"Do you have a purpose for collecting these?" Gowther ponders; his voice is monotonous and bland as always, but Merlin can swear his tone changes just a tinge with curiosity. Curiosity was the only 'emotion' he experiences, if it could even be called an emotion. Perhaps that's what made them so similar.

She smirked, her lip twitching as she kept her hand steady, the thin needle she held weaving into the fabric below. "A purpose for collecting," she peaks at what he's referring to: an entire shelf of eyes in different shades and sizes, "eyes? Well, it could be said that most of my collections are superfluous. But I think research for the sake of research is reason enough, don't you agree?"

His lips purse slightly as he seems to consider this. Merlin wonders if he was considering it, wonders what those churns in his head really processed. She'd love to dive in with a few tools, but even she wouldn't dare; her companions received a restraint from her inquisitiveness that she held for no others. All she can do is attempt to keep him emotionally stable: one day, perhaps, love and heart will return to him. But not yet.

"Merlin," his voice cuts through her thoughts, but her hands never stop. Rarely does she get distracted from her work. She hums in acknowledgment, keeping her eyes down.

"Do you think," he poses thoughtfully, "we will ever be a full seven again?"

Her fingers slow and then pause, her eyes widening only a fraction before returning to their passive state. Yes, six of the sins they were now, and in relative peace. But that left one out there still. She kept distracted from thinking of him: for all she knew, he could be dead. But she doubted it. Though no science nor magic she'd encountered through her plentiful years had proven such a feeling so, she still suspected she'd know if something were to happen to Escanor.

"Perhaps," she settles on, and then gets back to work. A steady hand, a needle through fabric, a magic pulsing through her veins. Work is easy. Thoughtless, sometimes. "Maybe even sooner than we suspect."

A tilted head of pink locks eyes her curiously, "what makes you think so?"

"A feeling."

"That's all?"

"Sometimes, that's all there is," she rises from her work again, approaching the doll. She gives him a motherly grin, with just the usual hint of mischief. "Sometimes feelings are even more accurate than science or magic."

"I'll note that." Gowther says, and Merlin knows he's being quite literal. Emotions are but a study to him. If she was being honest with herself, they were foreign to her.

In the evening he heads off into the dusk and into the city. Merlin is left in her lab, surrounded by books and collections, and finds rest on her folded arms as she fades into sleep. The back of her eyelids are a shade of orange-brown she hasn't seen in a decade. Her heart yearns for an emotion she has forgotten the name of years before: much like Gowther, she just can't quite understand it.

— —

In the perils of war, he returns. She'd heard that he had, but had been away from the tournament, the fighting, for just a while. Now she was back. And he was back. At long last, they were seven again.

It's four hours into the afternoon, and he is descending forms. Still, the sun is high. He is shining golden armor and steel muscle. Tall and buff but not unusually so. Confident, but with just a crack. She notes this all in bullet points in her head. Her favorite area of study: endlessly changing, unable to be understood.

He is covered in the blood of an enemy, stained in it.

"It doesn't suit you," she says. They've hardly shared multiple lines of dialogue, little introduction, only a few lines of reunion.

"What's that?" He questions, shocked. His confidence wavers.

"Blood," her nose wrinkles, "you're too gentle for such a thing."

He laughs, loud and hearty, "Merlin! We've long battled together. You've seen me like this before."

She hums. She has. "Yes, but it's not your preference."

"No," he wavers, a shake in the boisterous pride. "And honestly," he confesses, a soft voice from a large man, "it brings me no pleasure to be at war."

That made two of them.

"You need a bath," she states blankly. "I have one at my lab. Come." And she walks away before he flushes, knowing he'll follow. She's knows he'll follow. It's a reliable constant.

It's not a long walk to her residence. It's a silent few minutes, except for the clank of his blood stained armor.

Her residence is as always, a clutter of oddities and magic. Immediately, she turns, her hands out and demanding. "I'll give your armor some upgrades in the meanwhile. Go wash."

He is still blustery and embarrassed, much like his night self. He seems to defy his day and night norms when around her. She notes this all.. for science, of course.

He washes in the bathroom, and she lays his armor out on a table, fiddling and tinkering. She'd needed to custom make this set for him, so it didn't explode or suffocate him whenever his body changed so rapidly.

She works, and he's in a fresh set of clothes observing her books. The afternoon wears on, his muscles slowly become smaller. They are nearly the same in height. She pays this no mind: his ability is an enigma, but there is no form in which she is unsure of his company.

He's looking through her shelves of books and she's just come to realize she's stopped moving, observing him.

"You don't carry much outside of technical books," he ponders out loud.

"Is that surprising?"

"Not exactly."

She waits for him to go on, but he doesn't. Nonetheless, her hands do not go back to work. It takes a minute of flipping through shelves with a careful eye. "I prefer, as you know, fantasy. Poetry, the more emotional pieces. But knowledge, well… you are of course so brilliant to have all this information stored away. Books like these are of much more use."

