A/N: This chapter is, Merlin reacting to Arthur's return – next (and final) chapter will be, Merlin adjusts to Arthur's return. That one is done, so it should be up in a few days…

Also, warning for mention of self-harm, though the next chapter is worse…

Time Was (part 1)

On occasion, Merlin resists waking, and clings to his dreams. That usually happens whenever he dreams of Arthur. Because sometimes it's hard to recollect clear memories, awake.

And it scares him – not to death, though he may wish it – scares him to his bones, the thought that bits and pieces will get lost somehow in the process of recollection. Disappear, more and more of them. Til there's nothing coherent, and then just… nothing.

He's dreamed that he's lying in bed – his body knows this is true, so on a subconscious level, he accepts the dream as truth, though he knows he's dreaming – and that he's just heard the front door of the apartment close. Through the tiny front room, down the short hall, into the bedroom. He dreams he heard footsteps, even on the carpet, the whisper of clothing familiar.

The sound stops in the doorway. He dreams he blinks, once, at a broad-shouldered, golden-haired figure leaning there against the painted trim – not entering, just watching him.

Conscious and awake, he might claim to still believe Arthur will come back, someday. Because he couldn't imagine denying it out loud. But, conscious and awake, deep down, he's stopped believing. Only in dreams does he still envision it actually happening. And then it's never true, and destroys him all over again.

He senses sunlight – the morning, the day – against his eyelids, and knows, his body on the mattress and pillows is facing the window, not the door.

It's a dream, there's no one there.

Part of him wants to stay dreaming. Another part fights to roll over and open his eyes, convinced that Arthur is standing right there – right freakin' there – just waiting for Merlin to roll over and open his eyes.

His eyes drag open involuntarily, inevitably. Blinded by the sunlight, fighting to adjust, and all through him is a horrible black hole of emptiness, where hope and despair claw at each other in a never-ending, unwinnable war – trying to come out, trying to bury one or the other or both together. If he'd had more to drink, last night, if he'd eaten something too greasy or too sweet, he'd be vomiting right now onto whatever was on the floor beside the bed because he couldn't afford to get it on the carpet. Which was ironic, as long as he'd had to accumulate savings, he really was broke, at the moment.

And… he sees that his floor is clear of clutter. That's odd enough to drag perception up from his stomach to his brain.

The daylight soothes him. Another day, no different than the rest. Better than some, worse than others. Endurable, because what other choice does he have? Bury it in the avalanche of all those days still to come…

Then, someone shifts in bed next to him, behind him, and he freezes. He doesn't remember having brought someone home. Last night, what happened last night, was he even out? He's afraid to look –

And then the person lets out a deep, unflattering – and therefore masculine – grunt.

Holy cows. A man? A man in his bed, howinhell -

Merlin pushes himself up on one elbow to clear his pillow, turns his head to look-

And stares. A minute or an hour or a lifetime or longer. Because he knows that jaw, that nose, the cheekbone and the flop of straight straw hair blending with the eyebrow just above closed eyes.

Gosh and golly. It finally happened.

Took long enough.

True insanity.

Not the self-doubt crap he's struggled with, before. That usually he can cure with a sharp blade to the wrist. And wake up in a bloody bathroom without even a scar to show for it. Still alive, still waiting, therefore he is who he thinks he is.

Merlin, the great magician, the great failure, cursed to wander the earth forever and never able to atone. Like Jacob Marley, wearing ponderous and invisible chains.

He turns his face away. Moves the sheet and blanket so he won't trip in trying to get out of bed. Swings his feet to the carpet, moving carefully so the mattress doesn't jostle Arthur awake – insanity, remember, there's no one there to wake – stands and crosses to the window.

He looks out at the cemetery in the valley, the peaks of the mountain range beyond. Sears his eyeballs to tears looking at the sun reflecting from buildings beyond the graveyard, nestled in the foothills. Blinks and sends them down his cheeks at the sound of another grunt and sleepy rustle.

