.
.
On the way through the city, Merlin asks for directions from a bespectacled, elderly couple at one of the nearby crosswalks. They knew the quaint, small restaurant very well.
(And recommended the veal saltimbocca and focaccia.)
Arthur nearly made fun of him for getting them lost, seeing as the other man was nearly two thousand years and should have known the cities around him. But to be fair, he wouldn't do so well on his own either. Right now, Arthur's on high alert, most of it sensory overload, but comfortable. Merlin's close to him, and in high spirits, and that's good enough.
It's easily another ten minutes to locate it. During that time, Merlin glimpses of town workers constructing and stringing out the extravagantly large Christmas decorations. He doesn't point it out to his companion, seeing no reason to as Merlin has no opinion on the matter.
Arthur doesn't even know what Christmas is. And if the other man isn't going to ask… what's the point?
The rustic, stone-textured exterior of the restaurant building appears unflattering, but experience from the couple reveals they had been absolutely taken by hospitality and dining experience. The inside, however, is comfortably dimmed and golden lighting, plush chairs and genuinely smiling faces. And the wafting air of the cooking smells divine.
Arthur slips off the sunglasses off, tossing them into Merlin's bag. A hostess, clad in a black, pencil skirt and a red blouse, approaches them as the entrance doors shut.
"How many will it be this evening?"
As Merlin replies for them, Arthur realises what exactly she means with an inward cringe. It's still difficult learning what to say. He follows as she leads them towards a table tucked away next to a large window overlooking the street and the city outside.
There's an odd, not quite melancholy feeling trickling into Arthur's chest as he sits down.
If it had been anyone else, in any other time, such a casual encounter wouldn't have happened after yesterday, despite the easier ending. Arthur spent plenty of moments since waking up reminding himself that he should be mad, or at least keeping Merlin at a distance until he decided where he stood.
But… Arthur is tired of what he should do.
He doesn't want to feel as if he can't trust Merlin, because despite certain events and habits, and the secrets, Merlin is the closest thing to family he has. Before and after his own death. Merlin has always been so much more than that, and now they both have a chance to explore that.
Arthur isn't about to ruin that by holding a grudge.
He takes a slow breath as his eyes scan the electric lights of the cityscape outside the window.
.
.
They wound a path around a scatter of tables—some occupied with patrons, others littered with crumpled, red-fabric napkins as lonely company. Merlin appreciates the quieter, relaxed atmosphere. Away from the hustle and bustle.
He isn't unaccustomed to either. Quiet or busy. He's more practiced with hiding in plain sight, or deep in familiar, isolated woods.
Merlin favoured neither as well.
The passage of time has been granted to him, of being able to slowly adapt to the world and its major changes. Industry, politics, economics, popular culture, and the rights of human beings. If needed, Merlin easily shapes for any circumstance, accept any fluidity and trickles along with the ever-displacing river.
(Instead of rejecting it, and Merlin came so close long-ago… in his violent, wild grieving of Arthur's passing, clawing his fingers to the nail-beds, scraping the dark, rough earth of the Crystal Cave.)
Immortality opened his eyes, in many ways, but there had came stretches of his own time where Merlin wished to close them. Forever.
There's no such opportunity now. And none he desires. Arthur lives, and Arthur breathes, and smiles—there's unanswered questions lingering.
In retrospective, the trip so far doesn't exhibit disastrous results. Arthur has exactly what he wanted: a new outfit for Merlin that won't potentially embarrass either of them, and manages to find something to satisfy his own fussy preferences. There's relatively less trouble in it all, then say, a "normal" outing would have been in Camelot's era.
Merlin couldn't honestly say he remembers a "peaceful" outing with Arthur, not with memories of roaring bandits chasing after them, or tavern fights, or rogue, fanatical sorcerers seeking vengeance, or Merlin's own unfortunate brand of clumsiness that caused him to fall into a cold stream more than once. Or roll down a hill. Or roll down a hill and nearly be impaled down a rocky gorge or sword.
It could be possible that with all the trouble that heaped on, the peaceful days are here at last. As much as a fanciful thought it is.
Arthur had taken the plush seat across from him, also silently observing their surroundings as well. No tailback from the nearby road, just a steady flow of cars.
Merlin's eyes pull away to briefly gaze over the other man.
Arthur has that look about him. Excitement. Very faint. Very well-hidden.
It's a big change from the Arthur days-earlier, uncomfortable with walking down the pavement, staring outright in confusion and distrust. Rushing away from crowds, avoiding eyes with anything and everything. Arthur still has that mild impression of a daft parrot, like back at the faire-grounds, head turning every which way. Not chancing missing a second of mentally cataloging it.
Which is damn encouraging, Merlin adds to his own pile of consideration, unaware of his little, fond smile growing, eyes locked on Arthur's profile. He nearly misses someone clearing their throat.
"—Do you need a few more minutes?"
