Notes: Quick Friday morning update, and now I must get out of bed and start packing a bag. Ugh...
X 12 X
For some reason, Morgana thought it would happen quickly; they'd decide, she'd sleep with Merlin without protection and bam, she's pregnant.
She's grown up with sex-ed. horror stories of how simple it is, how just one time can lead to pregnancy, how the only way for a woman to be a hundred percent sure she's not going to fall pregnant is to not have sex at all. Everything made it sound so easy, so straightforward, so damn near immediate.
The first time she gets her period after they start trying, it feels like karma.
Merlin looks like he has no idea what to do with her as she cries.
X
Merlin feels helpless – hopeless, even – as the months pass and nothing changes.
He feels helpless, hopeless, and horribly guilty, like it's his doubts that are fucking them over.
X
Months pass, nothing changes, and if Morgana needed any more reason to believe the world is on Arthur's side, this is it.
X
Months pass, nothing changes, and Merlin doesn't know where he's going wrong.
X
Months pass.
X
"It's okay," Merlin says, kneeling on the bathroom floor beside her, even though he isn't sure it is. "Morgana, love, it's okay."
Morgana presses against him, pale and shaking, clinging like a limpet, and all Merlin can do is hold her. "Please," he continues, because he doesn't know how much longer he can stand seeing her like this. "We can stop," he tells her. "We'll stop. I don't care if you think we're ready. I just want you to be happy again."
She sinks closer into him, the shaking continuing, accompanied by sounds now, snuffling noises that break Merlin's... "Hang on, are you...?"
"Yes," she says, sliding back a little, and when Merlin can see her face there's no mistaking the relief on it. More than relief, even; delight, delight like he hasn't seen since their wedding day. "I'm laughing."
After so long – or what feels like it, anyway – Merlin isn't sure he's ready to believe it yet. Maybe it's just wishful thinking, such a strong desire to see Morgana back into the woman he's known for years, the woman he married, and he can't ask her outright. "That's good..." he says slowly, hesitantly, because the wrong word might break everything.
"It's better than good," she answers, still beaming, gleaming, in this moment as golden as her brother, and that's not a comparison Merlin could ever have seen himself making. "It's so much better than good," she says, "I'm pregnant."
X
Merlin has her on her feet in a second, whirling and giddy, and she knows he has doubts to match her own, doubts that probably make her concerns seem tiny, but when he looks as happy as she feels, everything else seems to pale in comparison.
Merlin has her on her feet, twirling her like they're in a ballroom rather than a bathroom, like she's dressed in silk rather than an old robe thrown on over even older pyjamas, and Morgana laughs louder, harder, fairly sure she's never felt as beautiful as she does in this moment, as beautiful or as alive. "I love you," she says, and for the first time in forever, she feels like he's hers.
X
"So, when do we tell people?" Merlin asks, when the knowledge sinks in and the glee abates a little (also, they've relocated to the kitchen, mostly so that Merlin can put ice on his forehead after their impromptu waltz ended with him head-butting the sink).
Morgana blinks at him, her smile slowly shrinking. "Are you serious?" she answers, and Merlin is not following, not when her tone is so far from what it was a few minutes ago.
"I don't follow," he says, since that's probably the easiest and safest way for him to put across his complete lack of understanding.
Morgana looks cool, distant, and Merlin thought that mood swings were supposed to come later on than this. "We're not telling anyone yet," she says, strict, decided.
"But-" he starts, thinking of his mother, her father, Arthur. Even if Arthur refuses to have anything to do with him anymore, he's still Morgana's twin, their baby's uncle, and Merlin cannot comprehend why she doesn't want at least the three of them to know immediately.
"No!" she snaps, then calms suddenly, softly. "It's only been a few weeks, Merlin. We'll talk about this again later, in a month or so."
"I see," Merlin answers, and whatever joy there was filling him a few minutes ago, it's gone now, replaced by a shivering uncertainty that Merlin doesn't how to deal with. "Okay," he agrees, taking her hand, because she's the one who has to carry their child, and the rest of it is probably just as much her choice. "We'll talk about it later."