Turns. Looks another long moment, before he puts his back to the wall, and lets his legs give out. He sinks all the way to the carpet, but it doesn't put him low enough to hide the top of the mattress from view, or who his broken mind tells him is on it.

Helplessly he watches Arthur wake up. Memories tear through him, fresh and burning, all the familiar that he thought he'd forgotten. If it's a dream, he doesn't want to wake. If he's finally, finally lost it… he doesn't know how to keep from finding it.

Arthur rolls to get an elbow under him, pushes up to sitting and slouches forward over knees bent and sprawled apart. He rubs his eyes, then his face; every movement is sharply unbelievable, and Merlin can't look away, visually devouring his king, his friend, the reason for his being…

He puts a fist to his mouth to keep silent, bites his knuckle very hard because if he's going to wake at all, he wants it to be now, before-

Arthur looks at Merlin, awareness dawning on his own face. And for seconds – minutes – centuries – they stare at each other. Then Arthur's eyebrows shoot up, and his mouth pulls sideways in a hesitant grin.

"You can see me," he says.

The words crawl inside Merlin's ears and melt, soft and warm and deadly and vital as blood. That voice. After all the voices he's ever heard, sometimes he's wondered, would he pick it out of a crowd blindfold. Now he knows.

But, the words don't make sense. Oh, right. Insanity it is.

"If this was going to happen," Merlin whispers mournfully, "why couldn't it have happened right away?" Delusional might have been a far more comfortable way to spend his time.

"You mean me coming back?" Arthur yanks the blankets away, scooches to the edge of the bed – the mattress dips exactly as if he's actually sitting there. "I asked them the same thing, they wouldn't tell me. It isn't time yet, or some such nonsense."

"No, not –" Merlin shakes his head. Dazed and confused because – return? they? – "I mean…" He clicks his tongue, and circles his ear with his forefinger. "Not that I'm complaining, if it's going to last – godinheaven make it last –"

He chokes his voice back before a sob or a scream can escape. He will if he has to, one or the other or both, but it's usually after at least an attempt to control himself.

"I think –" Arthur says hesitantly, glancing around the room before pushing himself to his feet. "I think it's going to last. It's for real, if you can see and hear me. They wouldn't be this cruel. I don't think." He takes a few steps, twisting to face the empty air of the room, even as he approaches Merlin, crouched on the floor by the base of the wall next to the window. "I can stay, right? I'm back for good, for some reason? Don't do this to him, now, okay?"

When there is no answer, Merlin is half-surprised, and doesn't know why. But Arthur is looming, the carpet depressed beneath his socks – Merlin thinks, jeans and white t-shirt, Arthur never wore those how did he get those not mine because he wouldn't fit my size – and he scrambles sideways for the corner.

Arthur stops, staring at him again.

Why did that happen? Merlin doesn't truly know. It only seems to him, if Arthur touches him, he will break wide open and all those cracks he felt in the making – long dark lonely nights when every ticking second was an eternity and a half – would pour blood and memories and bits of his melted soul like the cuts in his arms did, gushing and gouting and killing him for good this time, no unconscious sealing of traitor flesh.

Slow down. Just slow the hell down so his mind doesn't shatter.

"Merlin, it's –" Arthur takes another step and kneels, blocking him in the corner with his hands raised like he's surrendering, but still advancing. "It's me. This is real. I don't know how or why, but I'm here. I always have been, actually – well, mostly, but –"

"Don't touch me!" The words burn Merlin's throat coming out because oh.

He has waited for Arthur to touch him and it's happening too fast, he's not ready Arthur is going to realize how miserably imperfect he is, and draw back and that will be unbearable. Please…

Arthur is touching him anyway. Merlin feels hands, heavy and warm and strong, on his shoulders. He can't escape; he turns his face to the wall and closes his eyes to retreat – dreams, insanity – and Arthur's fingers pull him insistently closer, enough to get round the back of him even though he's resisting and his knees and fists are still between them -

Why? hasn't he waited forever for this? why is he so stiff?

