A/N: Merlin adjusts to Arthur's return… warning for description of self-harm.

Time Was (part 2)

Arthur's surprisingly agreeable. None of the I'm king, I decide crap Merlin was used to. He likes it, though it makes him uneasy and uncertain, at the same time.

They go to a charity shop by the gas station on the corner. Eat some sandwiches and make casual comments about people they see and cars that pass by. They get some new clothes for Arthur – chatting about fashion foibles through the ages, though again without specific references – and pick up a few more things for the kitchen. Arthur's eager to try new tastes.

Back in the apartment, they talk tv and movies. Arthur knows Merlin's favorites and he's seen what Merlin has seen, but Merlin is curious about what he thinks, and Arthur's not always sure why Merlin likes what he likes. It's comfortably impersonal.

They talk about tomorrow. Arthur thinks they should take things a day at a time, he's sure that whatever the reason is that he's back, it will become clear in time. No need to go looking for it, or even to make immediate changes. He was born into his destiny, before, and Merlin basically walked right into it. Appointed to his position as Arthur's guardian, when he never would have thought of seeking the job, himself.

Merlin thinks of his bank account. Double-digits only, after today's expenses, and the numbers to the left of the decimal matter. He'll get paid on Friday again, and they've probably got enough food to last, half a tank of gas should suffice…

"You could go with me," Merlin blurts. Then remembers, that's what Arthur's been doing. Words continue anyway. "To work, I mean. Linda won't mind you riding along…"

Merlin's job these days is driving bus for a local elementary school. Three routes a day, morning pickup and afternoon drop-off and a noon run for the preschool. Linda, his boss, is a stout black lady who wears purple lipstick and has a picture of her grandbaby on her desk and a copy of the serenity prayer on her office wall. She thinks Merlin is one of those things she can change; she mothers him.

"Yeah, all right." Arthur shrugs, and Merlin can't tell why. If he thinks he'll be bored sitting here alone. If he doesn't care either way.

It irritates Merlin, though he knows he can't expect Arthur to be enthusiastic about everything, and of course this isn't exactly brain surgery or rocket science or national politics. Which would be interesting.

Then Arthur's tired. Or maybe he thinks Merlin's tired, and declaring his intention of retiring for the night will help.

It's awkward, making space in the closet and dresser for Arthur's things. He's done it before with wives, but… never with another man. And this is Arthur. Even though he used to wash Arthur's socks by hand, they've never shared before.

They take turns in the shower, and that's awkward, too. Merlin wants to treat Arthur like a guest, detailing soap and shampoo and towel, but Arthur's already familiar with the space, what's in it and how to use it.

Merlin thinks if Arthur says, I know, one more time, he's going to snap. Somehow. And not by choice.

He's slept in far worse places, but he doesn't sleep well on the futon-sofa, that night. He wakes, holding his breath and straining his eyes in the darkness, and can't tell if there's anyone in the bedroom at all. He could use magic to reassure himself, but… It's Arthur. They haven't exactly talked about magic. Time was, he used magic on his prince in his presence, even, but…

Merlin rolls carefully off the couch. Pads down the hallway. Holding his breath. Listening.

He pulls the bathroom door almost closed, reaches in and flips the light switch.

The light is dim enough, he only blinks a few times to adjust, and can see into the bedroom. The blankets rumpled, Arthur's body a sprawling lump.

Merlin relaxes, and breathes. Steps closer, leans on the doorway, just to watch. It comes to him that this was his dream, only with their positions reversed. He wonders how many times Arthur's stood sentinel, and Merlin had no idea. It makes him sad. He wishes there was someone he could tell, Arthur's back.

He shivers. Arthur's back.

Then the lump on the bed shifts and speaks, and Merlin skitters back, but can't reach the light switch to turn it off before the voice reaches him. "Merlin."

He curses inwardly, tries to make his reply light and apologetic. "Yeah, sorry, just – bathroom."

"You've been standing there twenty minutes." Arthur sounds clear, not sleep-thick. His shape is moving to sit up in bed, now.

Merlin's not skinny enough to hide behind the doorway trim, but he tries. "Sorry. I. Just…"

"Can't sleep?" Arthur suggests, and sighs when Merlin doesn't say anything. The bed creaks, and Arthur's on his feet. "It's four-thirty. How about doughnuts?"

Not what Merlin expects. "What?" he says blankly.

"That little place near the mall," Arthur says. "Open twenty-four-seven, right? That was something I smelled."

"You want to go for doughnuts at four-thirty in the morning?" Merlin says incredulously. Because usually Merlin had to drag him from bed, and often well past dawn.

Things change. He should know that by now, better than anyone. People change.

"Why not?" Arthur says, and Merlin immediately thinks, bank account. "Come on, just get your shoes. We're presentable."

T-shirts and flannel pants. And in a town that hosts a military installation, 24-7 places aren't unusual or even abandoned in the wee hours – though Merlin and Arthur are the only customers in the doughnut shop, this morning. They inhale the scent of glaze and chocolate and blueberry and sit on stools at a high table, facing not each other, but the work area behind glass windows, where rings of dough come out of the machine in conveyed rows. Workers ignore the two of them forming an audience to pack the doughnuts in boxes for trucks that will take them to gas stations.