X
Months pass, little changes, and Morgana continues to shut him down each time he mentions telling people. He gets why, after she reels off a list of statistics about false positives and pregnancies that don't make it through the first trimester, but even so. This is good news, news that ought to be shared, and even in the terrible event that all might not go as they have planned, having people like Gwen and his mother know can only be a benefit.
"How long do you plan on not telling people?" he asks one evening, as Morgana returns to their bedroom from the bathroom, dropping her towel on the floor (because Merlin is too much of a sucker to tell her that it's not his job to pick up after her) and slipping into her pyjamas. "Because they are going to notice at some point."
"Maybe," she says, and Merlin is familiar enough to know that this is the Pendragon version of letting someone else be right. "But they won't yet."
"Erm," Merlin answers, and knows immediately that saying anything at all was a mistake.
"I see," Morgana says, going from idly brushing her hair in front of the mirror to peering intently at herself, putting the hairbrush on her dressing table first. Merlin watches her reflection as her hands rest briefly on her hips, then slide across her belly, fingers fluttering lightly, and Merlin knows what she's feeling, the slight roundness there that wasn't present before, the extra curve he notices every time he touches her, every time he looks at her.
"It's not..." He starts, the sentence fading into silence when his wife's hands slide upwards, over her stomach and further, fingers pressing gently into the indentation between each of her ribs before curving under her breasts, cupping them, and maybe the change isn't as obvious there but Merlin doesn't doubt that she's noticing that as well.
"Maybe," he continues, swallowing and crossing the room to stand behind her, his left hand on her hip and his right on her bump (small or not, it's definitely still a bump). "Maybe I only see it because I know, but I can see it, and it's maybe weeks before everyone else you spend time with sees it too."
Morgana meets his gaze, placing her hand on top of his and lacing her fingers between his. "Okay," she says, turning in his arms and pressing close. "Yes, okay, we'll tell them."
"Thank you," Merlin says, leaning down for a kiss, and it never even occurs to him that this honesty isn't really something he should have to be grateful for.
X
If they're doing this, Morgana decides, they might as well do it properly, a big event where they tell everyone at once (except Hunith, who Merlin called mere minutes after Morgana agreed it was time to let people know, and Uther, who Morgana called three days later, when she got tired of Merlin telling her to do so over and over again).
She calls the restaurant she and Merlin had their first real date at, booking a table for ten (she and Merlin, Gwen and Lance, Leon, Elyan, Percival, Gwaine, Elena and Freya; not Arthur, because telling him will require more tact than a group gathering and Merlin sitting right there), then sets to calling everyone.
"Don't make plans for two weeks on Saturday," she tells them all, and Merlin, when he gets home. "We're going out."
"Yeah?" Merlin asks her, slumping down onto the sofa beside her, looking exhausted. She waits until he's leaning on the armrest, the tenseness draining from him, then rests back against him.
"Yeah," she answers, "All of us. It's time to let everyone know."
"All of us?" Merlin says, and Morgana can practically feel what his next words are going to be, the world's most useless sixth sense kicking into action. "Arthur too? I know he's mad at me for whatever reason, but this is his niece or nephew. He shouldn't hear from someone else."
Her first, cruel instinct is to say that Arthur shouldn't hear about this at all; it's Arthur who is out of line, Arthur who told her to go ahead and marry Merlin, Arthur who climbed into bed with Merlin as soon as they were both drunk enough to think it was a good idea, Arthur who shut Merlin out afterwards, knowing he would have no idea why.
It's Arthur who walked away, and it's Arthur who needs to extend the olive branch and ask permission to come back.
"I mean," Merlin adds, and he's looking wary now, uneasy, and Morgana thinks too much of what she's thinking must have shown on her face. "It's only right that he should be there. He's family."
I'm your family, Morgana thinks, I'm your family and this baby is your family and you choseus.