Reality comes jerking back, and Merlin jerks with it, facing a newcomer. The gentle-featured hostess nowhere to be seen. Their waiter, in similar black and red for uniform, purses his lips in slight amusement, seeming to be doing his best to keep it masked.
Arthur's head bows politely in greeting, but when the visitor first speaks, he's met with silence.
He assumes it mainly to do with the fact that Merlin is too busy staring at him to notice.
Raising an eyebrow, Arthur waits, holding back a knowing smirk. It's so incredibly obvious not just to Arthur, but to the third man as well when Merlin gives a wide-eyed, stammered response.
"Uh-mm." Damn it! There needs to be coherent words coming out of his mouth. "S'fine, just admiring the view," Merlin tries again, flashing a perfunctory smile when the waiter hands them the large, varnished menus. "We'll have some water before deciding."
"Right away, gents."
Merlin awkwardly opens his menu, propping it open and hunching down behind it, staring hard but pointless at the looping, scrawled text.
He could use a dangerously tempting swift half at this point from the alcohol selection. Or sixteen if he's going to be like this all night.
"Is the view of the menu just as nice?" Arthur drawls, sounding a mix of innocent and coy all at once. "You seemed rather distracted."
Oh, no. He knew that tiny, condescending smirk on Arthur's expression. He knew.
Ohhhh.
Let alone the waiter thinking he's completely mooning over Arthur, but Arthur figuring it out because Merlin was being a divvy? Talk about embarrassing. Maybe not as embarrassing as Arthur catching him in Gwen's dressing cabinet with a whole arm in a blue gown sleeve, but…
To hell with everything, Merlin's entire face burns to the point that he feels it up to the tips of his ears. Ugh.
Thankful for the menu blocking him, he furrows his eyebrows wordlessly at the playfulness tone in Arthur's voice.
"M'fine, you're barmy," Merlin says, muttering this, not returning the light-heartedness.
(Alright, yes, he knows he's being difficult… what of it?)
Arthur reaches out with the hand that doesn't open his own menu to prod at Merlin's, pushing it in towards the other man. Perhaps it's childish, but Arthur doesn't really care.
"You're going to bore a hole through it, if you keep staring like that," he observes.
"I have no idea what you're going on about," Merlin replies dismissively, much louder than a mumble. Feeling much more confident, and less flush, he stretches a hand out and smartly whacks the back of Arthur's hand with his fingers.
Looking decidedly unimpressed by any chuckling or halfhearted insult further of a reaction from his companion, Merlin lowers his varnished menu, skimming a lingering hand over some white-scrolling lines. With his other hand, he loosens the now uncomfortable knot to diamond-printed tie.
"Yes, of course," Arthur mutters.
He doesn't seem the least bit offended by the physical, instinctual reprimanding, taking the hand-slap with a warm, laughing grace. It's calm air between them, undisturbed of aggravation or doubt.
The gentle wonder, the calm air needs to stay that way, if it could. If they can manage it.
When Merlin does happen to glance up, eyes flicking to Arthur, he finds the other man's expression to be faintly smiling and relaxed. And in turn, Merlin's own loses the sensation of reservation and tightness.
Arthur can do that so easily to him… feel lighthearted, feel comfortable. And he really does look brilliant, to Merlin. Even in the dimness, with low-lights yellowing already pale hair, eyes softer blue.
Countless people in history tried to paint an exact image of Britain's most famous warlord of ancient folklore—the great Welsh king—the epitome of chivalric romance—the leader of the Knights of Old—the Once and Future King to return when the world truly needed.
Dark eyes, bright eyes, reddish-gold hair, hair darker than night, a beard, long hair, short hair, aged with a milky, weathered face, or scarred along his features from mighty and terrible battles…
They all tried their best—but, as Merlin secretly witnessed in amusement and disdain over centuries, the artist renditions never did get it right. (As it were, they never did about Merlin, either. But he always thought it would bedevil Arthur far more than it did him.)
"What do you want to eat?" Merlin asked blandly, clearing his throat a moment, continuing to stare down. Not at Arthur and his cheekiness. Or thinking about how close their knees are to brushing. "The aubergine parmigina looks good."
"The what?" Arthur says, bemusement in his tone. What sort of name is… whatever it was?
Most of these meals look like gibberish in Arthur's mind. The names mean nothing to him, the spelling even more odd. Merlin mentioned that this was called Italian, he believes.
Still, it means nothing to him.
Merlin's fingers slowly untangle from his achromatic-hued tie, as he pulls a thoughtful, silent gaze from his companion. And tried not to snicker.
No, he realistically couldn't have expected Arthur to have known what would be included on the restaurant's menu. Or how to gauge what he would want from it. Food changed drastically from how it was prepared in the feudal era, as was the variety of choices now. Reading all of this must have been very overwhelming.
Minding his sympathy, the warlock leans over the table a little more, towards Arthur, keeping his finger pressing to the varnished words as stormy, darker blue eyed stare back down. Arthur's knee collides to the table, rattling it momentarily, and Merlin decides to ignore it in favour of helping.