They eat probably a dozen each, but the doughnuts are light as feathers – fresh and warm, they're worth it.

"Why here?" Arthur says conversationally. "There's lots of mountain ranges in the world."

"Well…" Merlin shifts uncomfortably. If Arthur's been with him all this time, he knows about the nurse Merlin was married to. Twelve… thirteen years ago, now. Retired from this post to live out her twilight years, at least, in the peace and seclusion of the mountains. Buried now in the cemetery Merlin can see from his balcony, at ninety-three years of age.

"I guess I mean, why'd you stay?" Arthur amends.

"I always stay," Merlin mutters.

It's true, too. After Arthur – and everyone else – he'd had trouble making friends. Hesitant because of the certainty of loss. And because his great failure tore his confidence away – how could he be a friend to anyone else, when he'd let all of his best friends down so badly? There were people, however – men and women – who had made the effort to befriend him. Lift the loneliness, look a little deeper, matter and care and help. Often he'd moved because of those people, prompted when they said, Come with me. He hadn't met anyone like that after Elizabeth, though.

"I rather thought," Arthur says, in that deliberate way he has of being careful – Merlin remembers him using it at council meetings, but he'd always spoken quick and careless to Merlin, it sets him on guard before he knows it, which is probably the opposite of what Arthur intends, so he tries to relax, he does – "You'd have joined up, again."

Which Merlin has also done in the past. He's buried three wives before – Elizabeth was the fourth – and each time, he'd gone straight to a war zone. Get busy, forget himself, save lives. There was always a war zone to go to.

"The Middle East," Merlin says. Arthur should know he's been there. More than once. "D'you know, they've been fighting there since before you and me? They don't want peace."

"Sure they do," Arthur disagrees immediately. Because he can't understand anyone feeling differently, and he's always so sure he's right. "They just don't know how to keep it."

"Well, they sure as hell don't want anyone from the West telling them how," Merlin snaps. "Or showing them. Is this about my job? Because I'm doing the best I can, right now."

Arthur raises his hands like he's surrendering, though Merlin can tell he's not convinced, and Merlin is frustrated because he's not convinced.

Can't always be a soldier. Can't always be a doctor. There's reasons he works with kids.

He tells Linda that Arthur is his best friend from high school, just back from deployment and a bit PTSD. He sees the doubt in her eyes that Merlin can help – then sees her decide, it might help Merlin to try to help someone else, and she tells him Arthur is welcome to ride along on the bus.

Merlin is unaccountably nervous. Even knowing Arthur must have been with him, before, he's self-conscious about getting the big old engine started – there's a trick to it, sometimes. He's hyper-aware of each decision he makes in the driver's seat, each movement. He double-checks, changing lanes. He triple-checks when red lights change to green. Like he wants to impress Arthur, or something. Not screw this up, at least.

Even though, Arthur doesn't say anything. Even though it would take a Mack truck at top speed to cause an accident that would hurt them, in this bus. It's just – Arthur doesn't watch him – even though evidently he's been doing it for centuries, now…

Then the first kid gets on the bus, and everything relaxes.

Little black boy in kindergarten, half the size of everyone else, and his backpack is almost bigger than he is. Wide white smile, and an enthusiastic exploding fist-bump for Merlin.

"Who's this?" Jalan says.

"This is my friend Arthur," Merlin says, and can't help grinning.

"Hey, Mr. Arthur," Jalan says with immediate attitude, and Arthur gets an exploding fist-bump, too.

The child at the next house is Lisa, a slender pale waif with blue eyes and long white-blonde hair, sweet and quiet as Jalan is rambunctious and irrevocably best friends with her neighbor. From Lisa Merlin gets a tight squeeze around his neck that he has to bend from his seat for, working the lever that closes the doors.

This is why, this job. He can't explain – and especially not to Arthur, though it hurts to realize and admit that. Children love wholeheartedly and unreservedly and ask for so little back. Children smile so easily and show their inexperience and naiveté and ignorance without a shred of self-consciousness. Children accept answers without suspicion, argue without offense. And he needs that.

Children never wonder, where he came from, why he took this job, never ask what his plans for his life are. They take him as they see him and it's more than good enough for both parties. Time means nothing to them. They don't think past next week, they're not interested in anything further back than last week. And the issues they agonize over are endearingly minor – torn finger-paintings and crushed lunch-brownies, stolen seats and long lines for the swings. Even the kids that deal with single-parent households and less-than-ideal living conditions, forget that stuff so easily, living in the present. And Merlin makes a difference in their lives without half trying, just by remembering names and other details, giving compliments and getting down on his hands and knees in the aisle to find a lost paper or project.

"Those kids are great," Arthur says on their way home, and Merlin grins.

