Every Time We Say Goodbye - Merlin - Arthur/Merlin
Title: Every Time We Say Goodbye
Pairing: Arthur/Merlin; some Arthur/Gwen
Word Count: 4342
Rating: R
A/N: Using one of 10_per_genre's prompts. Future AU. I didn't like the movie and I haven't read the book, but I think this fic must have been inspired by The Time Traveler's Wife all the same.
Summary: After Merlin travels forward in time to help Arthur win a battle, he finds the experience impossible to give up.
"It's one foot after another for you," Merlin explains one day, lying at a 90o angle to Arthur with his head on Arthur's stomach. The grass below is prickly and in the sky white clouds form meaningless shapes. "Second after second; minute after minute."
"That's how it is for most normal people, Merlin," Arthur says. His fingers play with Merlin's hair, and he pretends not to notice that it is at least an inch longer than it had been yesterday.
"I'm not normal," Merlin says.
And he vanishes. The weight on Arthur's stomach disappears.
This is starting to become very tiring.
*
It had started with one single trip.
"I'm only going to take a peek," Merlin had said, grinning. "It'll be five minutes at most. You won't even notice I'm gone."
Arthur could have said that he was the king and that Merlin had to listen to him when he ordered him not to go; he could have said that they didn't need any knowledge of the future to win the upcoming battle and that it was downright insulting for Merlin to suggest that they did; he could have dragged him to the bed and distracted him with ease.
He didn't.
Merlin left. When he came back with that same old grin on his face, he told them everything they needed to know about the enemy's tactics, supplies and men.
They won the battle.
From that point on, nothing was the same again.
*
"Happy birthday," Merlin murmurs as he slips under the covers. His hand slides over Arthur's bare stomach and he kisses the side of his mouth, still smiling.
Arthur peers at Merlin in the dark.
It has been months since he last saw him, and Camelot has been so empty - and ridiculously quiet, really. If Arthur has ever needed proof that Merlin is the one that attracts trouble, not him, he has it now.
"My birthday was two weeks ago," he says stiffly. He sounds middle-aged, and he hates sounding like this. He hates that Merlin makes him sound like this.
"Really?" Merlin winces; he has the good grace to sound and look remorseful. "Sorry. I must have misjudged my timing."
Arthur wants to remain angry with him. After the way that Merlin has been fluttering in and out of the present recently, Arthur would be well within his rights to have him thrown in the dungeons for as long as he will stay there. There is no respect in Merlin's mind; there is loyalty, certainly, and perhaps that is worth far more. On the nights when Merlin's side of the bed has been cold and empty, Arthur hasn't been able to make up his mind.
"What have you been up to?" he asks, with a defeated sigh. He knows that Merlin will have tales of future worlds and strange machines. He will have seen wonders that Arthur can only dream of and he will have knowledge that no single man ought to possess.
"I met you in the future. And I've been saving myself from a tree," he answers, curling up at Arthur's side. Arthur rolls over so that their bodies can slot together, filling in the gaps like puzzle pieces.
"A tree?" he whispers, though he knows that Merlin will only tell him confusing bits and pieces. He always forgets what Arthur already knows and what is still a mystery to him.
"I got stuck in it. I'm going to get stuck in it." Merlin sighs, long and weary. Arthur wonders how long it has been for him since they last saw each other. He can't feel sorry for him: it is Merlin that chooses when to travel and how long he will stay for.
"You could stop it," he suggests, even though they'd had this argument over and over now. It's well-worn around the ages: he knows his lines perfectly. "You could travel to the exact moment it happens and stop it."
"I've tried changing things before," Merlin says. He has that irritating expression on his face: Arthur can hardly see it in the dim light from the window, but he knows it so well that he doesn't have to. It will be an expression of sorrow and resignation; it will make Merlin look older and wiser and more run-down. Merlin has walked through the world, through its past, through its future. There is more knowledge locked in his incredibly illogical brain than anyone ought to possess. "It doesn't work. It never works."
"It hasn't worked yet," Arthur corrects. He doesn't know the details. Merlin won't tell him regardless of the amount of teasing and prodding that Arthur subjects him to. That alone is enough to let Arthur know that there is something bad waiting for them in the future. He doesn't want to think about it any more than he has to - but with the future of the kingdom resting on his shoulders, there is no other option. "You never used to be such a quitter, Merlin..."
He doesn't rise to the bait. Arthur thinks that might be a distressing sign that Merlin is starting to grow up.
"It's not 'quitting'. It's knowing my limits." Merlin sighs, sending a little puff of warm air over Arthur's bare collarbone. "Do we really have to get into all of this again?"
"Are you turning down the opportunity to argue with me?" Arthur asks. He forces himself to smile in the dark, because he doesn't know when Merlin will leave again: he ought to take advantage of whatever time he has.
Merlin is grinning when he brushes a purposeful kiss against the edge of Arthur's jaw. Arthur can feel the rough burn of stubble against his skin, a reminder that Merlin has been away having adventures without him: life in Camelot is too boring for a sorcerer of Merlin's calibre, most of the time. "I can think of better ways to spend our time other than bickering," Merlin suggests. "I know insulting me is like foreplay for you, but maybe we could skip that part, just this once..."