"How about this then?" His finger remains over one of the dishes. "It's shrimp and scallops, sauteed in white wine, fresh tomatoes, and served with sauteed spinach on top. It comes with rolls and potatoes."
A spark of eagerness arises in Arthur's face, through his eyes first. Merlin's lips upturn.
"It's not herb-crusted caper," he says, murmuring, "but… it's a new age. You might as well try what it has to offer."
Arthur's not quite convinced. How can he be? Then again, he never really chose what he wanted to eat, unless directly asked, or ordered it out of craving. He generally went with what the cooks made, unless feeling particularly picky.
"—Did you need more time deciding?"
Unbothered by the interruption, and sudden presence of their waiter, Merlin smoothly gathers up both menus, meeting a pair of curious, hazel eyes.
"He will have the Gamberie Capesanteal Vino Blanco." The accented words fall in perfect, uncomplicated rhythm. "And I will have the Fettuccine Carrettiera, without the garlic, please." Merlin asks, cheerfully, "Would you recommend the house wine?"
"With what you ordered, absolutely."
"Brilliant, we'll both take a glass." Merlin nods politely, and then lays a hand down on the table, opening his mouth. "And?" he calls the waiter back from turning around, flashing a wry grin. "Bramble."
"Right away."
Arthur's features bloom in mild shock. The accented language Merlin uses is like honey. Smooth, fluid, and almost heated. Thinking about it, Arthur probably should not have found it so shocking. Merlin's been around some time. Surely… he's made time to master a few languages.
He tries not to let that sink in too much. It would probably keep his head spinning all night, that Merlin floods with intelligence, knowledge that Arthur has no hope of ever knowing. Now that he's the idiot.
Merlin sinks back to his chair, wordless. He glances at Arthur, and then frowns playfully.
"What, did you think I would ask for cider?"
Within a few minutes, one of the wine glasses, brimming pink liquid, places in front of Merlin. He sips it, not waiting for Arthur to taste his first, enjoying the dry, oaky taste and sharpness of odour.
Busy explaining their orders, Merlin overlooked an opportunity to take in the slack-jawed response to the impeccable usage of Italian language.
(If Merlin had seen it, he likely would have found a subtle way to nudge Arthur about it, and then mentally indexed the response for the immediate future. Future teasing. Future teasing that hopefully ended in more delightfully surprised responses—Arthur's lips, rubbed raw and pink against Merlin's own, jaw loosening with pleased, sharp groans.)
The language was thick, rhythmic and unhurried. As Merlin learned through the eras, it flowed from the tip of your tongue, almost slurring.
Modern century liked to refer to the faintly beautiful and complex language to under the area of "Romantic" language created. But if he had to be honest, Merlin was rather fond of Sicilianu. A regional dialect of the country, but with deeper Mediterranean roots.
During his time wandering, Merlin found the island in its earlier years—a paradise surrounding ultra-blue waters and ultra-blue skies and bright, sweet island flowers. And the people he encountered… did not feared him. The villagers had been entertained and heartened by his abilities. The members of the sovereignty themselves displayed acts of magic.
It could have been home… maybe it could have. But then, Merlin was not prepared to settle, that tiny flame of hope in his chest still burning. Still calling him back to Glastonbury and Avalon's waters.
Settling… it never been an option.
"This is my favorite tree," she proclaimed, resting a hand against its bark, eyes green as the spring moss. "Promise me we'll come back."
Muffled screams of dying agony when the roaring pyre consumed the infected. His nostrils burned with the scent of charring bone and hair.
He buried her under the same yew tree, and their life together.
Merlin's jaw unclenches, as he fights to clear his mind. Of the phantom senses and ache in his heart and his bright-fogged memories. He swallows the rest of his wine glass, tipping his chin back and letting his eyelids shut. Merlin's fingers tremor visibly a moment, wiping at his upper lip as he stared off at nothing particular.
"With all the time you've spent in the tavern, Merlin…"
The haunting spell broken. The thinly veiled with lighthearted sarcasm.
"And you would think," Merlin points out, just as casually, but grinning in silent challenge, "that I would have made mention to all those days spent 'in the tavern' in my own private autobiography, hm?"
Arthur's using the tavern comment as a reaction, and counting on it. Of course, at the time Arthur weighed the idea of Merlin of all people staying out all night at the tavern as highly ridiculous. He was far too small and far too chipper in the morning to do so. But then there were those grumpy, passive aggressive mornings Arthur had to deal with that made him consider otherwise.
He knows the truth now, obviously, but that doesn't mean the jokes needed to cease.
Especially now that Arthur can chase that foggy, miserable expression of Merlin's away. It came again; Arthur inspects Merlin after taking his first drink.
"No," Arthur says in retaliation. He shakes his head. "I think even after all these years… you're still in denial. Or perhaps you don't remember enough to write down."