- and pulls him close enough for another sense to attack Merlin like a damn tank, broadside and crawling over him with hard ridged tracks.

Because now he can smell Arthur.

Faintly woodsmoke. Faintly, faintly, the blend of oils and polishes used for armor, weaponry, tack. His smell makes Merlin think of sweat and the woods, sunshine and horses, without actually smelling any of that.

He's completely unprepared for this, what this sense does to him, a memory he didn't even know he had, and suddenly his hands are fisted in Arthur's plain white t-shirt and his nose is buried in the crook of Arthur's neck and he's inhaling like a starving man in a bakery.

Each exhalation is a sob. Five or six of them, he doesn't know, until they're voiced sobs – and then screams. Loud, or silently hoarse, he's too far gone to tell, but Arthur doesn't protest – Merlin is protesting, expressing his pain and the invisible scars of loneliness and the unending ache of his crippling burden. And it doesn't help – it never helps – but it relieves, and it exhausts, and sometimes it's easier to endure when he's exhausted and doesn't try anymore, only exists…

But hanging on to Arthur's clothing isn't enough. He surges forward, grasping and gathering and close isn't close enough, he needs to be inside Arthur's skin. But that's impossible, so he settles for his fingers on the pulse in Arthur's neck, his other arm octopused around Arthur's ribs to breathe with him, Arthur's air stirring strands of Merlin's hair, in and out without stopping, without leaving him.

He settles – finally – and realizes Arthur's talking to him, babbling nonsense meant to soothe. First he only listens to Arthur's voice, the repetition that doesn't leave him, before hearing words in a tone of voice he's rarely heard Arthur use. As if Arthur himself is close to tears.

It's all right, I'm here, I understand, I missed you, I missed this, You're all right, We're all right. I'm back.

Time was, Merlin would have resisted Arthur's sympathy and comfort, would have hidden his need for such from his prince and king. In Arthur's mind, anyone who needed it was somehow weak or less. And Merlin had gotten used to hiding everything.

Except, that was a long time ago. And there is a certain point in any experience of trauma, when the person involved ceases caring what anyone else thinks, and simply survives the best or the only way they know how.

So Merlin speaks, too.

"I hate you I hate you, you left me and I missed you and I failed you, I'm sorry it was my fault all my fault, what took you so long, I've been waiting I've been waiting –"

His throat is raw and his entire chest is burning with each breath and he'd always thought this – this – would fix him. He knows he's not all right, not really, not deep down – how can he be, men are not meant to last this long or endure this exquisite sort of torture. Even when times were good, his loss and his waiting resided like a shard-in-the-chest of his own. Such an immense failure, and centuries of waiting to make it right, and now he doesn't know how. Doesn't believe he can, anymore.

And still he hurts. Arthur's presence now makes the years of loneliness hurt more, somehow. Why so long?

You should have come back sooner, before the damage became irreparable…

"I've been waiting. So. Damn. Long." He whispers, energy spent, each word an effort.

Arthur shifts so that they're next to each other in the corner of the room, his arm still around Merlin's shoulder, their knees crammed together. "I know," he says, intense and gentle at once, and Merlin ducks his head away, unable to bear that blue gaze from his king, who every time gave his all in a way that made his men give so damned much in return, and feel privileged to do so. "Merlin, I know."

He doesn't understand. At times he's considered incidents and events in his very long life dispassionately, thinking, what am I going to tell him of this, someday. But he hasn't thought that, for a while. There's so much. There's too much.

Arthur's stomach interrupts his thoughts, growling with unmistakable hunger, and Arthur chuckles in a way that tells Merlin he's a bit embarrassed.

See, you haven't forgotten, you do remember him.