Arthur rolls onto his back and it doesn't take much prompting for Merlin to roll with him, a solid weight on top of his body. Merlin's lips hover above Arthur's, curved into a wickedly warm smile, and Arthur uses a hand on the back of Merlin's head to urge him down enough to make the connection. Merlin's lips are soft and his mouth is hot; Arthur kisses him with the lonely desperation bred by Merlin's absence, as if Merlin will stay if he can only make this good enough.
*
This time, Merlin stays a week - and then he's gone again, exploring the endless map of time.
"He'll be back," Gwen promises, standing in the sunlight with Arthur. There are flowers in her hair and a sad smile on her face. "Don't worry, Arthur. He always comes back."
"It would be easier if he didn't," Arthur growls. He doesn't mean that; he doesn't think he means that. "I have better things to do than wait on him."
Yet he stares at the spot where Merlin faded away, and he doesn't pull back when Gwen places a sympathetic hand on his arm.
They both lose something every time he waves goodbye.
*
There is a kingdom to run and wars to fight and creatures to destroy. He can feel the strain in his muscles and especially in his shoulders, dragging down upon him. Merlin would make this easier, he thinks for the first year. After a while, he stops thinking that at all.
Morgana leaves and Gwen stays. She takes the throne next to him, because they are the only ones who are left.
She is a good wife. She is a great queen.
He loves her.
"There are bandits at the Northern borders," she tells him one evening. "The family of my handmaiden live there. Do you think we could help at all?"
She isn't looking at him at all, fussing with a pile of towels instead.
"Remember Ealdor?" Arthur asks. He remembers it with perfect clarity, how young they had all been: a time before secrets had been revealed and their lives had been tangled. Merlin had been his idiot of a manservant and nothing more complicated or powerful than that.
It makes him smile to think of it: Gwen too.
"Do you think Merlin ever goes back?" she asks. She looks up at him, questioning. He doesn't allow himself to look away when their eyes meet, and he pretends that the name alone doesn't burn.
He shrugs as if he doesn't care. "He'd have to be excellent at hiding if he did," he says, "and this is Merlin. We both know he isn't likely to be that subtle."
If a Merlin from their future had been there and present in their younger days, Arthur has no doubt that he would have accidentally allowed himself to be spotted within minutes. Perhaps he can't go into the past. Perhaps it is one of the rules of time-travel that he always seems to think is too complicated to explain.
It's partly Arthur's own fault. Whenever Merlin had tried, he had always found more interesting things to do, like kissing his neck in a way that never failed to make him shiver.
He leaves in the morning. Gwen's shoulders are tense when he says goodbye.
*
"It's alright now," the old woman tells him and his men once they arrive. "Thank you for your trouble, my lord, but he turned up last night and it was all sorted by the morning. Bloody miracle worker, I'll say. Mind the language, sorry."
He had known, in a way, before she had even explained about the dark-haired youth that had come to the village's rescue. There's something in the air, a telltale charge.
He doesn't think about it.
He can't think about it, not even as his body begins to burn in anticipation.
"Where is this hero of yours? I'd like to offer my thanks in person," Arthur says. They have been riding for days to make it here; his men are tired and weary. They need rest, and he needs to see this with his own eyes. It's been years.
"He's staying at my inn over there," she says, waving her hand towards the other side of the village square. This is such a small place that Arthur knows that his visit will be the talk of the town for years to come, most likely decades. He wishes he'd done more to make it memorable for them, but it appears that for once his timing has been less than impeccable. "There's a guest room upstairs."
He thanks her and turns to leave, confident that he will no doubt see her again before the time comes to return home. This town is small, and she seems a forceful enough character to make her presence known. In small places like this, the real politics always stick out: it doesn't matter who owns the land. The real power lies in the hands of whoever owns the pub.
Inside, there is little remarkable about this place. It is dark and gloomy, even with all of the windows closed, and there are the usual collection of characters scattered near the bar: old men complaining about their wives, teenagers sneaking away from their chores, slightly more unsavoury characters lingering in the shadows. It is a scene that is identical to the ones that Arthur has found in dozens of villages throughout his kingdom, and one that takes place every day in Camelot too. Comforting, in a way.
He heads straight for the stairs without allowing his stride to falter. Knowing his luck, if he delays in any way at all then Merlin will be gone by the time he opens the door.
His heart is beginning to race in an unflattering manner because of this when he reaches the right bedroom. He pauses with his hand on the door and straightens his shoulders, puffing out his chest. So long has passed since he last saw Merlin: he wants to make sure that he looks impressive, important and kingly. Most of all, he wants Merlin to be able to see plainly that he gets along fine without him.
When he steps inside, the man waiting for him is so much younger than he had been when Arthur had last set eyes on him. He's in his early twenties, perhaps, and the smile on his face is light and carefree. "Took your time getting here," Merlin says, standing near the window. "I don't know how you survive without me."
Right now, Arthur is beginning to wonder the same thing.
"I survive easily enough," Arthur says; he is irritated to find that he sounds more awestruck than anything else.
He can't help it.
Merlin's skin is flawless; his eyes are bright; his smile is wide.
This must be one of his first trips to his future.