Merlin continued staring, grinning but saying nothing as Arthur does an experimental taste to his own glass of wine. No look of disgust appears.
"Indeed, this is much nicer." Arthur agrees, looking around the dimly lit restaurant.
Arthur's smirk could be so condescending and irritating. But it's welcome in these situations, even with the amount of relentless teasing.
He hadn't been sure Arthur would want another glass of wine, or preferred some water, but watches for the nod of approval. Arthur had been limited to water and mead for countless dinners. It's about time to switch things up. Wine with dinner usually is a sophisticated choice.
(Merlin isn't looking to get drunk before the night is over, and it's highly unlikely he could if he desired. It would take several more Brambles, and perhaps a Strongbow.)
In fact, Merlin doesn't want Arthur to feel intimidated or bored.
Not on their… first date, dear gods and stars above them all—like teenagers. Painfully over-aged teenagers.
The realisation still staggers Merlin's contemplation, and he blinks, startled when a new glass is placed in front of him.
"Here's your Bramble," the waiter says, taking up the empty wine glass. "Your food should be served in a couple more minutes. Anything else?"
After a moment, Merlin nods to his old wine glass.
"Another, cheers," he mumbles, not glancing up. "And for him, too."
The gin in his drink toes the line of very strong, nestled in the creme liquor and lemon juice. The sugar syrup helps placid its taste.
A bit of alcohol keeps Merlin from being clouded by emotions, or the suffocation of memories.
"Must feel nice, eh?" he speaks up, glancing at Arthur, lips twisting together but not in pain or disappointment. "Not having your meals cooked in the… bleedin' woods, or by someone as anal-retentive in the whole of Camelot as the head cook." Merlin snorts, amused. "Did you ever know her name? Gwen was constantly on about some woman named 'Audrey', and the seasoned pork, but I never got around to knowing it. Half the time the old codger looked at me like I was dodgy."
Arthur shifts in his seat, as he recalls the horror stories he heard from just about everyone in his company about the cook.
"Never knew the cook's name. I only knew she threatened to cut my knight's fingers off more than once. Seemed like a terrible woman." Arthur's eyes dart back to Merlin, a eyebrow raising coyly. "But I'm sure you have more experience. You weren't her favorite for good reason, from what I heard."
"She thought I was nicking food," Merlin explains, taking in the amused glint of Arthur's eyes, and chuckling. "Granted, I took a dumpling once. Once."
He holds up a single finger, face defensive. Merlin has a long drink of his sugary gin, lips smacking.
"I had been doing your chores, and then Gaius' chores and collecting herbs, and couldn't find the time to slow down and cook something, so I just… did."
A shrug.
"Of course, I got caught," Merlin recalls, eyes narrowing. "She threatened to have me strung up by my ears. But then, Lancelot got there first and y'know, I think she fancied him…" A faint glow of fondness in Merlin's eyes at the mention of an old friend. "In any case, he saved my arse from the ladle and her striking arm."
There had been a moment, no matter how brief, that Arthur wondered if the subject would draw the heaviness back into Merlin's eyes.
They managed a few successful conversations of the past, including the night previous, but Arthur treads carefully. He had to relearn the triggers, the steps that would not make the floor cave beneath his feet. As much as Merlin is still himself, there's a complex puzzle underneath. Arthur is more than aware of that.
To be able to talk so easily about the past. With someone who understands it better than most.
The only person who understands.
Like how Arthur's head tilts, or how he leans on an open hand. The blond man chuckles lightly as Merlin recounts everything and grins with the glimmer of memories. And that's what they are—glimmers of daylight, fleeting in nature, wonderful and sharp and so very out-of-reach. To both of them.
Talking about Lancelot leaves Merlin with a deep-pinching but joyful ache in his heart.
He really had the noblest of them all. Brave and true. Lancelot known Merlin perhaps more than he knew himself. That uncanny ability—empathising with others, gentle and firm in his speech and manner. Lancelot had always been able to search out the trouble in Merlin's expression and thoughts, and offer calm insight, advice. The most valuable counsel as a friend Merlin could have asked for.
It would have been hard to not have fallen in love with that man and knight. Merlin had not blamed Guinevere for her infatuation.
"Noble Lancelot, to the rescue again," Arthur muses, finishing off the rest of his wine glass as he resists a dry chuckle. That's a tale as old as time. Even for Merlin. Even for him. "Good thing. Your fragile body couldn't handle much of a beating."
At the fragile comment, though offhanded, Merlin laughs into his drink, perhaps a little too hard and a little too obviously.
He asks quietly, blue eyes crinkling, "Is that a promise for later?" Face revealing nothing but his grin and intrigue in how Merlin's eyebrows curve slightly up. "Because, I can assure you, I'm a lot stronger than I look."
Just as Merlin puts up his drink again, mouth tingling for it, the waiter returns with a full tray and their plates.