"Hungry?" Merlin suggests, turning his head to wipe his face on his own t-shirt. He realizes that, for as often and as many plans he's made over the years, what he would do, when Arthur returned, he has no idea right now, how he's supposed to fill the time. Sit around talking? Neither of them had ever been much for that, although he supposes it's going to have to happen sometime – he has so much to tell – and so much he never wants to –

Arthur pulls back from him, and for a moment, something inside Merlin that cares nothing for logic panics. He instinctively feared and avoided Arthur's touch, but now it seems to him that if Arthur stops touching him, he never will again. Merlin checks this thought with an effort to be logical.

"You're always hungry," he adds, covering whatever expression might have revealed his reaction to Arthur – as he always had.

But Arthur is turning away to push himself to his feet. "You would be too, if you had to wait fifteen hundred years to actually eat food again."

Merlin scoffs as Arthur reaches a hand down and yanks him to his feet. Because – fifteen hundred years. One of his worries had become, telling Arthur how much time had passed. Somehow, though, he already knows. "Well, you certainly don't look the worse for the diet."

"Thanks very much." Arthur flashes him a grin that breaks his heart.

Literally. He feels it – and dammit, why is it hurting? Shouldn't that smile stop it all hurting? So long, I've wanted that, and didn't have it and couldn't have it –

Maybe it's like the cold. Too cold for too long, and the warmth dreamed of and longed for and needed, hurts initially.

"I've got…" He leads the way to the doorway of the bedroom – noticing that it seems to have been tidied – "Mm, not sure. Not much, and nothing fancy…" Arthur used to have what, for breakfast? Roast chicken, sometimes. Biscuits and sausage – he could probably run out to McDonald's, honestly –

"Don't do fancy," Arthur says from behind him. "Please. I'm not…" Merlin pauses and turns, but not quite to facing Arthur. "I'm not royalty, Merlin. I'm not your master anymore."

Once he thought he'd have leaped for joy and laughed out loud to hear Arthur say that. Now, it makes him feel a little lost.

Yes, you are, and always will be. Happy to be your servant til the day… and all that. Haven't died yet, you see. 'Course I'm your servant why else would I have waited I had to it was my duty and destiny and atonement –

"I'll prove it," Arthur says, maybe mistaking his hesitation. "Go on and use the bathroom first." He even gives Merlin a little shove through the narrow door.

Merlin bangs his shin on the toilet, reaching automatically for the light switch. Closing the door like he's always done, even though he's almost always alone, because it always feels too weird leaving it open. Mechanically, he goes through brief morning routines – hyper-aware of indoor plumbing today - and pauses at the sink.

Avoids his own eyes in the mirror-front of the medicine cabinet, like he almost always does, who looks at themselves anyway? – and opens the door.

First aid stuff. Haphazard and negligent and more for mess-cleaning and containment, than any actual care for wellbeing. Pills, then. Cough and cold stuff. Pain relievers that couldn't touch mind-soul-heart. Anti-depressants that tried. Sleeping pills.

Shaving stuff. Often he uses an electric razor he can plug into the jack in his truck, clean up his chin and jaw on the way late in to work. But he still has a straight razor from way back when. He's kept it in good condition. It's seen a lot of use.

But why is he even thinking of that? Arthur's back – probably, unless he's seriously insane – he can hear the prince tapping his fingertips on the wall in the hallway in waiting, humming a tune Merlin can't identify under his breath.

Merlin leans on his hands on the sink and takes several breaths through his nose.

It doesn't really help. And only the knowledge that Arthur will begin to wonder, drives him out of the tiny room.

"Do you need me to –" He gestures awkwardly, uncertainly.

"No, I can figure it out. It's only indoor plumbing, after all." Arthur flashes another grin – as far as Merlin can tell, he's absolutely stoked to be back and it makes Merlin feel uneasy like he should be the same and isn't, really… it's all so surreal. Arthur closes the door between them.