He steps inside and closes the door. He can hear the sound of Merlin's voice, teasing and cheerful. It's something he's missed and he's longed for; the sound of it, now, makes a rough mix of anger and need flare throughout his body, red-hot and burning. He shouldn't do this, now. Merlin is far younger than him and he isn't yet burdened with years of war and travel and adventure. He's innocent, in his own way - and when Arthur charges forward he silences suddenly, eyebrows raised. He doesn't try to pull away when Arthur's grip lands on his hips and they stand flush together, chest to chest.
Arthur should say something.
He really ought to say something commanding and intelligent, but Merlin is so close now. He can only think of the ridiculous paleness of his skin and the stupid angles of his cheekbones and the pink of his lips.
"What happened?" Merlin asks; his voice has gone quiet and he sounds close to horrified. His hand cups Arthur's cheek, fingers skimming over his jaw. Arthur leans automatically into the touch, and his eyes close. With Merlin in the room once more, it feels as if all of the weight and worries on his shoulders can evaporate. It makes him want to scold Merlin as harshly as he can for being so foolish and selfish as to keep travelling, keep moving, keep wandering. "Arthur, open your eyes and tell me what's happened. You look... wrong."
Arthur knows how he looks. He is tired and weary and older than Merlin must be expecting.
He is a king, and the last few years have given him such insight into how his father came to be the way he was: cold, stressed and angry. He feels it too.
"Arthur?"
It's so easy to silence Merlin with the crush of lips upon lips. Merlin's mouth is soft and receptive; willing. Kissing him now is like stepping back into the past, his very own form of time travel. It takes him back to a time when everything was frantic and clumsy, and the amount of contact between them mattered far more than the quality of it.
Merlin's hands push through Arthur's hair in a way that is downright designed to make a mess of it. His mouth is demanding and Arthur yields, opening for him; Merlin's tongue tastes his bottom lip and his teeth offer the shadow of a nip. Arthur thinks he would be happy to allow Merlin to do whatever he wants: being near him again makes all of that repressed need come back stronger than before. By the time they fall to the bed, with Merlin laughing and grinning like this is all a game to him, Arthur can already tell that it will feel worse than ever when Merlin finally leaves again.
He wants to curse him for it.
Instead he is left cursing in vain when Merlin's mouth reminds him of all the reasons he'd wanted him in the first place.
*
They keep the room in the inn for a week, and Arthur makes Merlin tell him every single detail from his current life: from the sounds of things, this is a Merlin from seven years ago, fresh to the excitements and demands of travel. He talks non-stop and his hair is constantly a mess and their bedroom looks as if an angry horse has trampled through it. Merlin never listens to Arthur's demands for him to tidy up.
Merlin lies in bed even though the sun is shining outside. He's completely naked, covered haphazardly by thin sheets, and Arthur can't stop his gaze from being drawn again and again to the pale, smooth skin of his back. He stands close to the window, fully dressed, but his eyes are always drawn back.
Merlin grins with amusement whenever he catches him looking. Arthur doesn't bother to hide his attention.
Stretching, Merlin rolls over onto his front. "I should probably head back soon," he says. "You'll chew my ear off if I'm gone too long. My-you, I mean."
"You travel through time," Arthur protests: his voice has gone awkward and tight, filled with tension he can't let spill. He forces himself to remain by the window instead of closing the gap and forcing him to stay. He could bring him back to Camelot with him. Gwen would love to have him back too. "You can leave whenever you like and wind up back whenever you want."
"It doesn't work like that," Merlin says. He props himself up on his elbows, his collarbone thin and angular. "Travelling... It's like throwing yourself to the wind and hoping it'll blow you in the right direction. I think it works better when I'm not trying to go too far. Then it's like jumping. When I try to go further, it's more like falling - which the associated risk of splatting to an early death. Avoiding that would be a good idea."
He sits up; his hair looks as if someone has sat on it and there are red lines creased into his face from the pillow. He looks perfect, in his own absurd way. Arthur's arms remain stubbornly crossed over his chest.
"Maybe that's what happened to me," Merlin suggests. "Future-me. Maybe I went too far and I'm trying to make my way back."
"I never said you'd gone anywhere," Arthur bristles.
Merlin offers a smile that only he could get away with, an equal mix of sympathetic and cheeky. "You didn't have to."
It isn't a pleasant feeling, to be so readable. With so many years between them, Arthur thinks that Merlin should no longer be able to see him so clearly. He looks down at the floor and scuffs his boot along the wood. "You'd best be off, then," he says, trying very hard to make sure that his voice shows exactly how much he does not care.
Merlin, as usual, doesn't buy it for a second. "Stop being an idiot," he tells him affectionately. "Get over here, alright? I've still got time."
With Merlin looking mussed and dishevelled, and with the grin on his face speaking of positively dirty things, Arthur doesn't bother to find a reason to turn down that invitation.
*
And then he's gone and Arthur goes home.
Life carries on.
"I'm so sorry, Arthur," Gwen murmurs to him when he tells her of what has happened: he wishes he could say that it makes him feel better.
He rests his forehead against her shoulder and she strokes his back with her hand.