"Here you are, gents." Arthur's new wineglass set down by the old one being snatched up.
Arthur's lips ghost into a smile.
What Merlin meant didn't register until after the food arrived. The mental image it offered proves to be the new distraction. Merlin claims to be stronger than he looks, and the invitation to test that out is made quite clear. He would very much like to continue this discussion further, but later.
His plate smells delicious, and it's unlike anything had ever seen. Pasta and shrimp in a heavy sauce. Arthur hesitates, picking up his fork.
"Excellent," Merlin says, eyeing his own steaming food with longing.
"Anything else for you?"
"I think we're sorted, thank you."
The heartiness of the fettuccine hits Merlin's tastebuds immediately, flaring the dragging hunger.
He swirls the noodles around his fork, though inelegantly, taking another mouthful and humming his pleasure. He chances a quick look at Arthur at the same moment, cheeks full.
The waiter sweeps away, a speck of black and red fabric in the dim, pale yellow lighting, and Merlin watches up through his eyelashes as Arthur lifts a utensil and poked at his food. It isn't poisonous, for god's sake. Merlin really isn't going play royal taste-tester—bugger on old tradition.
Arthur takes the plunge himself, scooping it onto his fork before spearing a piece of shrimp. The moment he had it in his mouth, Arthur is thankful.
"You like it?" Merlin nods, encouraged. "Good. Thought so."
He gives a hum of approval, deciding not to roll his eyes at the obvious pride in Merlin's voice. He's right, in any matter—the food is delicious.
The long silence that follows between them while eating is anything but suffocating, or difficult to bear.
Out in the Darkling Woods, while on ceremonial hunts or some other rubbish excuse Arthur had about spending a few nights in the cold and wet (when Merlin could have enjoyed the shelter and warmth of Gaius' tiny hearth in his workshop)—there were dinners like this. Enjoying the silence and company. The close proximity of someone you trusted. Though, Merlin suspected, Arthur rather enjoyed the 'Merlin not gabbering on like a fool' bit.
The restaurant provides background noise, soft and unintruding. Silverware clanking, voices whispering, money setting down on tables.
Somehow, their legs gravitate closer, Arthur's knee pressing with steady weight to Merlin's leg. But, he's not about to point it out to Arthur, to risk losing the pleasant sensation.
And then, the background noise grows heavy, more insistent and louder.
A woman crying out.
Merlin's head whips around, hearing gasps.
A girl, no more than a child, lying motionless to the carpeted floor. The woman who must have cried out goes to her knees, hovering over her, shaking the girl's shoulders violently. A burst of instinctive energy draws Merlin from sitting, thinking of nothing else as he joins the woman, slipping off his black suit-jacket quickly.
"What happened?"
"She was eating, s—she just started coughing and fell over!" The woman's eyes teary and blown wide. "I'm just her nanny, I—Alice!"
Merlin grips onto her wrist tightly, warningly, as she reaches for the girl once more and likely to shake her and possibly do more harm.
"Stop, please." He lets go, hand raising up as her eyes glare. "Don't move her," Merlin explains, placidly. "If she starts seizing, she'll need the space we can give her. Do you know if she has a history of fainting?"
"I've called for an ambulance!" The hostess from earlier pipes up, hand knuckling to her mobile. He nods, thanking her.
A group of the restaurant patrons are beginning to crowd, and need to sod off.
Before Arthur recognises what happened, he meets gazes with Merlin's empty chair. He sees Merlin disappear into the crowd and is on his feet immediately—what was he to do?
A pulse. Merlin's fingers search for it, on the girl's neck. Shallow breathing.
"Who the bloody hell are you?" the nanny demands, already letting her panic overcome her and make her angry.
"My name is Leon Uhas."
A lie.
"I'm a registered EMT."
Not really a lie. He hasn't been on-duty with the program in twenty-some years.
"I just want to help her."
Absolutely not a lie.
The woman's anger deflates. Her eyes blinking rapidly, a tear rolling. "Her mum said she had asthma, b-but—"
A weak cough. The girl's breathing deepens, though rattling. Merlin stares down as her eyes flutter open, dazed. "Your nanny is here with me, love," he tells her, smiling brightly, fingertips touching the top of her head kindly. "My name is Leon. Can you tell me your name?"
"Alice," comes a meek, breathy whisper.
"That's a beautiful name. Do you know where you are?" As the girl recites back everything correctly, including the year and her home address and her favorite animal, Merlin poises the next question, fingers stroking absently, "Are you taking any medicine? An inhaler?"
The woman then scrambles for her purse sitting in her own booth, face reddening, "Oh, christ. I didn't even think—"
"It's fine. It's better to be calm. Do you need your inhaler, Alice?" The girl shakes her head, still lying flat on her back to the carpet. "Has anything ever happened like this before?" Another head-shake.