Merlin takes a step back because it's really quite rude to listen. Though it makes him feel a little sick to put more distance between them – and it scares him to think how his mind and his body – or mind and heart? - are reacting a little separately from each other. He takes another step back – he's trembling and lack of control always made him nervous. He hears the toilet flush and the tap turn on, the clatter of the hand-soap pump. So Arthur wasn't blustering and bluffing – either he's quite capable of figuring out modern conveniences at a glance, or –

Merlin backs swiftly, out of the hall, into the narrow kitchen. Breakfast, right. He's got – he hasn't got –

"Toast and peanut butter?" he blurts when Arthur emerges. He's all thumbs, getting bread from the fridge and the toaster from the cupboard and he's forgotten where he keeps the peanut butter.

"Sure – can't say I've tried it before."

"George Washington Carver," Merlin says. Nervously, but it's an innocent piece of the vast history Arthur has missed.

Out of the corner of his eye he watches Arthur seat himself at the table – it's only an old computer desk, complete with oblong hole down the center for power cords, and two metal folding chairs. Not because Merlin has ever really needed two, but because they only sell them in pairs, where Merlin shops. Junk furniture, some assembly required. Utilitarian. Cheap.

A bit of silence, while the toaster heats. Merlin fusses a bit with the plastic bag the bread is in, remembers the jar of grape jelly in the fridge, and rummages for a butter knife to spread it with. A second one for the peanut butter, though usually he'd just lick one off before re-using it. Can't do that with company.

Gosh, company.

Arthur.

He used to think about how this would happen. If Arthur would rise from the lake in chainmail, sword in hand and spouting Old English, totally lost in the changes slow centuries had wrought. If Merlin would know and be waiting for him, or discover it after the fact. If Arthur would be reborn, and how old he'd be when Merlin found him – if Merlin would recognize him as a child, if he'd remember Merlin at all…

Time was, Merlin had been sensitive to the possibility. Thousands of times, had turned suddenly in a crowd, just in case. Had walked at the lake, just in case. Had gotten drunk on a Samhain eve, when spirits were meant to walk, just in case. And he'd imagined… only to wake alone.

He leans sideways suddenly, to check – front door still bolted for the night.

"S'matter?" Arthur says, more casual than he used to be. Lounging sideways at the table, not staring around the kitchen and living room at the electronics – lights and lamps and tv-stereo and appliances – but not really watching Merlin, either.

"Just… wondering." The toast pops up and he busies himself getting it on a plate, with a paper towel, getting it all to the table. Butter messy in its paper. "Want coffee?" he asks – this is so surreal – "or milk?" He's got half a bottle of Crown in the freezer but no wine like they used to drink because water wasn't safe… "Pasteurization is great," he says inanely, lifting the jug from fridge shelf to kitchen counter.

"Refrigeration is great too, huh?" Arthur clatters his knife in the jelly jar, scraping it across the toast. Merlin puts two slices for himself down the toaster, pours mis-matched plastic cups of milk for them both. He can set and start the coffee-maker later, maybe.

"Can't imagine why they still make jam, if they've figured out how to do it without the seeds," he says lightly, and Arthur snorts like he knows exactly what Merlin's talking about and agrees.

A laugh bursts out of Merlin. A hard, ugly sound, and he half-collapses against the back wall of the kitchen.

Arthur looks up. "What's wrong?"

Merlin doesn't have the words. He gestures – King Arthur in my apartment, eating peanut butter and jelly toast on a folding chair at a computer table. So very casual – so very strange. "How… how?"

Also why? but he shies away from that one. For now.

"I started to tell you, before," Arthur says. "I never really left. Come and sit down, will you." Merlin starts to move forward; Arthur adds, "Get your food."

He obeys that, too.

"I was a ghost, or a spirit, or something. I could see and hear – and smell, actually, if I concentrated hard enough – only not touch. I waited too, Merlin, only I could see. Everything you've seen, everything you've been through…"

Merlin can't feel anything below his knees. He sinks into the metal chair, stunned. Stunned that anything can stun him, anymore.

"Everything?" he manages faintly. Because there's been so much, and not a lot of it good.