Until he remembers, Arthur never had kids. Should have had kids, with Gwen, and lived to see his grandkids. Until he thinks, what about this time? And suddenly feels like he's got the lives of Arthur's potential descendents in his hands this time, instead of just Arthur. It's overwhelming, even though it's what he always thought he wanted…

By Friday Merlin is afraid Arthur is well and truly bored. His responses to Merlin and the children are vague and a fraction delayed. It's only been a week, Merlin thinks, resentful toward Arthur and impatient with himself for being resentful.

A week and almost three years now, though.

He wonders if it's him, that Arthur is bored with. He tries to imagine how he'd feel if it had been him to die, and tag along as a ghost with Arthur for fifteen centuries. He bets Arthur would have had better friends, more exciting jobs. There would have been no pills or blades. He tries to think – a bit desperate and ashamed to recognize it – what he can do or say, to hold Arthur's interest. It occurs to him that there are other ways of losing people, than just death.

"I want to get a job," Arthur says on Friday morning. He's sitting barefoot and still dressed in pajama pants at the computer table over a second cup of coffee, while Merlin is getting ready for the bus route.

"What?" Merlin says intelligently, around toothpaste.

"A job, you know. And I'd like to see if I can pick up how to drive a car, this weekend."

Something inside Merlin's chest chills. "You're not coming with me, today?" he says, as casually as he can.

"No…"

He is bored. Bored with Merlin's job and apartment, bored with being Merlin's friend. And that scares Merlin even more than the thought of getting in his truck and driving to the bus lot without Arthur right there to visually determine his safety and wellbeing.

The tighter you hold, the more you'll annoy him. But the thought of letting go is like, releasing the life preserver in the middle of the ocean.

Merlin is very tense that day. He has to relax his breathing, unclench his fingers from the steering wheel. He catches himself glancing at the dashboard clock about every five minutes. He speeds back to the apartment, using magic to manipulate his way through traffic without incident.

Arthur is still sitting at the table, but he's dressed now and he's got Merlin's laptop open in front of him, the cordless house phone tucked between his ear and shoulder. Merlin takes a single easy breath to see him there – and Arthur puts his finger in his ear to concentrate on the person on the phone, absently. He doesn't seem at all bothered by their day spent apart; Merlin feels quite small. Arthur's probably been longing for one of those for centuries. And Merlin's been as clingy as a child with a teddy.

So they talk jobs.

Arthur thinks, long-term, he may do something in law enforcement. Or medicine, or government, or the military. Merlin nearly hyperventilates at the thought, but Arthur goes on as if he hasn't noticed, saying he doesn't want to make that sort of commitment before they figure out what he's back to do.

Merlin relaxes a bit then, and teases him about service industries. He can't see Arthur as a waiter or a nurse – though there is that horse ranch near the park, Arthur knows horses, maybe he can start out mucking stables.

Instead of acting insulted, Arthur laughs – and for a moment it's perfect – and then he says, "I have an interview on Monday morning."

Merlin stops laughing. Does it have to be Monday, he works on Monday, doesn't Arthur want him to come…

"If I figure out how to handle the truck tomorrow, you can magic me a license, can't you? Then I'll just go while you're at work."

Merlin can't argue. Wants to argue, and hates himself for that. Wants Arthur to be content hanging out with him – knows he can't – knows he wouldn't change Arthur like that, wouldn't respect him like that or maybe even like him anymore… He really hates destiny and Arthur's they.

Arthur's observant. Merlin's years of driving are very nearly his own, and soon he's confident and casual behind the wheel, and it's Merlin who's nervous and sensitive to speed limits and stop signs. And all the other cars; he's going to have to self-medicate before he ever rides with Arthur driving on the highway.

The interview goes well, and Arthur has a job in a pet store. Merlin works on thinking about other things during the day, and keeping his eyes away from the clock. His anxiety annoys Arthur, as if Arthur thinks Merlin thinks, he can't take care of himself. He's always prided himself on that, and taking care of others, but… if he only knew. Merlin is supposed to protect Arthur, otherwise… all this, what's it for?

He tries to match his behavior to Arthur's, nonchalant and happy for his friend's independence. He's a bit impatient for the other shoe to drop. World War 3, maybe? But life and the world continue as before.

Arthur talks about looking for a new vehicle, and Merlin hides a defensive reaction. Arthur talks about finding a new apartment. Merlin's heart stutters before he realizes, Arthur only meant, one with a bedroom for both of them, and maybe with a pets-allowed policy.

And then one day, while Merlin's waiting in his truck for Arthur to come out of the pet store – his shift concluded ten minutes ago – Arthur emerges in the company of a female. Young, blonde, pretty – and flirting openly with Arthur. Who doesn't appear to mind, lingering on the sidewalk, between the building and the parking lot without so much as a glance for Merlin, waiting in their shared ride.

Jealous. He wishes it wasn't so, and can't seem to help it. Not that he wants that sort of interest from Arthur – who's technically a widower, he supposes, and hasn't had female company for a lot longer than Merlin, and he should be happy to see Arthur happy. And he is. Only, jealousy is also churning in the pit of his stomach, and he thinks about that second-bedroom possibility, and Arthur bringing girls home while Merlin lies awake alone in the other room.