Merlin folds his suit-jacket in his hands, into a puffy square. "I'm going to slide this behind your neck, tell me if it hurts." With no compliant, Alice remains unmoved, eyes clearing from the earlier daze, but still fearful. "That's better, isn't it?" he asks her, his smile never wavering.
Arthur has no idea what the crisis is, or how to handle it. From the appearance of it, something's wrong with the girl. But it's not wound he knows how to treat.
Merlin, on the other hand, seems be the only one who does understand.
That settles that, then.
He hustles over to the busy, murmuring gathering, looking for Merlin on the ground before touching a firm hand on the shoulder of the women to his left. She starts by the action, but doesn't protest at the concerned look in his eyes.
"Give them some space. Crowding them will only make it more difficult for help to come," Arthur says. "Tell everyone else to do the same."
Between the two of them, most of the crowd retreats by the time Arthur finally looks back at Merlin. When he does, Merlin stares up. Arthur pauses, small frown on his lips as he silently questions what's going on, but when he's gestured forward, Arthur obeys.
"The ambulance is a couple minutes away."
The hostess spoke up, but Merlin's eyes were on Arthur, confused but level-headed.
"Arthur, can you give me your jacket?" Merlin murmurs up to him, with stormy blue eyes wordlessly thanking him for being there, but also for being out of the way. Arthur's jacket lands into his grasp. He allows the nanny to spread the thick, expensive jacket over the girl's front.
Merlin catches the girl's eyes peering at his king, uncertain by the new face.
"This is my friend, Arthur," he says, cheerfully. "He's a cabbagehead." Finally, a genuine, child-like smile creases her lips. "King of cabbageheads. No unicorns or fairies, just stinky old cabbages."
From behind him, he's sure Arthur was rolling his eyes at him.
"And Leon here is our court jester." he replies, smirking and wrinkling his nose. "Makes the cabbages laugh."
The scene becomes more hectic, as the emergency personnel stomp in, and ask them questions and ask everyone else.
But the girl is going to be alright.
Merlin blocks the rest of it, uninterested in any stares or inquiring. He just wants to go back to his table now, and with Arthur, and finish his meal.
He stares contemplatively out the window, as the flashing lights of the ambulance fade off, elbows propped up and hands bunched up, His backs of his thumbs push up against Merlin's closed mouth.
"She had a reaction to a food allergy, I know it," he mumbles, to no-one in particular. The street lights flick on, glowing ugly. Merlin's shoulders, bare of his jacket, constrain, and then relax.
"You alright?" Merlin addresses the other man, eyes still on the window.
Arthur only touches the glass of water brought for him at some point as he stares at Merlin. The other man is distant, eyes on the window with the coloured lights flashing against his skin. When he speaks up monotonously, Arthur strains to hear him,.
"Fine," he answers—because it's true. "Are you?"
Arthur's decision to go with "fine" as an answer holds no scathing nature in it. Merlin believes him wholeheartedly. (A fainting little girl has not been the worst thing either of them had seen.)
Sun-gold fingers tap quietly to the sides of the drinking glass to Arthur's reach. He wants to know how Merlin's doing, in turn.
For the growing, intensifying silence between them to rupture.
Arthur's eyes have been on him the whole time, surveying him with just a hint of bared concern. For some reason, Merlin feels a weak prickle of scorn overtake him.
"I'm used to it," he says, hands lowering, his own blue eyes still on the window. Very difficult to ignore the weighed tone in Merlin's voice, things unspoken, sloshing just below the surface.
"I can… y'know," Merlin then does meet Arthur's eyes, expression serious but lacking the previous heaviness, "I can teach you all this. How to handle an emergency situation on your own. How to take care of the victim. It's a start to understanding the modern age and what to do."
Arthur feels the small curl of tension in his chest vanish.
Merlin lifts his newest wine glass, happening to have asked for the darker, bolder taste of the red wine. "I suppose you are happening to live with a physician who got his doctorate at least…" Merlin stares off at an unnamed spot in his vision, fingers dancing as he counts, "twenty odd bloody times. I've lost track."
He may not know what a doctorate is, or why Merlin got it twenty or so times, but Arthur grasps what he's really saying. Merlin's skilled, and Arthur has no doubt of that in his mind. What's better is Merlin offers to help him learn. That, Arthur accepts.
"I guess you're the right man for the job, then," he responds, mouth curling to a smile as Arthur drinks his water.
That does the trick. Lightening the mood.
Merlin feels better after a laugh. Feels lighter.
His head is feeling lighter too, as well as beginning to haze. Presumable since now the bevvys at their table are on the house. (He refused any offers for the meals, intending on using that gift certificate, but eventually caved on the drinks from the manager.)
He loses track of the hours as well. The sun dips behind the horizon.
Conversation dwindles from an introductory course to Britain's early history and political system and trying to explain to Arthur famous inventors like Vladmir Barmin and Maurice Hilleman… seeing as the more alcohol effects Merlin, the more babbling he's apt to do.
