Then Merlin just watches, entranced, as the toys get picked apart, mocked, and thoroughly enjoyed.

Everyone's happy, at peace, and beloved, included Merlin.

He kind of wants to freeze the moment forever.



Hours later, Lance is pouring him onto the sofa, paper crown still somewhat affixed to his head. "Thanks," Merlin mumbles. "Knew you'd be valiant."

Lance chuckles. "Yes, and you're a very pretty princess." He throws a blanket over Merlin's nearly-already-asleep form. "Now go to sleep."

Merlin snorts, and smiles. At least, he thinks he does. "Good night, brave Sir Lancelot."

He doesn't hear Lance's answering murmur. "Good night, mysterious Merlin."



He's awoken, sort of, when the front door creaks open and heavy steps tread inside. The intruder clearly isn't a threat, though, because straight away there are feet on the stairs and Gwaine's pleased voice. "Arthur!"

Merlin's eyes fly open, but thankfully he's facing away from the foyer, so all he sees is sofa cushion. He hears the sound of a manly, enthusiastic hug, though.

"Hullo, friend Arthur!" Gwaine is very bad at whispering. "How was the office?"

The new person—Arthur, right—has the grace to actually keep his voice down, but Merlin still catches every word. "Hello, friend Gwaine. It was dead awful, as usual."

"I can't believe he made you stay so late, on Boxing Day, and what with… everything."

"Yes, well, you know Father."

"I do indeed," Gwaine says, a little unkindly.

Arthur clears his throat; the moment's tired and awkward, even just from the sofa. "So how was dinner?"

"It was cracking. You're sorry you missed it."

"'Course I am." There's a pause, and Merlin is hardly even breathing but the attention gets drawn to him anyway.

"Who's that, then?" Arthur queries, his voice a little closer, a little quieter.

"Oh," Gwaine says airily, "that's Merlin."

"Who's Merlin?"

"Morgana's fiancé?"

The creak of a floorboard sounds really quite loud in the darkness. "No, he's not."

Merlin's heart stops dead in his chest.

"What do you mean? Have you met him?"

There's a pause. The floorboard creaks back. "No."

"Well, there you go. You must've got it wrong."

"I suppose."

"He's a doll. You'll love him."

"Yeah?"

"And even if you don't, we all already do, so you're out of luck." Merlin hears a sound like Gwaine thumping Arthur on the back, and their voices start to fade as they head up the stairs. "Are you going to stay the night?"

"Was planning on it, yeah. Can I kip with you?"

"Only if you drink something with me first."

"I dunno, last time I woke up in a tutu…"

"No tutus this time, I promise."



Merlin falls back asleep as soon as they're gone.

His drunken dreams find him in a tutu. And not just in a tutu, but… covered in glitter. There's glitter on his eyelashes (he can see it, it's a very weird sensation) and on his cheekbones, and on his arms and knees (knees!) and it's kind of itchy and he's certain it's some form of punishment— When a gunshot goes off.

Dream-Merlin flinches and looks around wildly, blinking away glitter but seeing only a ground covered in grass and runners' asphalt. He stares at the lines stretching out in front of him as far as the eye can see.

Then suddenly, as you do in dreams, Merlin knows exactly where he is. He's at the starting line of a marathon.

In a tutu.

Figures.



His neck wakes him up the next morning. His neck, the light through the window, and— "Aarrghh."

He clutches at his head.

Wine. He knows better than to get pissed on wine. What an idiot.

He pulls out his mobile; it's unhelpfully run out of battery. He looks out the window into the grey sky, but it just tells him it could be anywhere between seven am and… well, seven pm. Winter in London, as it is.

Ah, bugger it, he thinks, and starts to gather up his things. He'll just use the kitchen phone to call a cab, then sneak out. Send a nice basket of flowers or something of the sort, to make up for it. Maybe he'll just put 'sorry I'm a drunkard; here I only thought I was a great dirty liar' in the card and consider it good.

He's almost made it to the door, when—

"Good morning."

The voice is behind him, and only vaguely familiar.

Arthur, then.

He sucks in a preparatory breath, as if going to the gallows, which, okay, is dramatic, but he's hung over and this Arthur seems like a bit of a dick, if the stories he heard last night are to be believed—and why shouldn't they be? "Yes," he says, turning. "Hello, Arthur."

And if Merlin had had any ideas about said Arthur, they are now dust in his mind, because the guy looks like—looks like— Well, looks like a fairy tale prince, perfect blonde hair and stoic square jaw. Only, you know, in jeans and a hoodie and sat on the stairs with a tablet in his hand. A fairy tale prince on his day off, then. Saving princesses and slaying dragons must get tiring, after all. Must require a little R&R once in a while.

As Merlin's brain is running off, Arthur pauses, his mouth in a little line. "Alright. I'm sorry, but I don't remember meeting you."

Merlin almost smiles, despite himself. He'll show this posh English git what a doll he is. "Well," he says, with a tinge of mock-sugar, "that's probably because we haven't met." He bats his eyelashes a few times for good measure.

There's an awkward pause. Then Merlin is surprised by an answering twinkle in Arthur's eye as he inclines his chin in acquiescence. "That would be it, yeah."

Huh.

"So your name's Merlin," Arthur continues.

Merlin answers reflexively, "Oh, yes, quite."

"And you're engaged to my sister."

"…yes." Merlin breaks eye contact, back to hating this morning. He can anticipate Arthur's tone before he even really starts talking.

"Listen, Merlin—"

"I know," Merlin interrupts tiredly, "I know it's quick, and I know it's strange, and I know I'm not her type, but—" He's making useless, desperate hand gestures, now, he knows, but he can't help it. "Well—"

"Merlin." Arthur's tone is so naturally commanding, Merlin finds himself stopping mid-gesticulation, and he looks up to see Arthur standing. He looks bloody huge stood on the stairs, which is just unfair. "What?"

"I just wanted to say… welcome to the family."

"Oh! Oh. Of course. Yes. Thank you."

Thank fucking Christ, the cab horns bleats at that moment. "That's the cab," Merlin says needlessly, with an equally unnecessary gesture. "I'll just be going, then."

"All right." And Gwen was right about Arthur being so very English, because he nods formally and actually indicates the door, as if Merlin has somehow missed that it's the proper exit. "Nice to have met you."

"Yeah, you too." He does one of his awkward Merlin waves. Arthur'd just better get used to him, after all, Merlin thinks facetiously. "Take care."

Arthur nods again, a bemused look having taken ahold of his face. Merlin doesn't even want to know what he's thinking. "You too."



That night, he dreams again. Which is sort of strange, because Merlin's generally not a dreamer. Or a dream-rememberer, at least. And yet, here we are.

The tutu is gone, so that's nice, but the marathon has clearly just begun, which is depressing, and Merlin curses his own subconscious for throwing him into this situation for no reason.

He can feel the ground underneath his feet, can see the track unwinding in front of him—

But he can only see so far down it. He finds himself already winded, and he somehow knows he has a very long journey to go.

And, much to his annoyance, there's still glitter absolutely everywhere

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