He watches the two, beautiful and sun-lit, and finds the keys clenched in his hand. Merlin is waiting, and Arthur's with some girl.

But if he can't be normal, sooner or later Arthur will realize that he's better off without the baggage of Merlin. He thinks about his breathing, loud and fast in his ears, thinks about the black hole in the center of his chest, sucking away rationality and happiness. He rubs his thumb along the jagged edge of the key, pressing into it. He turns the piece of metal, turns his hand.

And traces the veins in his wrist.

Even though he can't die – and doesn't want to anymore, does he? – this makes him feel like he has control. That life or death is his decision, and an immediate one. Expressing the pain physically seems to draw it outward, from heart and soul to body, and it's distracting and it's sharp and it's manageable.

Even though a key won't do more than scratch and bruise.

"Hey, Merlin," Arthur says, opening the passenger door and sliding onto the seat.

Merlin jumps about a foot, fumbling the keys for the ignition, tucking his left arm away, out of sight. "Hey," he says. "Good day?"

"Decent," Arthur says, reaching for his seatbelt as Merlin shifts gears and pulls forward.

Merlin doesn't ask, who's the girl. And Arthur doesn't say.

That night, they're sitting at opposite ends of the futon with the tv on, not exactly interacting but Merlin is absorbing Arthur's indirect attention and presence – amused, relaxed – like a dry sponge. Merlin reaches for the big bowl of popcorn between them on the couch – and Arthur grabs him. Merlin frowns – until Arthur twists his arm around to show the scabbed scratches on the pale skin of the inside of his wrist.

"What's that," Arthur says flatly.

"Nothing," Merlin says immediately. Which is too defensive and also a lie, so he blurts, "It's just –" but his mouth is empty of words because there's no excuse Arthur will believe this time. It obviously, is what it is.

And Arthur's staring at him – Merlin knows though he can't meet his eyes – and he's ashamed and resentful of that feeling, of Arthur knowing.

"It's nothing," he repeats stubbornly, pulling gently but steadily so Arthur will let him go.

Arthur does, but he mutes the movie and shifts sideways on the futon to face Merlin, who draws his knees up like a shield over his chest and covers the marks with his other hand – squeezes a bit to feel the ache, again to draw the pain that is unbearable when it's in the region of his heart. But Arthur doesn't say anything, and Merlin's feelings intensify – shame that he did it, irritation that it's no longer private, regret that it must hurt and confuse Arthur now, too.

It's not because I lost control. Or that I was trying to – internal scoff and roll of the eyes – kill myself. That doesn't even work anyway, and why would I want to, now?

"Really," he insists. "Nothing to worry about. I just…"

Arthur says, his voice softly questioning, "Is this because I –"

"No!" Merlin says loudly. "It's not you, nothing you said or did – or didn't – it's not your fault. It's me. It's just…" Something I do, sometimes.

Habit? No. That implies a level of helplessness. This is… decision. Symptom management.

"They've treated you for depression," Arthur says, and there's hesitation in his voice. Because they haven't talked about this, that he's seen, yet.

Merlin shrugs. "The drugs are nice for a while, but. There was nothing anyone could do to help. Couldn't chat with a shrink about my childhood and my greatest regrets or hopes for the future, not without lying and then what good would it do? Couldn't bargain with the fates for my end or your beginning – second chances, either way…" Merlin trails off, feeling like his mouth has run away with him.

Arthur doesn't immediately answer, but he doesn't get up and leave, or give up and turn back to the movie. "I already know about your childhood," he says mildly. "And, this is a second chance for both of us, but… we really don't need to rush anything, you know."

Merlin's not rushing. It feels like Arthur is rushing, ready to embrace the world with new experiences and new acquaintances and Merlin is so crippled he's going to slow Arthur down and put him in danger, or get left behind.

"You've got to talk to me," Arthur adds, still shrink-gentle.

"We never did before," Merlin shoots back.

"This isn't before," Arthur says, unoffended. "Merlin, I saw… when you hurt, and when you struggled, and I… could guess, but… maybe I need you to help me understand why."

"How would you feel," Merlin says, rude and incredulous. "If you were told to protect me and spent years doing it by hook or by crook, behind the scenes and without help and sometimes scared for your life and always scared for the responsibility of the outcome…" His mouth is running away from him again. "And then you couldn't stop it, and I died anyway."

"I would mourn you, of course," Arthur says – a bit overwhelmed, by his expression, but determined to make his point. "But then I would –"

"Sure you'd mourn," Merlin interrupts. "Maybe til the end of your life. But how would you feel if you couldn't even die and join me then, and say…"

After a moment, Arthur prompts, "Say what, Merlin?"

His fingers fuss at the marks on his wrist, brushing the roughened scratch-scabs, picking and rubbing and stretching. Arthur watches him and doesn't try to stop him – of course he's seen far worse and isn't concerned about the severity of the injury.

