Fic: Comfort
Title: Comfort
Author: Mustbethursday3
Rating: G
Characters/Pairings: Gwen/Arthur
Disclaimer: I am in a deep deep writer-block hole of despair and appear incapable of writing anything in particular for long, so some of this may suck. But I did manage to finish it to some degree so I figured this could be my first LJ posted fic. Oh and it's unbetaed and the grammar is probably atrocious, so apologies in advance.
Summary: Set after 2.12, Arthur finds Gwen.
_____________________________________________________
He almost leaves in frustration - it is not the first place he’s looked for her and been too late, too early, too stupid - but then he sees her. She’s sitting on the floor, legs tucked up underneath her, head bowed forward as she leans over to mend a tunic in her lap. His tunic if he’s not mistaken, the one he’d torn to bandage Merlin’s arm.
He is weak, a twinge runs through him and he wants to announce his presence so she will look at him, so that she will say things and make it better. She makes everything better, the way she looks at things…the way she looks at him. But he must…he must know what he intends to say before he says it.
She is sitting in almost the exact spot he found her, undefended and vulnerable. Is she still so? Has she been waiting for him to find her? Foolish questions. He indulges himself too often and it is in her presence when he sees himself most clearly. He has nothing to offer, not that she’s asked. Not that he thinks she will. She’s much too sensible to allow herself to be forever entangled in his life. But that’s not right, she doesn’t refute him because…he doesn’t even know how that thought ends, there are foolish thoughts breaking through all his rational ones.
They splinter and fracture and spin, it cannot be possible that he never had a thought, a proper thought or self-awareness before he knew her. It cannot be possible but it is true, truer then anything he can say. He wants to tell her anyway. Needs her to know.
But it is not what he came to say and if one word were to escape his lips nothing could hold back the rest. And then they would both know. It is okay here, in this in-between place between definition and consequence to peek at each other, like opponents in a game, trying to distinguish what is buried beneath the formal ties, which bind them both. But to know, to know intimately would leave him exposed. It is agony, sometimes, not to know, but in the uncertainty there is hope. There is always hope.
Her hands still and her eyes rise to his. He is too pathetic not to admire the way the sunlight bends around her face, her lashes casting delicate shadows on her cheeks or the manner in which she can appear both unassuming and reverent. She is impossible.
It takes the barest of seconds, but he can tell that she has finished reading him, her gaze knowing and imploring. She knows what he wants to say and she is hoping right along with him that he can say it. She breaks their stare to focus back on her work, nimble fingers, dipping and weaving. It is as if she understands that he was holding his breath the whole time. In fact he is certain of it.
He isn’t aware he’s moving until he is crouched at her side, both of them pretending that there is nothing odd about this. He stares at her, wondering whether it is a curse or a gift to feel as he does.
Perhaps it is both.
“Guinevere,” his mouth is dry, feeling as if he has spoken every word there is.
Her answer is silent. She takes one hand from her work and lets it fall onto the floor, next to one of his and their fingertips brush. This little touch is like a spark, spreading up his arm and into his chest. He wants to understand why things must be this way. Why he can feel more then he has ever felt and yet it must be restricted. Who has a right to tell them not to be? He settles beside her, breaking the contact only to cover her hand with his, curling his fingers tightly around and under, firmly. They are alone; there is no one to perform for.
“I’m sorry.” The words tremble in the air between them and get her attention.
She glances up, small lines forming on her brow and he continues before she can speak.
“It’s my fault,” he confesses, “I wasn’t there when she needed me,” he looks down, his throat growing tight. “I’m sorry, Guinevere. I failed.” You, it’s unspoken but they both hear it.
She sighs, just once and he closes his eyes. Hearing all the things he knows it must mean - disappointment, shame, regret, even disgust at his weakness.
Gwen watches him, helpless to understand the wonder that it Arthur’s mind, his reasoning. There is no one she blames less for Morgana’s absence in all of Camelot. It is a terrible thing to watch and listen as he breaks himself into smaller pieces, he doesn’t seem to know when to stop. He cannot see his limits until he is at the edge. She loves him, dearly, stupidly, and irrationally but it is love all the same, though having a name for it doesn’t make it any less terrifying. He has ripped her free from her reason, her doubts and scattered them.
Neither of them is in control of anything.
She raises their entwined hands and with both hers she turns his palm upwards and brings it to her mouth. The kiss she presses there opens his eyes.
“You seek forgiveness when there is nothing to forgive and that is foolishness.”
In his eyes she still sees doubt. His stubbornness astounds her, but it is a strength and one he needs to wield as a future King, so she cannot fault it completely.
“Arthur,” she beseeches, “There was nothing more you could have done. I know that you did all you could, Merlin’s told me enough for me to know that,” she smiles sadly, “And I would believe it even if I knew none of the events of that day. I’m proud of you,” she whispers.
Arthur’s pulls his hand free to cup her cheek tenderly, her now free hand curls around his wrist, his other hand finds the back of her head, drawing her forward and pressing her forehead to his. His breath is rattling in his body shakily and her hand rises unconsciously to cover his heart.