She doesn't, because buried somewhere deep down she does actually have a heart, and she's not ready for it to break entirely just yet. Merlin doesn't know he made a choice, and Morgana will not take the chance that if he finds out he'll change his mind.
"I don't know, Merlin," she says, which is the best alternative she can think of. "He might not want to be there."
"Please?" Merlin asks, his eyes wide, beseeching, and if she thought he had any idea how powerful that look was, if she thought there was any chance he used it to deliberately manipulate her, Morgana would despise him. He's Merlin, though, and just the suggestion that his blue-eyed begging is anything other than entirely sincere is laughable.
She wants to refuse, she truly does, but Arthur isn't the only one who doesn't know how to say no to Merlin.
"I'll try," she agrees, and she'd like to say it's her pregnancy that has her so exhausted all the time, but, actually, it's just her life, and the colossal fuck-up she's making of it.
Merlin beams at her, the same way he always has, and it's that that compels her to add, "I can't promise anything. But I'll try."
"I know, love," Merlin answers, and that word, that name, still feels like a gift to her. "That's all I'll ever ask of you."
X
The thing is, Merlin says all, like what he's asking is nothing, but then to him it is.
Merlin doesn't realise that asking her to invite Arthur further into their life is agony for her.
Merlin doesn't realise that what he asks, she will do, and if Merlin wants Arthur there, Morgana will make sure he is.
X
"Why do you do this to yourself, Arthur?" Gwaine asks, and someone so much shorter than Arthur shouldn't be able to loom like he does, waiting just outside the place Morgana and Merlin have picked for this meeting.
"I didn't know you smoked," Arthur answers, since Gwaine knows damn well that the reason Arthur keeps putting himself into these situations is not something open for discussion.
Gwaine laughs, dropping his cigarette and grinding it out under his boot. "Well kept secret," he says. "Plus, it makes for an excellent excuse not to go inside places I don't want to be. Wanna go somewhere else instead?"
Yes, Arthur thinks, every ounce of his being behind it. "It's Merlin," he says, and Gwaine just nods.
"Right then," he says, opening the door and holding it for Arthur to precede him. "Let's see what the shit-storm is this time, princess."
X
Morgana feels Merlin freeze, his hand clenching in hers, and for a moment she has no idea why.
"Well," Gwaine says, slow and satisfied, that way he has of somehow sounding ridiculously pleased with himself whilst also managing to be both deeply sarcastic and utterly serious. "Look who I found, showing up late as ever."
It should probably be a comfort that Merlin isn't the only one to leap to his feet, but it really isn't, not when Merlin's hand slips free of her own as easily as sand through an hourglass.
"Arthur," he says, and Morgana presses a hand to her well-concealed bump like she can cover her child's ears, keep him from hearing the absolute adoration in his father's voice as he flings his arms around her brother.
Arthur doesn't move as Merlin hugs him, holds him, clings to him like he'll never let him go, like he'll never want to hold anyone other than him. He just meets her gaze over Merlin's shoulder, meets and holds it, and Morgana has no idea what to make of his expression beyond the fact that she doesn't like it.
She stands, hand dropping slowly to her side, wanting the security of leaving it there but they've not said anything yet, and Morgana is determined not to give the game away. "Come along, husband," she says, stalking around the table, half-smiling in gratitude at the way their friends step aside so she can be second in the queue for a hug. "Somebody else's turn now, I think."
Merlin steps back, a sheepish, sappy grin on his face. "Sorry," he says, waving her forward. "He's all yours."
X
Morgana doesn't stand on tiptoe as she reaches up and puts her arms round his neck, forcing him to bend down to hug her back. "Hello, baby brother," she says quietly, for his ears only, and Arthur feels her left hand press even harder again his neck, a ridge of skin-warmed metal digging into him. He knows his sister, knows that that's a statement just as obviously as her words to Merlin were, Morgana reminding him yet again of her claim on Merlin, as if he were in any way close to forgetting.