Not 'better', perhaps - but she has always been there to stop him from feeling alone.
*
Two months later, Merlin is waiting for him in his bedroom when he returns from court.
He is sitting at the table, flicking through the pages of past court records as if he is trying to catch up on all he has missed. If that is the case, Arthur thinks, he will need to do a lot more than skim dry minutes of boring meetings.
"So, when are you from?" he asks, closing the door behind himself; it closes with a slam that echoes through the corridors outside. He hadn't meant to push it so hard.
Merlin looks about the right age, now, but he's wearing strange clothes that Arthur doesn't recognise. He's not even certain what they are made of: the material is nothing like anything that he has ever seen. The shirt is light purple and the sleeves don't run all the way down to Merlin's wrists, cutting off near his biceps instead.
"I'm from now," Merlin answers, closing the heavy book of records he had been pouring over. He leans back in his chair - in Arthur's chair - and smiles in a way that isn't usually as confident as it used to be.
"It's been years," Arthur answers. He sounds angry and he's glad about that. He wants to be furious because Merlin has to know that this isn't right. He has to know that it isn't fair on anyone that knows him when he wanders in and out of their lives as if it's all a temporary amusement.
He has the good grace to look ashamed. "I know," he says. "I'm sorry. I was... busy, I guess."
"Mm," Arthur murmurs. He tries to force himself not to look at Merlin for too long at a time. He isn't sure if it works. "So busy, it seems, that stopping here for two seconds to let us know you were alive was completely out of the question. I understand."
He doesn't, not for a second, and in a way he resents Merlin for expecting him to. It isn't fair. Neither him or Gwen have any experience with magic. They don't know how it works; most of the time, he doesn't want to know. He wants his friends to be alive and he wants them to be safe. Before Merlin, he wouldn't have thought that that was such an unreasonable demand.
"I'm sorry," Merlin says. Arthur can't tell whether or not he means it. "It's hard for me to be here."
Arthur's jaw clenches. He breathes in through his nose, and then he asks, "Why?"
It's one of the questions that he knows he shouldn't ask: the answer will confuse, upset or anger him.
Merlin looks down at the table and traces empty shapes on the wood with his forefinger. "Because," he says, mumbling like they are both still moody teenagers, "I know how the story ends. I know where all of this is headed and..." He sighs. Sometimes when he looks at Merlin, Arthur can see the power and destiny that surrounds him, can see in his face that he is more than a simple man or a simple sorcerer: other times, like this, Merlin looks too human and too fragile to be even half the man that legend says he ought to be. "I don't want to see it. I don't want to be there for it."
"Then change it," Arthur insists. It's simple, damn it - or it should be. He's a knight and a king: a warrior.
He is used to being able to shape the world to fit his vision.
"It doesn't work," Merlin says. "I've tried. No matter what I do it'll always end up the same. We still hit the same plot points, and the details don't matter."
"You make it sound like it's a story, Merlin. These are our lives." His life. Gwen's life. Maybe Merlin is too distant, now, for it to be his life too.
"'All the world's a stage, and all the men and women merely players'," Merlin says.
His grin is a bitter thing.
"What on Earth are you on about now?"
"It's a quote. A play." Merlin looks up. "They tell stories about us, y'know, in the future. King Arthur: 'the once and future king'. Some of the details are a bit off. They make out like you're 'wise'. I think something got lost in translation, there."
He offers a grin that is just about enough to make Arthur smile back in response. He wants to take Merlin to a physician and have all of the cruel memories of the future wiped from his mind: he wants to go back in time to that first foolish battle and find a way to stop Merlin from 'nipping' forward for five minutes. It is a power he should never have discovered.
"I am very wise, Merlin," he says, beginning to walk towards the table. "And, in all my wiseness, I'd like to tell you that you have to stay now. No more travelling - by order of the king."
"Arthur - "
"I mean it." He sounds serious enough to silence all argument. It's empowering. "You stay now or you leave for good. Gwen and I can't have you flouncing in and out as you please. It isn't fair."
He doesn't know if he would actually be able to stand by his ultimatium; he would force himself to do so out of stubborn pride and nothing more.
Merlin looks up at him from where he is sitting on the chair by the table. Arthur has lost the art of reading the messages hidden in his expression; he can't tell what is going on in Merlin's bizarre mind.
"Okay," Merlin says after a pause that seems overly-long simply to torture Arthur. "Alright. No more travelling. I promise."
He'll have his own reasons behind that decision, no doubt. He's tired or he has things to do in the present or, maybe, he misses Arthur as much as Arthur has missed him. In the end, it doesn't particularly matter why he's staying: Arthur can declare it a victory nonetheless. In a quarrel between himself and time, he won.
Merlin's uncertain grin grows into something far more encouraging, and even if they are more damaged by their past than either would admit to, Arthur wants to believe that the future will be better. They can change whatever is to come.
"And, by the way," Merlin says, with a particularly vicious prod of his finger at Arthur's side, "I do not flounce."
"Oh, you do." It's embarrassingly easy to catch Merlin's wrist before he can pull his hand away. Merlin might have the power of a god, but he has reflexes like an especially dumb ass. "It's pitiful, to be honest."
"Prat," Merlin complains.