"I'm sorry," Merlin says softly. Then thinks, Arthur's going to assume he's talking about this, and today. "About before, back then. I couldn't stop Camlann happening, even with warnings that other people died to give me. The most powerful damn screw-up ever." He laughs and it stings his throat so that tears come to his eyes. "I couldn't get you to Avalon in time, I didn't even try anything else, and I could have –" Centuries, he'd had, to second-guess the decisions of those two harrowing days.

"Merlin." Arthur stops him. Still gentle, still determined, but no longer careful-therapist. "You couldn't have prevented my death, that's impossible, everyone dies. Sooner or later –"

"It should've been later," Merlin mutters.

"And my life back then was chock-full of danger and risk and threat. War. Come on, how many times did you save me since that first time, when we met? You did protect me, Merlin, gave me lots of years I wouldn't have had otherwise, right? Think about what would have happened to the rest of the kingdom if I had snuffed it, any of those other times, without you."

Then why does it feel like he's been punished with eternal exile? Not eternal, Merlin reminds himself, it's over now and Arthur's back.

He still feels like a prisoner released after too many years. Hesitant, uncertain, weak. Lost. Broken.

While Arthur, it seems, can stride confidently into his second chance, king of all he surveys, and keep right on going without ever slowing.

It's not fair. How many times has he whispered, screamed that. It's not fair.

Arthur sighs and scoots closer. "If I can't convince you, you didn't do anything wrong, at least will you believe me when I say, I forgive you. At least believe I forgive you, for all of it. That I'm –" he waves a hand to help him express – "more grateful than I can say, everything you did, everything you've done. It wasn't easy and I know it and that's partly my fault, but I'm proud of you."

That should fix it, Merlin thinks. And feels a little better. Arthur slaps his knee like he thinks, that should fix it, too, then stands and stretches.

"How about early to bed, huh?" he says. "And early to rise – we'll be healthy, wealthy, and wise in no time."

"And two out of three ain't bad," Merlin returns mechanically. Arthur cuffs him, little more than a disarrangement of the hair on the top of his head, and Merlin adds, "But early to rise and early to bed might make a man healthy – but socially dead."

"Exactly," Arthur says, unconcerned at his own inconsistency. "And we've had enough of that around here, haven't we. Right? Right."

Merlin thinks, of course I'm right, I'm always right, I'm king.

"Night," Arthur says nonchalantly, heading for the hall and bathroom and bedroom.

Merlin loves Arthur with all his heart. He's missed him like air and water and warmth, and can't be more pleased to be reunited – at long last – with the prince and king and friend who is his, like no other. It means everything that Arthur understands, and accepts. Good, bad, and ugly.

But. Damn it all to hell, Merlin can't tell if Arthur's return makes everything better, or worse. Simpler, or more complicated.

He's carried an Arthur-shaped hole – the black hole – inside, so long. No one else has matched, though some have helped to fill it, to make him feel less empty. Now it seems like the edges have weathered. Crumbled. Worn away through the ravages of time. And not even Arthur fits that hole, anymore.

That scares him.

Because maybe Arthur assumes, his appearance and continuing presence fixes things for Merlin. Maybe his reincarnation fixes everything he's been through, ghosting along at an oblivious Merlin's side.

Merlin's angry, that this isn't the case for him. At Arthur – not at Arthur, it's not his fault – at destiny. But destiny's brought Arthur back, for which he should say thank you, not it's about damn time you soulless bitch, and why in hell did it take so long? A warning, a count-down, might have been nice, so he didn't give himself a million false-alarms which wore his damn endurance down to a damn nub.

He's irrationally afraid, deep down, that his anger might precipitate the taking-back of the belated gift. He's afraid that if he can't be good enough for whatever unknown threat they're facing, Arthur will die and leave Merlin behind alone. Again. But he's so brittle, and the anger won't leave. He knows he isn't good enough. And hiding that won't make a difference, when push comes to shove. He feels like, the constant tension of waiting now for that to happen, keeps his anxiety in limbo as well, without a chance to try to relax it away for good.

Time was, those special people who had befriended Merlin – sometimes patiently, sometimes unobtrusively, sometimes forcibly – had introduced him as a matter of course to others. Family, a wider circle of friends, more or less accepting of Merlin's secrets and psychosis, and he had been glad of it. Glad to be included, glad to experience the laughter and camaraderie, even if he remained on the fringe. The comfort of undemanding companionship. And though there had been a very few – his wives – who had known the secret of his immortality, mostly the obliviousness to the truth of Merlin's apparent strangeness has been like a security blanket to him, among these friends and their friends.

Merlin's work-friends are all whole-hearted and sincerely attached. They love him to pieces and PDA without a second thought, and are thrilled to hang out, every second, every time. They're also, all in elementary school.

Arthur's work-friends, Merlin learns about grudgingly and second-hand. The shop's owner fancies himself a history buff, and evidently enjoys a good debate. Evidently he and Arthur talk, while they work. A lot. Merlin thinks, Arthur's not worried about offending him, with contrary opinions or difficult observations.