When Morgana releases him with a scratch of nails along the back of his neck, Arthur hopes that that's it; his hugging duties are surely over now, so he can sit and listen to whatever this is, then somehow get the hell out of here and start drinking again. Instead, though, there is Gwen, Elena, Lancelot, Freya...even Elyan, Leon and Percival feel the need to express physically just how much they've missed him over the last few months.
Eventually, though, he's free, or at least free to sit down beside Gwaine; he highly doubts that it's at all accidental that the only seats empty are those directly opposite Merlin and Morgana, just as he doubts that it's in any way Merlin's doing.
Merlin is practically buzzing with excitement, or apprehension, or something of the like; for all it's pouring off him, Arthur can't quite work out what it is. It's intense, though, enough that in the short space of time he manages to look at his sister's husband, Arthur sees Morgana place a calming hand on top of Merlin's no fewer than three times. Each attempt lasts no more than a couple of seconds, but it's still enough that by the time the waitress is done taking their meal orders, Arthur is reaching for the bottle of wine, ready to refill his glass for the second time, and Morgana is apparently done trying to control her husband.
"Now?" Merlin asks her, or so Arthur assumes, since he's not actually looking at them. It ought to be quiet, inaudible from as far away as Arthur is over the noise of their friends, but it isn't. Arthur has always been far too attuned to the sound of Merlin's voice, and distance doesn't change anything.
"Now," Morgana agrees, following it up with the chiming of a knife on glass.
Arthur looks up at that – it's instinct, and one far too well ingrained by his upbringing for him to break it now – to see the pair of them stand up, all eyes in their group on them.
"We'd like to make an announcement," she says, and Arthur focuses on their joined hands in the very futile hope that concentrating on the hideous pain that causes will keep him from hearing what their next words are going to be.
"We're having a baby!" Merlin finishes, and in the moments of silence before everyone bursts into surprised congratulations, the scrape of Arthur's chair on the floor as he stands up is awfully, incredibly loud.
X
"Whoa, mate," Gwaine says, across the room in less time than it takes Merlin to blink, stepping in front of him and catching him with an arm across his chest. "Let him go, Merls."
"But…" Merlin says, staring at the door, the one Arthur just left through, and this is the first time he's been in the same room as Arthur in months. How is he supposed to just let him go?
"No buts," Gwaine orders, and Merlin isn't quite sure he knows who the man standing next to him is, but he seems an awfully long way from the easy-going bloke Merlin met at uni. "Either you sit back down with your pregnant wife and all your friends or you come with me to get another round in, but there's no way in hell I'm letting you walk out there after him."
"I-"
"No, Merlin. You've fucked him up enough already. Let him go."
That stings, burns, way worse than the time he fell off his bike and landed in the largest patch of nettles known to man or beast. It burns, and it really doesn't make sense, because Merlin isn't the one who's done something wrong here. Merlin's not the one treating his best friend like a stranger, on the rare occasion he even deigns to acknowledge him at all.
"If you're not going to make sense, get the hell out of my way, Gwaine," he says.
Gwaine looks at him fiercely, his usually soft, slightly unfocused gaze replaced by something hard and unrelentingly sharp. "My God," he says eventually, and surprise isn't a big enough word to do his tone justice. Revelation gets closer, maybe, like whatever Gwaine has found in Merlin's face has changed his entire view of the world, or something. "You really don't have any idea, do you?"
Merlin's silence seems answer enough, since Gwaine shakes his head and grabs Merlin by his wrist, hauling him even further out of the hearing range of their group. They wind up at a table in the corner, dark and secluded and not at all the sort of place Merlin would pick if it was up to him, but apparently it isn't.
"Jesus," Gwaine says, his elbows propped up on the table and head buried in his hands. "Jesus, Merlin. He's going to kill me for telling you this, but...Jesus. I figured you knew, and pretending you didn't was some accidentally insensitive way of letting him save face. It never occurred to me that you actually...Fuck. Fuck."
Merlin is fairly sure no conversation has ever left him as lost as this one does, particularly since by this point Gwaine seems to be mostly talking to himself (and not just in the usual no one else is listening to him way).