"All those books and yet there's still much even I don't know."

"Oh? I doubt that!" Escanor smiles. It's partially in jest, and mostly in comforting reassurance. He always seeks to reassure her.

But why her? She knows she's beautiful. And yet he sees beyond. Regardless of her mystery, her walls, her mischievous nature. This man, this genuinely good man, has found so much affection for her. All the books in the world and it doesn't make sense.

What does she feel? No. She never entertains such thoughts about her emotions. She drops the question before she begins to answer it.

She stands from her seat, walking over to the shelves beside him. She pretends to glance at them thoughtfully, truly seeing nothing.

"I wish I knew what went on in your head," he chuckles, low and soft, a huff of warm air against her cheek. "I can see the gears churning. What are you thinking?"

Her automatic response tells her to say no. Secretive, to the point. But she promised more. "If you must know—"

"And I must!"

Her lips twitch, "I was thinking about how complicated you are. I've mastered science and magic, and yet, around you I feel something. And no study could explain the feeling."

He pauses, swallowing. She respects how quickly he recovers, humming. "Is that good or bad?"

"Neither. Wonderful, in a way. Frustrating to the mind that wants an explanation for all." She turns away again, takes a seat on her chaise, leaning back against the cushions.

He sits by her feet. Still tall, at this hour. Slimming, but not at the end of the day. The dusk light still shines through the window. His hand reaches out, and she holds her breath. His fingers gently touch her hair, tucks dark strands behind her ear. There's a tremble that could be either of them, or both.

"Poems," he begins, "try to use words to convey the feelings that we cannot explain to ourselves."

She hums, at peace. "And you write these poems about me."

"Yes,"

"Are they about love?" She questions to the air, an inner thought the slips from her tongue.

He hesitates, pausing mid breath, and she realizes what she's asked him to confess. Something they both know, and yet dared not say. Her eyes widen as she goes to pull the question back from the tense air.

"They're all about love," he confesses, but there is a confidence in his voice. More confident than she's ever heard him, at this dusky hour. What a curious man, an endless enigma. Her wide eyes take him in.

"Read another to me," a gentle command.

So he does. A poem about the colors of berries, an ode to her.

"A mystery you are," he finishes, "the greatest sorceress in all Britannia." And his words come to a close, his gaze on her as he waits for response.

"Perhaps we are both enigmas," is all she states, though her tone is nearly sad. Here he is writing odes to her beauty, and here she sat knowing nothing of the heart.

Moments pass in silence. "There are feelings I don't believe I can convey," she pauses, "but I cannot write poems."

"I'm sure you could!" He reassures, "your brilliant, and —"

"No," she leans up from the lounge so they're sitting side by side, there legs lightly touch. "You think very dearly of me," she says, matter of fact.

"Oh, well, I-"

"Why do you think so dearly of me?" Her head tilts, and she wonders if this is how Gowther feels when he is so genuinely confused by others emotions.

His eyes widen, and he needn't say anything at all for her to know he's prepared an endless book, a poem that goes on, about all the reasons. The thought makes her feel something in her chest and under her skin, warm, glowing.

"I'm going to try something. It may be foolish but… I want to understand." She needed to understand.

"I can't write poems. I'm not good with words, emotions. I think I must," her voice becomes a whisper as their eyes meet, and she tilts her head naturally "find another way."

She doesn't close her eyes when they kiss. She is too startled. She'd kissed before: oh, many times. Her life has spanned too long to not try things for curiosity sake. But it had all been science then.

This was something more. She didn't know what it was, only that it was overwhelming, and she was a woman who was infrequently overwhelmed. Her eyes softly close. She gives in.

She kisses him, and she expects fire. But it is not flame, or passionate explosions, or even sparks. No, it is just warmth. Warmth and joy and the color of orange swirling beneath her closed eyelids.

After a few seconds of surprised paradise he gasps, and that breaks their lips apart. But she stays close.

"Merlin, I-"

"I feel," she begins, but she cannot continue on with words she doesn't know. "I feel." She simply repeats. A statement.

He nods because regardless of his poems stating she's an endless enigma, he tends to understand her on a level few others do. "There are somethings we can't explain," he repeats, "even brilliant people like you. Science nor magic… all the studies in the world… we cannot be taught. We just have to find it ourselves."

"Yes," she agrees.

"I think I'll call it love."

AN: This was a oneshot for my lovely friend Bertazsleepyhead on tumblr's birthday. It was meant to be a oneshot, but on the request of her I will be continuing it (also for my lovely friend Marco who loves this ship and had some prompt requests :) ). Originally posted on tumblr or archive, but figured I'd cross post to here. Thoughts are very appreciated, good or bad! And if you like Escalin, would love to hear thoughts and suggestions! Cover art is also by Bertaz, who does a ton of lovely escalin art on their tumblr!