Arthur does most of the listening, feeling all too much like the child prince learning of the world outside his castle walls.
Merlin's hands cradle a large glass of delightfully sweet blueberry vodka and lime cordial.
The drinks may cloud his actual understanding, though. They haven't stopped coming since the owner insisted on them being without charge. Arthur certainly hadn't complained. Merlin's starting to glow faintly in the lighting of the room.
The restaurant has wound down from the earlier activity—back to the soft, muted echoes of silverware and money being placed down and whispers. The hostess returns Arthur's jacket, zipped in her violet-colored, puffy coat and on her way out from her shift.
A couple, a man and a woman, peck lips under some mistletoe beneath the arch leading to the restrooms.
Merlin catches the sight of one of the staff members balanced on a metal step-stool, making a dangerous game of her whirring staple gun and an already lit-up string of neon green and red lights.
"Fairy lights," Merlin observes aloud, swallowing a mouthful of his drink. At the odd look from his companion, Merlin makes a not-so-handsome face at him.
Arthur's eyes blearily trail to the lights being hung. Fairy lights.
What else would they have come up with? He's brought back to attention by Merlin's mumbling.
"What?" Arthur asks, realising it takes a moment to get the simple word out.
"Not real fairies… duffer," Merlin says, using the insult affectionately. Maybe. It's getting harder to consciously limit the amount of emotion in his voice. And everything is still hazy around the corners. Merlin stares down at his very, very blue glass.
"Think they're tryin'a get me pissed," comes another noteworthy observation, a little more murmury and slower than the last. Is Arthur pissed, too? How much has he had compared to Merlin?
His fingers snatch up his unfolded jacket. Merlin says, getting up with relative steadiness to his equilibrium, "Should… get some air."
He doesn't plan on leaving Arthur out of the sudden impulse-driven equation.
Merlin grasps slippery-wet from the condensation on his glass to Arthur's wrist, starting to pull him from the seat. When he isn't getting the proper response he wants—namely, Arthur following—Merlin complains, eyebrows furrowed, "Air. Breathing. Outside." Each word punctuates with a firm tug on Arthur's hand. "Gooo."
His lips draw into an indignant frown, muttering about impatience, but Arthur finally heaves himself towards the door and pushes his way outside.
The chill of the air is a sharp contrast to the warmth of the indoors. Arthur's sharp breath producing a stream of fog in front of his face. He unfolds the jacket from over his arm and manages to get it on, looking over at his companion.
He very well isn't just going to stand here in the cold. The streets are lit up, bright from the cars passing and the decorative lights laced around lamps. It's strangely beautiful, in a way. Reminds him of riding up to the castle on festival nights.
"C'mon," Arthur mutters to Merlin, a hand coming up to guide him in the same direction. Instead of the shoulder like intended, it misses and presses itself to Merlin's lower back. Arthur doesn't bother correcting it; he still can very well shove him forward like that.
Several people wave on the way out, and Merlin waves back with a bright, dopey expression.
The thick padding of his black suit-jacket will be useful for the weather, seeing as the bitter cold of winter approaches quickly. But Merlin isn't feeling confident in his ability to get it on without stumbling about, or stumbling into the passerbys on the sidewalk.
And he doesn't feel that cold anyway, even if everyone else is in their mitts and hats and fur-lined coats. The alcohol coursing through his system keeps him a touch above giddy and shiver-free.
Going along with the sincere and unfounded euphoria, rising steadily, Merlin openly meet eyes with at a few groups of strangers cutting around he and Arthur, grinning in their direction and swiveling his head around to keep them in his line-of-sight. Most of them ignore him, and how ridiculous he may have seems trying to catch their eye. But a group of young women in uni shirts rake their gazes over him and smile back, curiously. Whispering to each other and laughing, their cheeks reddened by the exposure of the wind's chill.
And then he jolts in place, blinking dazedly and looking away, Arthur's hand unexpectedly smacking into his lower back.
"Oi," Merlin complains, eyes narrowing, but reacting no more than that. The hand does not removed itself, and presses warmly… it's not that the closeness is unwelcome. But, sheesh, Arthur doesn't need to strike him or anything to get Merlin walking down the street.
Nevertheless, the warlock silently does as the hand commands, stepping on forward. Arthur joins him, walking at his side towards the intersection of the avenue. His magic tingles in the familiarity of Arthur's heat just out of reach. Towards the town square, where it appears to be far busier with more faces and more cars, Merlin gets a decent look at the earlier decorations being string up.
Colorfully-lit, fake wreaths and garlands high above, wrapped around the streetlights and also high above the actual roads, gently swaying.
"Why are there decorations going up?" Arthur questions, eyes roaming. "Some sort of festival?"
Arthur's voice drifts in Merlin's hearing. A festival?—oh, right.
"Christmas!" he says, loudly. Perhaps a bit too grinny and a little too enthusiastically. Not stopping their aimless wandering, Merlin explains, head bobbing, "Christmas is… when you are happy." Blue eyes fond. "And you give presents to other people because you like them. Loads."