"Jesus," Gwaine says again, and this time he just sounds exhausted, like whatever internal conflict he's just waded his way through has taken all he had to spare. "Jesus, Merlin."
That, Merlin thinks, is really just one time too many. "As flattering as that comparison is, I've heard enough of it. I'm going now." He stands at that, is halfway out of the booth before Gwaine's next words stop him dead.
"He's in love with you, Merlin."
"Who is?"
As soon as he asks the question, Merlin feels impossibly stupid; the context leaves no room for doubt who Gwaine is talking about, even if the actual idea is laughable.
"Please don't make me answer that question, Merls. You can't actually be that thick."
Since that's pretty much exactly what he just thought, Merlin knows he shouldn't take offence at it, but knowing he shouldn't be offended isn't at all the same thing as not being offended. "Says you," he scoffs, and Morgana would probably be pretty damn proud of how sceptical he sounds. "You don't actually believe that..." and there the words stick in his throat, because how can Merlin say it? Just thinking that Gwaine might actually be trying to say that Arthur is...that Arthur...just thinking it is absurd, and so ridiculously vain, and if Morgana was here listening she'd probably die laughing. "You don't believe that, do you?"
Gwaine frowns at him, cool and distant. "Believe what? That Arthur is arse-over-tit in love with you?"
This is it, Merlin thinks. This has to be the moment where Gwaine laughs, any attempt at being serious gone, and Arthur appears from around some corner to laugh with him, God, Merlin, I can't believe he actually had you going for a minute, because it's just not. It can't. "That doesn't even make sense," he says. "That's...Arthur wouldn't. He can't."
"Well," Gwaine drawls, and it's not amused, not even in the slightest. "He apparently missed that memo."
"But Morgana," Merlin says, like that actually works as an objection, like the mere existence of Arthur's sister makes this impossible. Arthur's sister, his wife. "Morgana."
"Yeah," Gwaine agrees. "And that would be why you need to let him go. Not just tonight, but until he's ready to let you back in."
That one freezes Merlin more than all the rest of this madness put together, steals the air from his lungs and replaces it with ice, solid and painful and impossible to breathe around. "But it's Arthur," he says, and if the mere possibility of Arthur having feelings for him left him blindsided, the idea of Arthur not being in his life any more is like being hit by a truck, like being hit by a truck that then reversed just so it could run him over a second time. "It's Arthur."
He's my world, Merlin thinks, and the images brought to mind by that thought make him feel sick.
"Shit," he says, reeling, and it's like he blocked it out, liked he'd decided it had to be a dream because the possibility that it wasn't was too horrendous to consider, is still too horrendous to consider, even if he's fairly sure it's a hell of a lot more than a possibility right now. "I have to go," he says, standing up so quickly that the table wobbles, falls, hitting the floor with a crash that has all eyes in the restaurant on him.
"Merlin-" Gwaine starts, not knowing how to go on, but Merlin can't think of that as anything other than good, anything other than the only saving grace of this night.
"I have to go," he says again, not looking at Gwaine, who has to know what he's realising; you've fucked him up enough already has to mean exactly what it now sounds like it means. He can't look at the others, either, at Gwen and Lancelot who would never do something like this to each other, at unflinchingly, unfailingly responsible Leon, at Elena and her sweetness and Elyan and his straightforwardness and any of them.
At Morgana, his wife.
You were my world, he told Arthur, right before he kissed him and held him, pulled him so close that the weight on top of him was almost as suffocating as the idea of it, Arthur, not being there. You were my world, he told Arthur, drinking his way into honesty just a week before his wedding, drinking his way into Arthur's arms and Arthur's (spare) bed, drinking his way into taking advantage of Arthur even as Arthur took advantage of him, drinking and thinking his way into the delusion that it was nothing, that it never even happened.
You were my world, he told Arthur, and, the thing is, he doesn't know where the past tense comes into it.
And Morgana, and his child.