"Well, not everything." Arthur looks away, embarrassed. "I'm not a… stalker, Merlin. I respected your privacy."

"Well, there's a first," Merlin blurts because he doesn't know what else to say or do. It seems to relax Arthur, who laughs and crams more toast into his mouth. "So… pasteurization and refrigeration," Merlin adds. So very weird to be talking about this with Arthur.

"Vaccination," Arthur says.

Yeah, that was good, too. "Penicillin," he says feelingly, and Arthur grunts. Because he probably remembers those days on other battlefields on other continents, like Merlin does. Trenches – wounds – "Gunpowder."

Arthur looks at him without lifting his head. "Thomas Edison," he says, like he's answering a challenge.

"The Blitz," Merlin counters. He'd been angry for half a century, that Arthur had not shown up for that. He'd been angry for a full century during the Hundred Years War. He shivers, wondering why now…

"Columbus," Arthur says determinedly.

"The Black Death."

A sparkle in Arthur's eyes dares Merlin not to laugh. "The Beatles."

"Hiroshima."

"Gutenberg."

This sort of abbreviated reminiscing goes on. Merlin relaxes into his own breakfast, and the room lightens as morning carries on. It's easier to talk about things that happened, all these years, like they happened to someone else. A parade of strangers, born and growing up and living and dying normally. Merlin puts coffee on and they discuss colonization and sugar and pirates, the Titanic and the space-race and the canals, Suez and Panama. William the Bastard and William Wallace and William Shakespeare; Cromwell and Robespierre and Washington.

Merlin clears the table finally and Arthur insists on washing dishes. Merlin goes into the bathroom again and decides that the pain in his chest has eased somewhat. He's gotten through the first conversation with Arthur. Back again.

Except, they haven't really talked about anything personal.

And when he comes out, the apartment is silent, and empty. Merlin's breathing quickens as he listens – steps to look in the bedroom, which is empty. Hurries to the kitchen – living room – both empty. No sign of any guest.

"Arthur!" he calls, but fear steals the force from the word and it's only a whisper.

Then he sees that the chain has been lifted from the door. He steps to the window and sees that Arthur has gone outside to the balcony. He stands in the sunlight, hands braced on the wooden safety rail, as the breeze ruffles his hair and he looks out at the mountains, and Merlin looks at him.

Time was, he's wondered – if he saw Arthur in a crowd, and Arthur didn't see him, or didn't recognize him, what he'd do. Introduce himself? Insert himself into whatever life Arthur was currently living, pretending everything was fine? Watch from a distance, avidly collecting proof that Arthur was well and happy, without Merlin and his darkness complicating his new life? He wonders if Arthur has really seen everything, because there's so much he would prefer to stay hidden…

The pills. The blades. The funerals.

Without warning, Arthur turns and heads for the stairs down to the parking lot, moving out of sight. Merlin panics, fumbling for the door handle, stumbling out to the balcony, himself, leaning over the rail –

More than once on a cold night he'd contemplated jumping, except it was only the second story and there was a vast prickly evergreen shrubbery below. His luck, he'd break a leg or impale himself on sticky pine and his downstairs neighbor would find him and have to deal with that –

"Hey!" he calls, hearing his voice pitched a bit too high. Arthur turns at the bottom of the stairs, still easy and casual, and Merlin sees shoes on his feet that don't belong to him.

Thinks haphazardly, if Arthur's back he'll need clothes – toothbrush – cell phone – ID – any guests staying longer than two weeks have to be approved and listed on the lease, or he could be evicted. It occurs to him, he isn't prepared for this. Hasn't been, for a very long time.

"Do you want to go somewhere?" he says, reaching back in the door for his own shoes, pulling them on without bothering to tie them.

He remembers how active his king had always been, how he used to think about the places he wanted to show Arthur – Canterbury, Jerusalem, Pisa. Key West. Paris. But Arthur had – been there, seen that.