Arthur smirks.
It feels like they're starting all over again.
Pairing: Arthur/Merlin; some Arthur/Gwen
Word Count: 4342
Rating: R
A/N: Using one of 10_per_genre's prompts. Future AU. I didn't like the movie and I haven't read the book, but I think this fic must have been inspired by The Time Traveler's Wife all the same.
Summary: After Merlin travels forward in time to help Arthur win a battle, he finds the experience impossible to give up.
"It's one foot after another for you," Merlin explains one day, lying at a 90o angle to Arthur with his head on Arthur's stomach. The grass below is prickly and in the sky white clouds form meaningless shapes. "Second after second; minute after minute."
"That's how it is for most normal people, Merlin," Arthur says. His fingers play with Merlin's hair, and he pretends not to notice that it is at least an inch longer than it had been yesterday.
"I'm not normal," Merlin says.
And he vanishes. The weight on Arthur's stomach disappears.
This is starting to become very tiring.
*
It had started with one single trip.
"I'm only going to take a peek," Merlin had said, grinning. "It'll be five minutes at most. You won't even notice I'm gone."
Arthur could have said that he was the king and that Merlin had to listen to him when he ordered him not to go; he could have said that they didn't need any knowledge of the future to win the upcoming battle and that it was downright insulting for Merlin to suggest that they did; he could have dragged him to the bed and distracted him with ease.
He didn't.
Merlin left. When he came back with that same old grin on his face, he told them everything they needed to know about the enemy's tactics, supplies and men.
They won the battle.
From that point on, nothing was the same again.
*
"Happy birthday," Merlin murmurs as he slips under the covers. His hand slides over Arthur's bare stomach and he kisses the side of his mouth, still smiling.
Arthur peers at Merlin in the dark.
It has been months since he last saw him, and Camelot has been so empty - and ridiculously quiet, really. If Arthur has ever needed proof that Merlin is the one that attracts trouble, not him, he has it now.
"My birthday was two weeks ago," he says stiffly. He sounds middle-aged, and he hates sounding like this. He hates that Merlin makes him sound like this.
"Really?" Merlin winces; he has the good grace to sound and look remorseful. "Sorry. I must have misjudged my timing."
Arthur wants to remain angry with him. After the way that Merlin has been fluttering in and out of the present recently, Arthur would be well within his rights to have him thrown in the dungeons for as long as he will stay there. There is no respect in Merlin's mind; there is loyalty, certainly, and perhaps that is worth far more. On the nights when Merlin's side of the bed has been cold and empty, Arthur hasn't been able to make up his mind.
"What have you been up to?" he asks, with a defeated sigh. He knows that Merlin will have tales of future worlds and strange machines. He will have seen wonders that Arthur can only dream of and he will have knowledge that no single man ought to possess.
"I met you in the future. And I've been saving myself from a tree," he answers, curling up at Arthur's side. Arthur rolls over so that their bodies can slot together, filling in the gaps like puzzle pieces.
"A tree?" he whispers, though he knows that Merlin will only tell him confusing bits and pieces. He always forgets what Arthur already knows and what is still a mystery to him.
"I got stuck in it. I'm going to get stuck in it." Merlin sighs, long and weary. Arthur wonders how long it has been for him since they last saw each other. He can't feel sorry for him: it is Merlin that chooses when to travel and how long he will stay for.
"You could stop it," he suggests, even though they'd had this argument over and over now. It's well-worn around the ages: he knows his lines perfectly. "You could travel to the exact moment it happens and stop it."
"I've tried changing things before," Merlin says. He has that irritating expression on his face: Arthur can hardly see it in the dim light from the window, but he knows it so well that he doesn't have to. It will be an expression of sorrow and resignation; it will make Merlin look older and wiser and more run-down. Merlin has walked through the world, through its past, through its future. There is more knowledge locked in his incredibly illogical brain than anyone ought to possess. "It doesn't work. It never works."
"It hasn't worked yet," Arthur corrects. He doesn't know the details. Merlin won't tell him regardless of the amount of teasing and prodding that Arthur subjects him to. That alone is enough to let Arthur know that there is something bad waiting for them in the future. He doesn't want to think about it any more than he has to - but with the future of the kingdom resting on his shoulders, there is no other option. "You never used to be such a quitter, Merlin..."
He doesn't rise to the bait. Arthur thinks that might be a distressing sign that Merlin is starting to grow up.
"It's not 'quitting'. It's knowing my limits." Merlin sighs, sending a little puff of warm air over Arthur's bare collarbone. "Do we really have to get into all of this again?"
"Are you turning down the opportunity to argue with me?" Arthur asks. He forces himself to smile in the dark, because he doesn't know when Merlin will leave again: he ought to take advantage of whatever time he has.
Merlin is grinning when he brushes a purposeful kiss against the edge of Arthur's jaw. Arthur can feel the rough burn of stubble against his skin, a reminder that Merlin has been away having adventures without him: life in Camelot is too boring for a sorcerer of Merlin's calibre, most of the time. "I can think of better ways to spend our time other than bickering," Merlin suggests. "I know insulting me is like foreplay for you, but maybe we could skip that part, just this once..."