“I want to hear you say that it is not your fault,” she commands.
“It’s not my fault,” he obeys.
She lets out a frustrated breath, “I want you to mean it. Arthur, words are just sounds, something scribbled onto parchment or shapes carved into stone when they are without meaning.” Gwen decides to take a different approach. “What could you have done, that you didn’t? Tell me that.”
“I…” he pulls back so that his eyes can focus on hers, “I shouldn’t have left her.”
Gwen nods, “But weren’t you holding off the knights, trying to buy Merlin and Morgana enough time to save your father?”
“I was cut off from them,” he admitted, reluctantly, “But-“
“Fighting an enemy that could not die with no hope of anyone coming to your aid.”
“You make it sound-“
“As it was, you sacrificed yourself for them. How else am I supposed to see it?”
“It wasn’t enough!” he bellows loudly, surprising them both. His heart is beating wildly beneath her splayed hand.
They stare at each other, both expecting the other to pull away.
A single tear slides down Gwen’s cheek and Arthur looks at in horror, sitting back and dropping his hand from her face. He tries to stand but she won’t let him.
He can’t do this. He shouldn’t have come here; of course he would make things worse. More tears follow the first, but Gwen has no free hand to wipe at them so they flow unabated over the curve of her cheek. It is low but he wishes he had the power to break her hold and leave. He’s destroying the most beautiful spirit he’s ever met and he hates himself for dragging her down with him.
She moves suddenly, but forwards, towards him, releasing his wrists to cup his face with both hands. Her eyes search his and her voice shakes, “There is nothing in this world that scares me more than you. The way you see yourself, Arthur, the way you shoulder all responsibility whether it belongs to you or not and the willingness you have to throw your life away. Like it is nothing, when I know - with every fibre of my being - that to be false.”
He breathes carefully through his mouth, stunned and appalled. Stunned that she could feel so intensely for him, that her conviction could be so strong and appalled that it changes nothing, that still they must stand at opposite sides. As they were born to do. They are destined to be smothered in other’s expectations - a terrible fate indeed.
I love you. “Guinevere,” he breathes and she smiles, apparently seeing something in his expression that relieves her. He loses sight of her smile as she ducks her head to take a deep breath, her hands moving to rest on his shoulders. Fingers twisting in his tunic.
They stay that way for a while - how long neither of them are sure - him with his long legs twisted awkwardly underneath him, pacing his breaths with hers. Her, hands griping his shoulders, head down as she regains her composure.
When she does look up he’s waiting, an affectionate smile passes between them. A secret smile that no one else will ever see.
Author: Mustbethursday3
Rating: G
Characters/Pairings: Gwen/Arthur
Disclaimer: I am in a deep deep writer-block hole of despair and appear incapable of writing anything in particular for long, so some of this may suck. But I did manage to finish it to some degree so I figured this could be my first LJ posted fic. Oh and it's unbetaed and the grammar is probably atrocious, so apologies in advance.
Summary: Set after 2.12, Arthur finds Gwen.
_____________________________________________________
He almost leaves in frustration - it is not the first place he’s looked for her and been too late, too early, too stupid - but then he sees her. She’s sitting on the floor, legs tucked up underneath her, head bowed forward as she leans over to mend a tunic in her lap. His tunic if he’s not mistaken, the one he’d torn to bandage Merlin’s arm.
He is weak, a twinge runs through him and he wants to announce his presence so she will look at him, so that she will say things and make it better. She makes everything better, the way she looks at things…the way she looks at him. But he must…he must know what he intends to say before he says it.
She is sitting in almost the exact spot he found her, undefended and vulnerable. Is she still so? Has she been waiting for him to find her? Foolish questions. He indulges himself too often and it is in her presence when he sees himself most clearly. He has nothing to offer, not that she’s asked. Not that he thinks she will. She’s much too sensible to allow herself to be forever entangled in his life. But that’s not right, she doesn’t refute him because…he doesn’t even know how that thought ends, there are foolish thoughts breaking through all his rational ones.
They splinter and fracture and spin, it cannot be possible that he never had a thought, a proper thought or self-awareness before he knew her. It cannot be possible but it is true, truer then anything he can say. He wants to tell her anyway. Needs her to know.
But it is not what he came to say and if one word were to escape his lips nothing could hold back the rest. And then they would both know. It is okay here, in this in-between place between definition and consequence to peek at each other, like opponents in a game, trying to distinguish what is buried beneath the formal ties, which bind them both. But to know, to know intimately would leave him exposed. It is agony, sometimes, not to know, but in the uncertainty there is hope. There is always hope.
Her hands still and her eyes rise to his. He is too pathetic not to admire the way the sunlight bends around her face, her lashes casting delicate shadows on her cheeks or the manner in which she can appear both unassuming and reverent. She is impossible.
It takes the barest of seconds, but he can tell that she has finished reading him, her gaze knowing and imploring. She knows what he wants to say and she is hoping right along with him that he can say it. She breaks their stare to focus back on her work, nimble fingers, dipping and weaving. It is as if she understands that he was holding his breath the whole time. In fact he is certain of it.