"There's a state park, in the foothills," he ventures. "They advertise stables for public use. We could… we could go riding for a couple of hours."

For a moment Arthur only looks at Merlin, and he's not close enough to read his expression. Is he thinking of how long it's been since Merlin's ridden on a horse? How long it's been since Arthur has?

Then he says, more gently than matter-of-factly, "Costs money, doesn't it?" Merlin twitches – yeah, probably, obviously – and Arthur shrugs like the no is a given. "Neighborhood park?"

"Up the hill, across the street," Merlin says, and Arthur gives his head a come-on jerk, turning before he sees if Merlin will follow.

Of course Merlin follows, but as he clatters down the stairs and hurries to match Arthur's stride – right next to him like they're equals, like he's always done – he worries a bit. Because maybe it's true that Arthur's not royalty – no meals delivered on silver trays, no list of chores or orders – but Arthur's always been assertive. Commanding. And Merlin has grown to be non-confrontational, at least in the day-to-day stuff.

But he finds he resents this, a little. That Arthur decides, and he follows so instinctively. Which is backwards, really, he's waited for this and wants everything to be as normal as possible, between them – why should he resent normal?

As they pass out the back gate of the apartment complex and hit the sidewalk, a dark-green SUV comes down the hill, around the curve – faster than it ought to, probably, and fear seizes his bones, sparks his nerves. Merlin is moving before he thinks, putting his body between the car and Arthur, one hand half-raised in readiness and teeth gritted.

This feeling is new, unexpected, irrational – and sends a wave of cold nausea through him as the SUV corners like a cat and revs its engine to disappear around the next turn down.

Accidents. Arthur is back – and fragile and vulnerable as any other given person who isn't Merlin – and suddenly Merlin is terrified that something something will happen to Arthur. He's only flesh and blood again, now…

Arthur doesn't seem to have noticed, car or reaction; he strides up the sidewalk toward the cross-street. Merlin tries to catch his breath, trotting after.

"I did wonder, why you stayed here," Arthur tosses casually over his shoulder. "Now I know – the weather's perfect."

"From Easter to Halloween," Merlin answers. "Otherwise it's under snow."

Arthur tosses a quick glance either way along the street, hardly pausing before stepping out to cross. Merlin reaches for him but doesn't touch him, instead scurrying after and giving his own look for traffic, talking to distract himself. Maybe to reassure himself.

"You said – you said they. Before. Who's they?"

Arthur steps up the opposite curb and slows. The park is the size of a football field, but new – the trees are only saplings, deliberately planted, the playground equipment is vacant. The winding walking-paths are visible from every point; there's a jogger on the far side, and a middle-aged female with a dog halfway across.

"No one I saw," Arthur says. "Only voices, sometimes. I could hear you, everyone around you, but… when I spoke, sometimes a handful of different voices answered. I don't know who any of them were."

Merlin has a few guesses, but they wouldn't mean anything to Arthur if he doesn't know after fifteen hundred years. And maybe it's not important, anyway. He shoves his hands in his pockets and doesn't try to relax his shoulders, pacing at Arthur's side with his eyes on the sidewalk – ants and cracks. "What did they say?" he asks hesitantly. Aside from, it's not time. "About… why?"

Arthur inhales deeply; somehow Merlin can tell without looking that his head is up. It still feels like, he wouldn't be surprised to wake in his bed, any minute. Still dreaming.

"They said, I never understood you. Never appreciated you. They said I should…"

"And that's what took this long?" Merlin says, and he can't help the sarcasm. Because surely it can't be that stupid, surely he isn't this complicated, or Arthur this obtuse. Arthur doesn't answer, and Merlin thinks, maybe they're talking at cross-purpose. "I meant, did they say anything about – why now? I was told, when Albion's need is greatest, you would rise again. But…"

"What was my purpose before?" Arthur says contemplatively. "What was yours? Ours, together? How long did it take us to realize? Merlin… there's no rush. I don't imagine some crisis is taking place right now and we might miss it if we don't figure it out. I imagine we'll have some time… to prepare."