Christmas?
That's the answer Arthur receives loudly from Merlin, bright and smiling as he does so. Arthur looks over at him in mild apprehension, the exuberance catching his attention as he waits for further explanation. What he gets is… vague.
Arthur nods, the motion heavy. So they hang decorations on Christmas because you give others gifts? That hardly makes sense. Yet, he doesn't questioning it.
(He's just glad Merlin is otherwise distracted when he stumbles over a curb. Arthur collects himself quickly, of course, pressing down the front of his jacket to smooth it, more upright as he sways. Bloody bump, coming out of nowhere.)
There's music playing faintly from somewhere further off, perhaps one of the buildings, and Arthur makes out the sound of bells along with a harmonious tune and voices singing along. Whatever it is, there's a cheerfulness Arthur doesn't understand.
But, it's mildly infectious.
"And you're not a prat on Christmas," Merlin adds, frowning and poking Arthur's shoulder sternly, with his hand not gripping to his jacket. As if Arthur has already broke the imaginary rules. "You wear sweaters and go caroling and… drink—"
A burst of lukewarm water hits Merlin directly under his chin, jetting into the air and splashing him.
Everywhere around him, the smooth, dark, paneled ground erupts in spurts of water coloured by purples and blues and reds. He chokes out a breath, wiping off his dripping face and the urge to laugh—embarrassed and confused—tickles at the back of his throat.
From beside him, Arthur looks equally sodden. At the look on his face, Merlin does laugh, hiccuping through it and covering his mouth.
Arthur sputters, only getting the common sense to step back after a few moments of shock. Now with water dripping from his eyelashes and chin, chilled like ice against the air until he raises a hand to wipe it away.
"What—" he mutters, eyes looking around and then to Merlin.
He can't help it. The laughter escaping Merlin grows hoarse and breathless, interrupted periodically by a stray, gasping hiccup.
Arthur's eyes slit, but despite himself a tight smile forms on his lips.
They are complete dunces. It's early, freezing December, without their jackets, and they are standing inside a nighttime ground fountain. Lit by the glow-casts of neon blues and greens and oranges.
Water, slowly growing colder against Merlin's heated skin, courses from his hair. Trickling down the sides of his face and the back of his neck. More water, lukewarm and clean, as the installed system blasts it in an automated pattern, raining down on them.
He's sure they had attracted some degree of attention.
Arthur's wet, shadowed expression, lacking chagrin or any palpable displeasure, blossoms into something wonderfully familiar. Something born of genuine feeling, of a mad, defiant excitement.
The confusion is there. Perhaps embarrassment. Merlin feels the same. But he's also happy… happy. The very word feels thick and knotty against Merlin's tongue of ages. There… simply has not been a reason to be. Not in isolation, not in distancing himself or reveling in an ugly, gray forever-world without sunlight. Not for a good, long time.
Happiness and laughter. They come so easily now.
And the other man is laughing, too. Grinning stupidly big, nearly identical to Merlin. Reaching out to touch, large fingers of one hand scooping Merlin's bangs and combing the mop away, out of Merlin's eyes.
The last of the hiccups die inside the warlock's throat, strangled out of existence when Arthur's hand slide over his cheek briefly. Without reason: irresistible and numbing, that human-warmth.
Merlin turns for it, lips scraping the edge of Arthur's palm.
"You're a soaking mess," Arthur scolds, quietly.
"Better than you," he replies, voice croaking, eyes flicking back to Arthur's own. Deja vu softly whispering a memory, but through an unmoved, glass door. "Look like a drowned rat."
A beautiful one.
Unbeknownst to him, it leaves clinging to Merlin's lips, reverberating to life.
The memory shines brighter. Arthur and his yellow hair dampened. Feudal-era armor strapped over broken, heavy mail. Arthur came back to the world like this: a cleansing layer of water to his strong-boned features and with a tremble to his bones. This time, without fear of the unpredictability, and having embraced the moment.
They are standing once again on the brink of something changing.
And a singular question, floating hazy, rushed out for a claiming:
"Go?"
(Home.)
Perhaps if he glanced around to the odd glances their way as strangers walked by, Arthur probably would have guessed that they weren't supposed to be standing there.
Then again, it wasn't as if he actually cared.
Merlin just called him beautiful.
Part of him, shrinking further away by the day, wants to joke. To tease him. Instead, Arthur's grin softens, eyes flickering over Merlin's face.
"Let's go then."
.
.
BBC Merlin isn't mine. Almost 8,000 words for this update! Hope everyone enjoyed! It's been a very rough couple of weeks for me, and then the mass shooting happened and members of my community are dead, and I'm trying to find a way to process all of us. My birthday is Saturday and I didn't want to wait that long to update, so I my not post anything then but again, hope this was something that made you happy to read! Any thoughts/comments always appreciated.