Arthur rolls onto his back and it doesn't take much prompting for Merlin to roll with him, a solid weight on top of his body. Merlin's lips hover above Arthur's, curved into a wickedly warm smile, and Arthur uses a hand on the back of Merlin's head to urge him down enough to make the connection. Merlin's lips are soft and his mouth is hot; Arthur kisses him with the lonely desperation bred by Merlin's absence, as if Merlin will stay if he can only make this good enough.
*
This time, Merlin stays a week - and then he's gone again, exploring the endless map of time.
"He'll be back," Gwen promises, standing in the sunlight with Arthur. There are flowers in her hair and a sad smile on her face. "Don't worry, Arthur. He always comes back."
"It would be easier if he didn't," Arthur growls. He doesn't mean that; he doesn't think he means that. "I have better things to do than wait on him."
Yet he stares at the spot where Merlin faded away, and he doesn't pull back when Gwen places a sympathetic hand on his arm.
They both lose something every time he waves goodbye.
*
There is a kingdom to run and wars to fight and creatures to destroy. He can feel the strain in his muscles and especially in his shoulders, dragging down upon him. Merlin would make this easier, he thinks for the first year. After a while, he stops thinking that at all.
Morgana leaves and Gwen stays. She takes the throne next to him, because they are the only ones who are left.
She is a good wife. She is a great queen.
He loves her.
"There are bandits at the Northern borders," she tells him one evening. "The family of my handmaiden live there. Do you think we could help at all?"
She isn't looking at him at all, fussing with a pile of towels instead.
"Remember Ealdor?" Arthur asks. He remembers it with perfect clarity, how young they had all been: a time before secrets had been revealed and their lives had been tangled. Merlin had been his idiot of a manservant and nothing more complicated or powerful than that.
It makes him smile to think of it: Gwen too.
"Do you think Merlin ever goes back?" she asks. She looks up at him, questioning. He doesn't allow himself to look away when their eyes meet, and he pretends that the name alone doesn't burn.
He shrugs as if he doesn't care. "He'd have to be excellent at hiding if he did," he says, "and this is Merlin. We both know he isn't likely to be that subtle."
If a Merlin from their future had been there and present in their younger days, Arthur has no doubt that he would have accidentally allowed himself to be spotted within minutes. Perhaps he can't go into the past. Perhaps it is one of the rules of time-travel that he always seems to think is too complicated to explain.
It's partly Arthur's own fault. Whenever Merlin had tried, he had always found more interesting things to do, like kissing his neck in a way that never failed to make him shiver.
He leaves in the morning. Gwen's shoulders are tense when he says goodbye.
*
"It's alright now," the old woman tells him and his men once they arrive. "Thank you for your trouble, my lord, but he turned up last night and it was all sorted by the morning. Bloody miracle worker, I'll say. Mind the language, sorry."
He had known, in a way, before she had even explained about the dark-haired youth that had come to the village's rescue. There's something in the air, a telltale charge.
He doesn't think about it.
He can't think about it, not even as his body begins to burn in anticipation.
"Where is this hero of yours? I'd like to offer my thanks in person," Arthur says. They have been riding for days to make it here; his men are tired and weary. They need rest, and he needs to see this with his own eyes. It's been years.
"He's staying at my inn over there," she says, waving her hand towards the other side of the village square. This is such a small place that Arthur knows that his visit will be the talk of the town for years to come, most likely decades. He wishes he'd done more to make it memorable for them, but it appears that for once his timing has been less than impeccable. "There's a guest room upstairs."
He thanks her and turns to leave, confident that he will no doubt see her again before the time comes to return home. This town is small, and she seems a forceful enough character to make her presence known. In small places like this, the real politics always stick out: it doesn't matter who owns the land. The real power lies in the hands of whoever owns the pub.
Inside, there is little remarkable about this place. It is dark and gloomy, even with all of the windows closed, and there are the usual collection of characters scattered near the bar: old men complaining about their wives, teenagers sneaking away from their chores, slightly more unsavoury characters lingering in the shadows. It is a scene that is identical to the ones that Arthur has found in dozens of villages throughout his kingdom, and one that takes place every day in Camelot too. Comforting, in a way.
He heads straight for the stairs without allowing his stride to falter. Knowing his luck, if he delays in any way at all then Merlin will be gone by the time he opens the door.
His heart is beginning to race in an unflattering manner because of this when he reaches the right bedroom. He pauses with his hand on the door and straightens his shoulders, puffing out his chest. So long has passed since he last saw Merlin: he wants to make sure that he looks impressive, important and kingly. Most of all, he wants Merlin to be able to see plainly that he gets along fine without him.
When he steps inside, the man waiting for him is so much younger than he had been when Arthur had last set eyes on him. He's in his early twenties, perhaps, and the smile on his face is light and carefree. "Took your time getting here," Merlin says, standing near the window. "I don't know how you survive without me."
Right now, Arthur is beginning to wonder the same thing.
"I survive easily enough," Arthur says; he is irritated to find that he sounds more awestruck than anything else.
He can't help it.
Merlin's skin is flawless; his eyes are bright; his smile is wide.
This must be one of his first trips to his future.