"Right, yes," Merlin says. "I didn't know –" of course Arthur knows he didn't know. "I didn't expect…" At all, anymore, and does Arthur know that? The fatalistic, he's never coming back mantra that had played more often, recently, than its converse. "I mean… what do we do?"

"First of all, relax," Arthur says, and there's a bit of exasperation in his voice whether he means it or not. "It's a gorgeous day –"

"Your first back," Merlin says, trying to be understanding. Even having observed for so long, there was so much Arthur never got the chance to experience – and Merlin isn't really enthusiastic about diving headfirst into danger or risk, either, he just – he wants to be prepared this time, he's determined he'll be better prepared to protect Arthur.

"Let's just – spend it as friends, huh?"

"Yeah." Merlin nods eagerly. "Yeah, I can do that." It's been – how long? since he had a friend?

Only… what did they do, what did they say? They didn't need to get to know each other, ask after growing-up experiences or high-school graduation dates or college majors, work history or places they'd lived or visited. Arthur knew all that – it was a relief not to have to lie – but they didn't really have any leisure activities they enjoyed in common. They weren't exactly going to go bar-hopping to meet women, either.

"You like the mountains, huh?" Arthur says, looking over his shoulder.

"Reminds me of home," Merlin is saying, when the dog – leash trailing – comes bounding up to them, tongue lolling and paws flapping, jumping up on Arthur.

Who loves the attention and interruption. "Hey boy, hey boy," he says, ruffling the dog's ears – it's a half-grown German Shepherd, by the look.

Something inside Merlin slots into place, and he realizes he might have been unconsciously waiting for this. Outside corroboration that he's not hallucinating, at least. He smiles as Arthur goes down on one knee to rough the pup in play – and then the middle-aged female owner hustles up, breathless.

"I'm so sorry," she gasps. "He's still young, but he's strong, and just pulled away from me –"

"Do not apologize," Arthur orders. And combines it with a dazzling grin, compliments the woman on her pet. "He's so friendly, you don't know how long it's been since I've seen such a handsome, friendly dog."

"He's got a lot of learning to do," the woman responds, beaming. "But a lot of potential." She gushes on about training and breeding…

And Merlin feels like he's slowly drifting backward, away from the conversation. Torn again, because part of him really enjoys seeing Arthur – at all, but especially like this. Laughing in the sun and charming a stranger for no other reason than sheer exuberance of life.

Part of him is insanely jealous of Arthur's attention. Even though he's not sure he wants Arthur's undivided attention, anyway.

You owe me! You owe me! You left me and I waited and waited!

No, it wasn't his fault. Not his fault he died. Yours, wasn't it. No one owes you anything, you got exactly what you deserve.

Arthur turns from watching the woman walk away, and he's still grinning, and Merlin's shoulder-blades inexplicably pull together. "Maybe we should get one," Arthur proposes.

Merlin stares at him, immediately resistant. Because they weren't just guys. Just roommates hanging out. Something is starting, and a pet will only complicate whatever this is – not fair to the dog if… if something happens.

"Eh?" Arthur prompts, still happy.

"Can't," Merlin manages. "The apartment has a no-pet policy."

"We'll move," Arthur says, like it's the easiest thing in the world. "Yours is only a one-bedroom, anyway?"

The fury takes Merlin by surprise because – what right does Arthur have to suggest changes to Merlin's life? He's the one that's had to make things work, to survive on his own – so many times. And though he's always given Arthur everything, every time, he can't help but think, I can't afford to move. And he feels guilty for not having loads of savings by now, and resentful because – no one told me you were coming, I could have saved I could have planned…

"You can have the bed," he says shortly. "I'll take the couch." It's a futon, anyway, the cheapest sort, but it'll work for two weeks, at least. Til he has to put Arthur on the lease, or risk eviction. "Come on, we need to get some things for you."