For the prompt: harry/merlin + cigarettes

Warning: Character death mentioned.

[CENTRAL, 1992]

Merlin watches the downpour from beneath the awning, wrapping his arms more tightly around himself. Despite his jacket, the chill still gets to him, but he's not ready to back inside just yet. He pulls the cigarette from his lips with shaking fingers, exhaling slowly into the cold, wet air. His eyes itch, begging him to shut them, but he can't. Not just yet. It's been days since he'd last slept, but every time he closes his eyes he sees Lamorak's lifeless eyes staring back at him.

Smoking is not something he makes a habit of, but once in a great while he finds himself needing one. Only on days that call for it. Today is a day that calls for it.

"Those things are terrible for your health."

It shouldn't be a surprise that Harry's found him. Harry always does. Galahad comes up from behind him, hand shoved deep in the pockets of his long coat. When he reaches Merlin's side, he takes the cigarette from between Merlin's fingers and bring it to his own lips, taking a long, satisfying drag before handing it back.

"Absolutely terrible," he repeats.

"You know, you could always just have your own instead of nicking mine," Merlin grumps.

"A Kingsman shouldn't smoke," Harry answers.

"Oh, is that why Arther lets me get away with it," Merlin says in mock astonishment.

"Merlin," Harry says, his gaze stern and disapproving.

"I know. I know," Merlin says impatiently, waving him off. "I'm just running my mouth, you know that."

From the corner of his eye, he can tell that Harry knows it's more than just running his mouth, but wisely chooses to remain silent on the matter. It's a talk they've had many times and a talk they'll have many more, but now is not the best time. They've only just recovered Lamorak's body, grief weighing heavy on all of them.

They stand in silence for a time, sharing a single cigarette between the two of them. Merlin focuses on the sounds around them to keep himself grounded in the present; the heavy patter of rain, the whistle of the rain between bare branches, the rumble of distant thunder. This is here, now. But it had been then and there, too. Rain coming down heavy, soaking Lamorak to the bone, making the soil beneath his feet loose, lightning flash as his only source of illumination, making it too dark for him to see just how close he was to—

"Merlin."

Harry's voice is firm, his grip on Merlin's arm even more so. Merlin realizes he'd been drifting. His hands shake so badly now he can't hope to claim it's simply from the cold.

"It wasn't your fault," Harry says, softer than before.

"I wasn't able to do anything," Merlin says. "Stuck here, I can't do anything. I have to rely on what any of you can tell me over the comm and then what? What am I to do when you can't speak to me? When you can't tell me what you see? I'm meant to guide you, but how am I expected to do so blinded? I may as well shoot each of you in the back now and be done with it."

"Perhaps it will surprise you to know, but we're not exactly children, Merlin," Harry drawls. "We don't need you to hold our hands."

"I'm well aware," Merlin says, scrubbing a hand over his eyes, "how well trained each of you are. That is not what I am talking about here."

"You can't do everything," Harry reminds him. "No one expects you to."

"Given that I'm now useless as a field agent, it's only fitting that I take on more responsibility. I only do what Arthur expects me to."

"Arthur can take a long walk off a short pier for all I care."

"Harry, don't. You don't mean that."

"And who are you to say what I do and don't mean?" Harry asks, rounding on him. "When did you last sleep?"

"Harry—"

"Two days? Three?" Harry presses, stepping closer to him.

"Stop this," Merlin says. "I mean it, that's enough."

"Longer, then? Christ, how can he expect you to form a coherent sentence, let alone guide someone through an assignment?" Harry demands.

"That's not your concern," Merlin says tightly.

"It's very much my concern if Arthur pushes you so hard that your exhaustion gets a man killed," Harry growls.

Merlin's mouth goes dry at the words. It had been one thing to think it himself, but quite another to hear someone else say it aloud. Harry's expression softens marginally, his mouth opening to say something further before his jaw snaps shut and he looks away, thinking better of it. After a few beats he looks back to Merlin, his eyes somber.

"I don't believe that's what happened," Harry says.

Merlin laughs bitterly. "I made a mistake. That mistake cost Lamorak his life."

"You couldn't have known," Harry says. "Sending him through the forest was the best available option at the time. I've examined the scenario myself and I would have given him the same instructions."

"But you wouldn't have instructed him to head southeast," Merlin says.

"…no, I wouldn't have," Harry admits quietly. "But I was also approaching the problem with a full night's sleep, a full belly and a shower under my belt."

Harry's hand comes up, his fingers tracing Merlin's jawline, dragging along stubble that he hadn't had time to take care of. He knows he looks a mess. He is a mess, really.

"You couldn't have known the rain would cause the soil to shift like that," Harry tells him.

"I should have," Merlin says, eyes fixated on the cigarette smoldering between his trembling fingers.

Harry sighs, reaches over and plucks the cigarette from his hand before tossing it into a puddle a short distance from where they stand. "That's enough of that. Thomas and Morgana are speaking to Arthur about this matter; I'm taking you to your flat."

Merlin should argue, should protest, should claim he needs to see this through first. Instead, he stares down at the remains of the cigarette floating in the puddle, already bloated and waterlogged. He tries not to think of Lamorak's body, left in the rain for two days. He nods.