He steps inside and closes the door. He can hear the sound of Merlin's voice, teasing and cheerful. It's something he's missed and he's longed for; the sound of it, now, makes a rough mix of anger and need flare throughout his body, red-hot and burning. He shouldn't do this, now. Merlin is far younger than him and he isn't yet burdened with years of war and travel and adventure. He's innocent, in his own way - and when Arthur charges forward he silences suddenly, eyebrows raised. He doesn't try to pull away when Arthur's grip lands on his hips and they stand flush together, chest to chest.
Arthur should say something.
He really ought to say something commanding and intelligent, but Merlin is so close now. He can only think of the ridiculous paleness of his skin and the stupid angles of his cheekbones and the pink of his lips.
"What happened?" Merlin asks; his voice has gone quiet and he sounds close to horrified. His hand cups Arthur's cheek, fingers skimming over his jaw. Arthur leans automatically into the touch, and his eyes close. With Merlin in the room once more, it feels as if all of the weight and worries on his shoulders can evaporate. It makes him want to scold Merlin as harshly as he can for being so foolish and selfish as to keep travelling, keep moving, keep wandering. "Arthur, open your eyes and tell me what's happened. You look... wrong."
Arthur knows how he looks. He is tired and weary and older than Merlin must be expecting.
He is a king, and the last few years have given him such insight into how his father came to be the way he was: cold, stressed and angry. He feels it too.
"Arthur?"
It's so easy to silence Merlin with the crush of lips upon lips. Merlin's mouth is soft and receptive; willing. Kissing him now is like stepping back into the past, his very own form of time travel. It takes him back to a time when everything was frantic and clumsy, and the amount of contact between them mattered far more than the quality of it.
Merlin's hands push through Arthur's hair in a way that is downright designed to make a mess of it. His mouth is demanding and Arthur yields, opening for him; Merlin's tongue tastes his bottom lip and his teeth offer the shadow of a nip. Arthur thinks he would be happy to allow Merlin to do whatever he wants: being near him again makes all of that repressed need come back stronger than before. By the time they fall to the bed, with Merlin laughing and grinning like this is all a game to him, Arthur can already tell that it will feel worse than ever when Merlin finally leaves again.
He wants to curse him for it.
Instead he is left cursing in vain when Merlin's mouth reminds him of all the reasons he'd wanted him in the first place.
*
They keep the room in the inn for a week, and Arthur makes Merlin tell him every single detail from his current life: from the sounds of things, this is a Merlin from seven years ago, fresh to the excitements and demands of travel. He talks non-stop and his hair is constantly a mess and their bedroom looks as if an angry horse has trampled through it. Merlin never listens to Arthur's demands for him to tidy up.
Merlin lies in bed even though the sun is shining outside. He's completely naked, covered haphazardly by thin sheets, and Arthur can't stop his gaze from being drawn again and again to the pale, smooth skin of his back. He stands close to the window, fully dressed, but his eyes are always drawn back.
Merlin grins with amusement whenever he catches him looking. Arthur doesn't bother to hide his attention.
Stretching, Merlin rolls over onto his front. "I should probably head back soon," he says. "You'll chew my ear off if I'm gone too long. My-you, I mean."
"You travel through time," Arthur protests: his voice has gone awkward and tight, filled with tension he can't let spill. He forces himself to remain by the window instead of closing the gap and forcing him to stay. He could bring him back to Camelot with him. Gwen would love to have him back too. "You can leave whenever you like and wind up back whenever you want."
"It doesn't work like that," Merlin says. He props himself up on his elbows, his collarbone thin and angular. "Travelling... It's like throwing yourself to the wind and hoping it'll blow you in the right direction. I think it works better when I'm not trying to go too far. Then it's like jumping. When I try to go further, it's more like falling - which the associated risk of splatting to an early death. Avoiding that would be a good idea."
He sits up; his hair looks as if someone has sat on it and there are red lines creased into his face from the pillow. He looks perfect, in his own absurd way. Arthur's arms remain stubbornly crossed over his chest.
"Maybe that's what happened to me," Merlin suggests. "Future-me. Maybe I went too far and I'm trying to make my way back."
"I never said you'd gone anywhere," Arthur bristles.
Merlin offers a smile that only he could get away with, an equal mix of sympathetic and cheeky. "You didn't have to."
It isn't a pleasant feeling, to be so readable. With so many years between them, Arthur thinks that Merlin should no longer be able to see him so clearly. He looks down at the floor and scuffs his boot along the wood. "You'd best be off, then," he says, trying very hard to make sure that his voice shows exactly how much he does not care.
Merlin, as usual, doesn't buy it for a second. "Stop being an idiot," he tells him affectionately. "Get over here, alright? I've still got time."
With Merlin looking mussed and dishevelled, and with the grin on his face speaking of positively dirty things, Arthur doesn't bother to find a reason to turn down that invitation.
*
And then he's gone and Arthur goes home.
Life carries on.
"I'm so sorry, Arthur," Gwen murmurs to him when he tells her of what has happened: he wishes he could say that it makes him feel better.
He rests his forehead against her shoulder and she strokes his back with her hand.
Not 'better', perhaps - but she has always been there to stop him from feeling alone.