The blonde girl – and a brunette coworker, sometimes – continues to try to attract Arthur's attention. And he continues to allow it, which irritates Merlin. It irritates Merlin that he has no right to be irritated, but he is anyway, like he has no control over his emotions, and that scares him.

He wonders if Arthur even knows he's doing it, flirting. Probably. He used to be as obtuse about female intentions as everyone else, but he's had a lot more experience since back then, even if only by default.

One day Arthur calls Merlin from work. Don't come by the shop, everyone's going out for drinks and he'll catch a ride with one of the others.

Merlin goes back to the apartment. Sits and listens to the silence.

Not quite silence. Because he thinks. Arthur forgives him, but he doesn't want him. Doesn't need him. Because he's useless, bound to fail again, eventually. Is failing.

He opens the freezer for a single-serving microwave meal, and ends up with the half-bottle of Crown, instead. He doesn't dilute it with Coke. And he's on his second unmeasured drink, when Arthur calls again.

"Where are you, I thought you were coming, too?"

Something twists in his chest like it's trying to unwind. He was wrong, Arthur does miss him and want him around – but he's angry at that relief too, and nervous about being awkward around Arthur's co-workers. Especially the history-buff boss, because Merlin's never sure how he's going to react to some of the absurdity that comes when someone's only read about this war or that in books – and maybe he'll reveal too much, the way Arthur's too controlled to. Especially the girls, who might be as perceptive as girls can be, and might recognize his jealousy and wonder. He wonders, what Arthur's told them about his relationship with Merlin. High school friend home from deployment. PTSD.

He doesn't commit to showing up, but after finishing his second drink, he goes. To prove that he's not sitting home alone getting drunk and stewing in his emotional confusion – maybe to force that to be true.

When he comes in the door, Arthur's group is the loudest and happiest in the place. He stands in a dark corner by the door, unnoticed, and watches. There's a smile on his face to see Arthur enjoying himself, but it's twisted.

It feels a bit like, watching Arthur with the knights. After their commoner friends had been officially promoted and recognized. And Guinevere raised to queen. And Merlin still fighting inner demons of truth and deception and foreknowledge and threat, while they all laughed and teased.

He knows, if he joins them, the dynamic will change. The atmosphere will fracture and cool, and everyone will try to make him feel welcome, even though they all – except perhaps Arthur – know he's not. He never has fit in with Arthur's friends, and he never will. Arthur doesn't need Merlin's insolence to take him down a notch, connect him with his subjects. Evidently doesn't need him to be a magical shield, either – there hasn't been a single glimmer of malevolent magic, or even more ordinary danger, since he's been back.

Arthur starts to turn, with his head up like he's scanning the crowd, and Merlin ducks out before he's finished the turn.

He leans against the rough brick wall outside the door, and tries to slow his breathing. Feeling the pounding rhythm of the music through the masonry, feeling too vulnerable under the street-light. He thinks he got out without Arthur noticing him.

Numb and tired and sick, he goes home.

At the balcony, he inhales pine brush and distant stars and thinks about jumping. The feeling of disconnect and freedom, the sudden stop to everything.

Inside, he retrieves the bottle of Crown from the kitchen counter. It makes more sense to finish the last swallow than put it away for next time, when there's not enough there to be good for anything – and then it's more than a swallow, but it's fine and Merlin finishes it anyway.

Then he has to take a piss. And washing afterwards, in front of the sink, he reaches to open the cabinet.

The straight razor isn't there.

He stares for a minute, trying to think clearly. No, he hasn't done anything with it, which must mean… Arthur. Which only makes him mad, right now. With Arthur, for daring – with himself, for making Arthur think it's necessary.

Just to check, he goes to the kitchen. And, the knives are gone, too. The anger heightens – the sick feeling twists in his belly and rises to drown his heart in the expanding black hole. There's more rage than grief, so the emotion is locked inside his throat against verbal expression, and it hurts. Without thinking, he grasps the empty glass bottle of Crown and hurls it at the wall with all his strength.

It shatters.

He's not sure why that surprises him. Each piece glitters in the carpet, gorgeous and mesmerizing and deadly.

Merlin thinks of Arthur coming home. After midnight, tired and buzzed and unaware, kicking off his shoes by the door and… Merlin drops to his knees to begin picking up the pieces.

Because he's always done what he's supposed to. He's always been responsible. Always the one picking up the pieces.

Amber liquid clings to some in sticky drops. He's not even aware that he's looking for one, until he finds it. In the sharp tinkling jumble, one. He pushes to his feet, takes the glass to the kitchen trashcan. Keeps the one.

Goes to the bathroom and shuts the door. Arthur might be hours, yet. And while the minor scratches and bruises the key had left healed at a normal rate, always a fatal wound closes too swiftly to allow the fatality. If he cuts deeply enough, Arthur will never know it happened.

Merlin pinches the flat, smooth sides of the glass piece, sliding to a crouch with his back to the wall, next to the tub. Nausea fills him, he knows he shouldn't. Knows he shouldn't need to. It's not normal, it's not healthy.