He isn’t aware he’s moving until he is crouched at her side, both of them pretending that there is nothing odd about this. He stares at her, wondering whether it is a curse or a gift to feel as he does.
Perhaps it is both.
“Guinevere,” his mouth is dry, feeling as if he has spoken every word there is.
Her answer is silent. She takes one hand from her work and lets it fall onto the floor, next to one of his and their fingertips brush. This little touch is like a spark, spreading up his arm and into his chest. He wants to understand why things must be this way. Why he can feel more then he has ever felt and yet it must be restricted. Who has a right to tell them not to be? He settles beside her, breaking the contact only to cover her hand with his, curling his fingers tightly around and under, firmly. They are alone; there is no one to perform for.
“I’m sorry.” The words tremble in the air between them and get her attention.
She glances up, small lines forming on her brow and he continues before she can speak.
“It’s my fault,” he confesses, “I wasn’t there when she needed me,” he looks down, his throat growing tight. “I’m sorry, Guinevere. I failed.” You, it’s unspoken but they both hear it.
She sighs, just once and he closes his eyes. Hearing all the things he knows it must mean - disappointment, shame, regret, even disgust at his weakness.
Gwen watches him, helpless to understand the wonder that it Arthur’s mind, his reasoning. There is no one she blames less for Morgana’s absence in all of Camelot. It is a terrible thing to watch and listen as he breaks himself into smaller pieces, he doesn’t seem to know when to stop. He cannot see his limits until he is at the edge. She loves him, dearly, stupidly, and irrationally but it is love all the same, though having a name for it doesn’t make it any less terrifying. He has ripped her free from her reason, her doubts and scattered them.
Neither of them is in control of anything.
She raises their entwined hands and with both hers she turns his palm upwards and brings it to her mouth. The kiss she presses there opens his eyes.
“You seek forgiveness when there is nothing to forgive and that is foolishness.”
In his eyes she still sees doubt. His stubbornness astounds her, but it is a strength and one he needs to wield as a future King, so she cannot fault it completely.
“Arthur,” she beseeches, “There was nothing more you could have done. I know that you did all you could, Merlin’s told me enough for me to know that,” she smiles sadly, “And I would believe it even if I knew none of the events of that day. I’m proud of you,” she whispers.
Arthur’s pulls his hand free to cup her cheek tenderly, her now free hand curls around his wrist, his other hand finds the back of her head, drawing her forward and pressing her forehead to his. His breath is rattling in his body shakily and her hand rises unconsciously to cover his heart.
“I want to hear you say that it is not your fault,” she commands.
“It’s not my fault,” he obeys.
She lets out a frustrated breath, “I want you to mean it. Arthur, words are just sounds, something scribbled onto parchment or shapes carved into stone when they are without meaning.” Gwen decides to take a different approach. “What could you have done, that you didn’t? Tell me that.”
“I…” he pulls back so that his eyes can focus on hers, “I shouldn’t have left her.”
Gwen nods, “But weren’t you holding off the knights, trying to buy Merlin and Morgana enough time to save your father?”
“I was cut off from them,” he admitted, reluctantly, “But-“
“Fighting an enemy that could not die with no hope of anyone coming to your aid.”
“You make it sound-“
“As it was, you sacrificed yourself for them. How else am I supposed to see it?”
“It wasn’t enough!” he bellows loudly, surprising them both. His heart is beating wildly beneath her splayed hand.
They stare at each other, both expecting the other to pull away.
A single tear slides down Gwen’s cheek and Arthur looks at in horror, sitting back and dropping his hand from her face. He tries to stand but she won’t let him.
He can’t do this. He shouldn’t have come here; of course he would make things worse. More tears follow the first, but Gwen has no free hand to wipe at them so they flow unabated over the curve of her cheek. It is low but he wishes he had the power to break her hold and leave. He’s destroying the most beautiful spirit he’s ever met and he hates himself for dragging her down with him.
She moves suddenly, but forwards, towards him, releasing his wrists to cup his face with both hands. Her eyes search his and her voice shakes, “There is nothing in this world that scares me more than you. The way you see yourself, Arthur, the way you shoulder all responsibility whether it belongs to you or not and the willingness you have to throw your life away. Like it is nothing, when I know - with every fibre of my being - that to be false.”
He breathes carefully through his mouth, stunned and appalled. Stunned that she could feel so intensely for him, that her conviction could be so strong and appalled that it changes nothing, that still they must stand at opposite sides. As they were born to do. They are destined to be smothered in other’s expectations - a terrible fate indeed.
I love you. “Guinevere,” he breathes and she smiles, apparently seeing something in his expression that relieves her. He loses sight of her smile as she ducks her head to take a deep breath, her hands moving to rest on his shoulders. Fingers twisting in his tunic.
They stay that way for a while - how long neither of them are sure - him with his long legs twisted awkwardly underneath him, pacing his breaths with hers. Her, hands griping his shoulders, head down as she regains her composure.
When she does look up he’s waiting, an affectionate smile passes between them. A secret smile that no one else will ever see.