*
Two months later, Merlin is waiting for him in his bedroom when he returns from court.
He is sitting at the table, flicking through the pages of past court records as if he is trying to catch up on all he has missed. If that is the case, Arthur thinks, he will need to do a lot more than skim dry minutes of boring meetings.
"So, when are you from?" he asks, closing the door behind himself; it closes with a slam that echoes through the corridors outside. He hadn't meant to push it so hard.
Merlin looks about the right age, now, but he's wearing strange clothes that Arthur doesn't recognise. He's not even certain what they are made of: the material is nothing like anything that he has ever seen. The shirt is light purple and the sleeves don't run all the way down to Merlin's wrists, cutting off near his biceps instead.
"I'm from now," Merlin answers, closing the heavy book of records he had been pouring over. He leans back in his chair - in Arthur's chair - and smiles in a way that isn't usually as confident as it used to be.
"It's been years," Arthur answers. He sounds angry and he's glad about that. He wants to be furious because Merlin has to know that this isn't right. He has to know that it isn't fair on anyone that knows him when he wanders in and out of their lives as if it's all a temporary amusement.
He has the good grace to look ashamed. "I know," he says. "I'm sorry. I was... busy, I guess."
"Mm," Arthur murmurs. He tries to force himself not to look at Merlin for too long at a time. He isn't sure if it works. "So busy, it seems, that stopping here for two seconds to let us know you were alive was completely out of the question. I understand."
He doesn't, not for a second, and in a way he resents Merlin for expecting him to. It isn't fair. Neither him or Gwen have any experience with magic. They don't know how it works; most of the time, he doesn't want to know. He wants his friends to be alive and he wants them to be safe. Before Merlin, he wouldn't have thought that that was such an unreasonable demand.
"I'm sorry," Merlin says. Arthur can't tell whether or not he means it. "It's hard for me to be here."
Arthur's jaw clenches. He breathes in through his nose, and then he asks, "Why?"
It's one of the questions that he knows he shouldn't ask: the answer will confuse, upset or anger him.
Merlin looks down at the table and traces empty shapes on the wood with his forefinger. "Because," he says, mumbling like they are both still moody teenagers, "I know how the story ends. I know where all of this is headed and..." He sighs. Sometimes when he looks at Merlin, Arthur can see the power and destiny that surrounds him, can see in his face that he is more than a simple man or a simple sorcerer: other times, like this, Merlin looks too human and too fragile to be even half the man that legend says he ought to be. "I don't want to see it. I don't want to be there for it."
"Then change it," Arthur insists. It's simple, damn it - or it should be. He's a knight and a king: a warrior.
He is used to being able to shape the world to fit his vision.
"It doesn't work," Merlin says. "I've tried. No matter what I do it'll always end up the same. We still hit the same plot points, and the details don't matter."
"You make it sound like it's a story, Merlin. These are our lives." His life. Gwen's life. Maybe Merlin is too distant, now, for it to be his life too.
"'All the world's a stage, and all the men and women merely players'," Merlin says.
His grin is a bitter thing.
"What on Earth are you on about now?"
"It's a quote. A play." Merlin looks up. "They tell stories about us, y'know, in the future. King Arthur: 'the once and future king'. Some of the details are a bit off. They make out like you're 'wise'. I think something got lost in translation, there."
He offers a grin that is just about enough to make Arthur smile back in response. He wants to take Merlin to a physician and have all of the cruel memories of the future wiped from his mind: he wants to go back in time to that first foolish battle and find a way to stop Merlin from 'nipping' forward for five minutes. It is a power he should never have discovered.
"I am very wise, Merlin," he says, beginning to walk towards the table. "And, in all my wiseness, I'd like to tell you that you have to stay now. No more travelling - by order of the king."
"Arthur - "
"I mean it." He sounds serious enough to silence all argument. It's empowering. "You stay now or you leave for good. Gwen and I can't have you flouncing in and out as you please. It isn't fair."
He doesn't know if he would actually be able to stand by his ultimatium; he would force himself to do so out of stubborn pride and nothing more.
Merlin looks up at him from where he is sitting on the chair by the table. Arthur has lost the art of reading the messages hidden in his expression; he can't tell what is going on in Merlin's bizarre mind.
"Okay," Merlin says after a pause that seems overly-long simply to torture Arthur. "Alright. No more travelling. I promise."
He'll have his own reasons behind that decision, no doubt. He's tired or he has things to do in the present or, maybe, he misses Arthur as much as Arthur has missed him. In the end, it doesn't particularly matter why he's staying: Arthur can declare it a victory nonetheless. In a quarrel between himself and time, he won.
Merlin's uncertain grin grows into something far more encouraging, and even if they are more damaged by their past than either would admit to, Arthur wants to believe that the future will be better. They can change whatever is to come.
"And, by the way," Merlin says, with a particularly vicious prod of his finger at Arthur's side, "I do not flounce."
"Oh, you do." It's embarrassingly easy to catch Merlin's wrist before he can pull his hand away. Merlin might have the power of a god, but he has reflexes like an especially dumb ass. "It's pitiful, to be honest."
"Prat," Merlin complains.
Arthur smirks.
It feels like they're starting all over again.