Neither is he.

He sets the sharp, clear edge to his skin and pushes, a bit. The pain draws up from his soul, from his heart, to that smaller spot on the inside of his forearm. A pain he can see and understand, a pain he chooses, which makes it bearable.

It's still, not about suicide. It's not even a cry for help, since he doesn't mean for anyone to know. At this moment, he is fully in control. What comes next, his decision and only his. To be, or not to be.

He pushes harder, and shudders as his skin splits. Sharper pain, bright blood, sliding warm over cooler skin. Even, the sort of adrenalin rush that comes from possibly-imminent death. Skating that fine line, that for him doesn't exist, but his body doesn't know it.

Careful, careful. Too much, and the decision will be made, thumbs down.

He finishes the cut. Only one, and not long. Deep enough, but not endangering tendons or major nerve lines.

His fingers twitch, and he reaches his arm over the tub so the blood will trickle down. He can rinse it out later, before stumbling to his bed to sleep off the exhaustion of blood loss. Because if he falls asleep here, for sure Arthur will catch him and know. And what he fears about being his own worst nightmare, pushing Arthur away, will come true.

He watches for a minute, turning his arm so that the red stream has to choose a new route earthward. It's throbbing now, and the tension in his chest eases so that he can breathe.

But there's guilt. And it's sour and too late, so he closes his eyes and lets his head thump against the wall behind him, feeling the detached drifting sensation begin. He meant it when he told Arthur, I'm sorry.

He means it this time, too.

The slam of the apartment door startles him aware – no uncertain question of dreaming - and Arthur calls his name.

He straightens a bit, feeling stiff and sluggish at once. Blood is drying in runnels down the tub's slant to the drain. But his body has slumped, propping his arm too high, and so there's more blood down his elbow, dripping on his shirt and jeans and the linoleum floor, glistening dark red patches spreading. It hasn't stopped – it hasn't healed – Arthur is home too early and the irony chokes Merlin's startled gasp.

Outside the door Arthur says, "Merlin – the hell is up with this glass? Where are you – are you here?"

He panics, trying to reach up from his position on the floor for the lock on the inside of the bathroom doorknob. It's beyond his fingertips, he's too slow and not strong enough to push himself up to it – and Arthur bursts in, knocking him back.

One brief glimpse of Arthur's face as he sees the blood – horror, realization – and Merlin whirls away, trying to draw himself into a tighter ball. Trying to hide. Hide from the hurt in Arthur's eyes – he might as well have used the glass shard on him.

Arthur says his name again, and then a few helpless, sickened obscenities. Merlin hears him whip the hand-towel off its holder, then Arthur's body is crowding into Merlin's, fumbling for the arm to wrap it, to hold it.

And everything Merlin expects him to say – why would you do this, you're so stupid, this isn't the answer – doesn't come out.

Instead Arthur says, "I'm sorry."

And it's a sob, and Merlin doesn't understand. Even when Arthur uses his other arm to gather Merlin's awkwardness tight up to him, and another sob escapes.

"I'm so sorry, Merlin."

"Shut up," he tries to say to Arthur's collarbone. "Not your fault. Don't worry. It'll stop in a minute."

"I thought – I thought we were going to talk about this."

Dizziness lowers Merlin's inhibitions.

"I waited," he says thickly, then repeats so he'll be sure Arthur understands, "I waited, for you, so long… there's nothing left of me."

"I can't believe that," Arthur says, his arms and his jaw tight with tension.

Merlin ignores him. "You need someone strong and smart, and I'm not either, I'm – not okay. I'm useless to you, you're better off without me."

Arthur's grip tightens around Merlin's forearm so that it twinges and he gasps, pulling away – but he doesn't think Arthur even notices. His friend keeps his other hand on the back of Merlin's neck, keeps their faces close together so the blue flame of his gaze burns into Merlin's soul, a cleansing fire.

"Never say so," he commands. "I need you, Merlin, and I daresay I always have. Remember how I was when we first met? Pretty useless, myself."

Merlin huffs. He wants to agree, with heavy sarcasm; he wants to argue back, Never.

"You were patient with me, right? So how can I be anything but patient with you? We've got time, don't rush it, don't expect too much of yourself. You said you're not okay, but I think you're doing pretty damn fine for what you've been through. Don't hide from me, Merlin, and don't fear me. We'll get through this – I'm not going anywhere."

"Don't say that." Merlin summons an anger-strength sufficient to shove Arthur back against the toilet, though he keeps his hand tightly around Merlin's throbbing forearm. "Don't say that. You don't know."

"I'm not going to leave you, Merlin," Arthur says, his intensity gentled by Merlin's, somehow.

"You don't know," Merlin mumbles. "You don't know…"

"Okay," Arthur concedes, probably remembering the uncertainty of life at least and maybe destiny also. "But you don't either. Make the most of the time we've got, huh? And nothing but death separates us."

"Promise?" Merlin says, feeling stupidly pitiful.

"Yes. And you've got to promise, no tempting fate?" Arthur lifts Merlin's towel-wrapped arm and his eyebrows, as much asking if Merlin can make the promise, as if he will.

