Disclaimer: I don't own Merlin. I don't own Merlin. I don't own Merlin. Yeah, no—no matter how many times I say it, it just... I'm never going to like it.


Whatever He Can Get


*.*.*.*.*

Merlin has stopped keeping track of how long it's been, how long since Arthur died, how long since Camelot fell and everyone he loved and knew passed away, how long it's been since he was left with no one. But… He hasn't stopped waiting for Arthur, hasn't stopped looking for him and—oh, he sees him constantly, a tugging in his heart, a lump in his throat, a tearing in his soul reminding him of what he has lost, what he is waiting for.

He sees him in the sky, in the ocean, in rivers and ponds—deep blue and refreshing, enough to get lost in for days, months, years on end—just like his eyes had been.

He sees him in little boys who run through trees and on playgrounds, teasing little girls and shoving other little boys down in the mud, making friends the only way he knows how to for now.

He sees him in the sunlight that bounces off sun-kissed hair, golden and fine and begging to be ruffled and played with.

He sees him in those fighting for their beliefs, taking up swords, and later guns, to protect what they believe is right and fair and just.

He sees him in the young man struggling with who he is, caught between what he knows to be right and what he was raised to be right—which, he is starting to suspect, is terribly wrong indeed—a sort of pain written in his eyes with the struggle and weight of it all.

He sees him in the young couple stealing kisses from each other as they wait for the tube or walk through the park, lost in young love and promises that are sealed with giggles and the twining of fingers, and he's filled with something like jealousy and bitterness before he shoves the feeling away.

He sees him in the strong jaws of men who have seen too many wars and are left with shells of what they used to be, who they used to be, leaving them wondering if all that war, all that violence, was worth it in the end—because what have they truly accomplished through any of it?

He sees him in the stubborn way the world around him keeps changing, keeping the small things that make it perfect and shedding the shallow things: the way it looks, the way it operates; its innate want to keep people happy and thriving the only reason for any of what it does.

He sees him in the mirror, when he stares back at his own blue eyes, the set of his lips as he remembers what he tasted like; in the scars painting his body, proof of his courage and bravery and the battles they shared too many lifetimes ago.

He sees him in the world all around him. In the bravery and courage and loyalty and strength and stubbornness and stupidity—he sees him, sees his… essence, flowing through the earth, through the air, making the people all the more better, making them worthy of calling his old kingdom home, making the world a place Merlin is happy to call home.

Merlin sees Arthur everywhere, really, and it doesn't exactly help the pain some days, but on others it's quite all right, because the world is full of Arthur, and it is beautiful and it needs protection until he can come back and make everything fine again. So he'll take the bits of him—he'll watch him influence the world from beyond the grave, inspire and infect with his better qualities—because it's all he has until Arthur finally returns.

And, when it comes to Arthur, Merlin has always taken whatever he can get.

*.*.*.*.*