Right now Merlin feels like he'd promise Arthur his soul, just to apologize. He really is handling Merlin's issues, quite well. And with no hint of an ulterior motive – no jesting about breaking in a new servant, no questions about the stability of Merlin's magic in relation to his mind. No metaphorical checking of his watch – how long d'ya think your nervous breakdown's gonna last?

It would be great to relax into Arthur's unconditional care and unshakable loyalty, for a change. Trust him.

"I'll do my best," Merlin sighs. And Arthur nods like that's good enough.

"In the meantime, Merlin, why…" He hesitates, and his tone changes, "Why, didn't you come have drinks, instead of…" Merlin thinks, this, but Arthur finishes with, "staying home? I know you don't have many close friends right now, and – these are good people. While we're waiting for the next step."

"I have to focus on you," Merlin tells him. The ache is receding, so he knows the cut is finally closing, but between blood loss and alcohol and the late hour, he's not filtering like he normally would. "Once. I thought about going back home where I was needed, and my best friend died. Once, I thought about getting married and she died. Once, I met my father. And before I could even think about bringing him back to my mother, spending time as a family, learning details of my heritage, he was killed."

Questions in Arthur's eyes. But he doesn't ask them – Merlin is grateful, but knows it'll probably come sometime. If they're going to talk.

"That was then," Arthur says. "And maybe…"

He hesitates, and Merlin pulls away from him again, opens the towel carefully to show smeared skin but no fresh blood. Arthur grimaces but doesn't stop him – probably he's seen how Merlin's body keeps him alive willy-nilly. He pushes himself up with an elbow on the toilet, yanks his bath towel down from the bar, and wets a corner of it under the faucet. Merlin watches him lean forward to begin cleaning the blood-smear from Merlin's skin.

"When I died," Arthur says, slowly but deliberately, and Merlin is distracted from remembered pain by the proof of Arthur's life here in front of him, touch and motion and look. "You lost more than anyone. Because I wasn't just your job, I was your… friend." He gives Merlin's face a quick glance, as if to be sure Merlin won't contradict him, but Merlin's too overwhelmed to say anything. "You made me your… reason for being. You had nothing to turn to."

The truth of his words aches on Merlin's soul like ice on a bruise.

"At the risk of sounding – of being – arrogant… You've done the same ever since. You've made waiting, your reason for being."

That's true. It resonates, how lost Merlin was, leaving Avalon – how confused he's been since Arthur's reappearance.

"Let's try something different, this time around?" Arthur says. He wads the damp bloodied towel in the sink – Merlin reminds himself to clean it with magic in the morning – and reaches down to grip Merlin's upper arms and pull him to his feet.

"Let's," Merlin manages.

Arthur steers him out of the bathroom. "Watch your feet, there's still glass," he says, before lowering Merlin to the futon. He lifts Merlin's feet and unfurls the blanket Merlin's been using over him. He runs a plastic cup of water in the kitchen, and brings it to balance on the carpet where Merlin can reach it.

Merlin relaxes, and looks at his arm. It's not bleeding, but there's still a red line, thick and angry, marking his skin. Not healed to an invisible scar. Maybe it's because, Merlin isn't exactly immortal anymore, now that he's not waiting. That's a sobering thought – he thinks it should stop him if he ever considers this again, over a talk with Arthur.

He listens to Arthur picking up more glass. Even, cursing him mildly – "Dammit, Merlin…"

It has a possessive sound that makes Merlin smile into the dim of the unlit living room. He resolves to take Arthur's advice. To let things happen in their own time. To not try to rush for a perfection in their relationship that's probably impossible anyway. They'll bicker and argue, sometimes, maybe even fight outright. But then, always listen. Practice patience, and renew commitment. It isn't fair to make Arthur the sole source of his happiness, or his mental health. Or blame him, then, for not being enough. No one person should be everything to another, even when it's Emrys and the Once and Future King. He's got to learn to make time and space in his life for other people, other pursuits, just as Arthur will…

"You all right?" Arthur says, standing by the light switch.

" 'M all right," Merlin murmurs.

The light flicks off and he can't see Arthur anymore, but he feels none of the panic - that somehow that means Arthur's disappeared. Arthur says, "Night."

Merlin corrects him. "Good night." Dares to add, "Pleasant dreams." Because, godinheaven, make it so…

Arthur snorts, heading down the hall to the bedroom. "See you in the morning."

For tomorrow, it will be good enough. And every day following, no matter how many or how difficult they turned out to be – when trying wasn't good enough and they were both tired of it. But together – maybe this would be, after all, better than he anticipated.

"Don't let the bedbugs bite!" he calls on impulse, maybe still light-headed, but lighter-hearted, too.

"Geez, Merlin, it's your bed!" He hears Arthur's grin below the exasperation, and is beginning to fall to slumber even as Arthur adds, "Go to sleep. Merlin."

Merlin whispers a prayer of thanks more genuine than has ever passed his lips before – and then does just that.