Archive of Our Own ^beta

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The flat is cool and still as Merlin enters, well past two, covered in mist and smelling of night. He uses the puddle of light left on for him in the foyer to pull his bag over his head and drop it to the floor with a sigh; he feels as if he's been carrying its weight for years instead of simply since he left the cancer centre about half an hour before. His coat is next, hung on the second peg as always, between his husband's and his son's. But theirs are dry, having been long since removed and therefore kept out of the drizzle entirely. It has been that way for over a month now, that he's been parted from them in the evenings. Merlin comes home late if at all, his new position as Head of Haemato-oncology affording him many benefits but little free time as he works to restructure the entire unit.

After a brief stop in the kitchen for a lowly pear and glass of water, with which he swallows half a sleeping tablet, Merlin turns out all the lights and shuffles down the hallway on tired feet. His first stop is at a door left slightly ajar; Ambrose hasn't been able to sleep with it closed or without a light since Uncle Gwaine took him to see "the movie about the bear who was so mean, Da! Mean for no reason!" about seven months ago. Both Merlin and Arthur tried to convince him it was only a movie, going through all of the typical routines, showing him documentaries about bears, how unlikely they were to be in central London, pointing out Mor'du had been grateful to be killed in the end, but four year-old Ambrose was having none of it. And what's worse, they couldn't fault Gwaine, as Brave had been their idea after he'd spouted something about Ambrose being sure to love Piranha 3D.

Merlin shakes his head thinking about it, how Gwaine had dropped him off all pale and panicked, then called later after he'd regathered his senses to laugh at the fact they were now trapped with a traumatized child. Not that Merlin would have it any other way. Ambrose had been a hard fought and hard won prize. He drops to sit on the edge of Ambrose's bed -- sheets covered with Dinosaur Train characters, as the lead T-Rex was adopted, just like Ambrose, and there's yet to be a bear on the show -- and stroke's his son's sleep-sweaty head. Ambrose lowers his brows and pouts but doesn't wake, something Merlin swears he picked up from Arthur by osmosis. Really, there's so much of their son that's like both of them, with his talent for science and his absolute refusal to let go of anything, especially if it can be used to poke fun at someone later. The snapping ginger hair, though, that's all him. Arthur worries he's going to eventually have a complex about red-heads and being given up for adoption. Merlin points out that, at least in Ambrose's case, it's true.

He keeps stroking Ambrose's hair as he assures himself that his child is doing well, though he himself is a bit saddened he missed reading Ambrose a snippet of Mr. Stink, something they both had been looking forward to. Judging by its return to the shelf and This Moose Belongs to Me's position in pride of place on the nightstand, someone had stopped waiting. A little worm of pain squirms up his chest. Merlin rises, presses a silent kiss to his son's freckle-dotted forehead, and holds himself back from promising to be there the next night, like he's promised every night all week. He's sick of lying to himself.

Stumbling down the hall to their room, he detours to brush his teeth and otherwise prepare for bed in the hall loo, not wanting to wake Arthur with his noise. And so he slips silently into the master and, after shucking his clothes down to his pants, slides just as silently into bed.

His lifting of the duvet and sheets brought a rush of cool air into the sleep-warmed atmosphere Arthur was comfortably unconscious in, and he shifts and pouts much like their son had. Merlin, however, sees none of this, merely feels the mattress move a little behind him. His back is to Arthur as Arthur's is to him. They both stay, completely separate, on their own sides of the bed.

It's been three days since they actually spoke to one another.

Merlin sets his alarm to wake him at five-thirty and allows the medicine to carry him off to sleep.

--------

Arthur wakes and the bed next to him has already gone cold, the rumpled sheets and slight dent in the pillows his only proof he'd shared it the night before. He stretches, arms taut above his head, enjoying the smooth pull of well-rested muscles. The front door closes with a muffled thud. It doesn't startle him. Instead, he rolls over to look at his bedside clock, sees the number 6:37 staring back in electric blue. He sighs, allows himself one minute to slump back down into the pillow, before getting up and padding into the bathroom. There's a wet towel left on the floor directly between him and the sink, but Arthur steps over it, ignoring it in his quest for the toilet.

He takes a few minutes to freshen up, then heads for the kitchen, knowing his son will be up by seven-fifteen at the latest. Somehow, the two men with the worst cases of morning grumpiness in the world had been saddled with an early riser. Arthur suspects conspiracy at the adoption agency. He sets about making their standard Saturday breakfast: an American blow-out, with pancakes, bacon, eggs, homefries, toast, and a scoop of fruit salad made the night before. He and Merlin had toured America one summer after Arthur concluded a business deal in New York, and he'd fallen in love with Denny's and its ridiculous amount of Americana. Of course, Ambrose became familiar with the stories of such menu items as Eggs Over My Hammy and insisted on "Dad's Denny's!" every Saturday afterward until it became typical fare. Secretly, Arthur loves to watch Ambrose try to scarf down the mountain of food only to give up, stuffed after maybe three bites of everything except the fruit, which he uses to make faces on his leftover pancakes.

Pulling open the fridge, he goes to put the milk back, and suddenly realizes something. Shutting the door, he looks at the pad tacked to the expanse of the stainless steel. There's no note. There's no coffee already made and waiting in the pot. There's no tea snuggled down under a cozy. And worse than all that, Arthur isn't surprised. He hadn't been expecting it. They have somehow gotten to the point Merlin doesn't even bother to wake him up before leaving for the day, and it seems it troubles neither of them. Arthur swallows thickly, then hears the sound of his son creeping out of his bedroom and pastes on a smile.

"Morning, son," he says, and hears the echo of his own father. His arms are suddenly full of sleep-sweet four year-old boy, and he swings him up to press him against his chest.

"Morning, Dad." Ambrose wetly kisses the side of Arthur's neck, which makes his smile real; then his small arms tighten as he pulls back to look around. "No Da?"

"No." Arthur has stopped making excuses for why Merlin isn't there.

"I miss him." He drops his feet from around Arthur's waist, his sign that he wants to be lowered to the floor, and scampers around the island and up onto a bar stool. "Dad's Denny's breakfast!" He always shouts it as if he's surprised, as if it's a rare treat.

Arthur laughs and puts his plate in front of him. "Eat up. We have football with cousin Caelia later."

Ambrose scowls. "She always kicks me."

"She's trying to kick the ball, Brose. She's only two."

"My legs don't look anything like a ball!"

Arthur laughs again and reaches over to scrub a hand through his son's cowlick-and-curl covered head. "At least Aunt Morgana and Uncle Leon always take you for ice cream after, yeah?"

His scowl only deepens. "Caelia always tries to take mine."

"Sometimes, son, there's just no winning with girls."

Ambrose seems to think about this for a minute, contemplating while chewing a mouthful of bacon. "Is that why you married a man, Dad?"

Arthur can feel his face close down. He doesn't know how to stop it. "Yes, son. That's exactly why."

"Then I'll do the same." And, satisfied for now, Ambrose goes back to his breakfast, leaving Arthur standing at the counter trying to draw a deep breath.

When he feels as if he can move again, he finds his phone and fires off a quick message. Your son misses you.

He isn't sure he can add I do, too.

--------

Merlin rubs his eyes and drums up a grin for the next set of employees rolling into the conference room. They are all researchers on some level but, as with most places, there's a hierarchy that they've all been working to restructure. He knew he was taking this on when he accepted the position, had been part of the committees to improve the entire centre for three years leading up to it, but that isn''t making implementation of the actual redesign any easier. Everyone has a problem with something, everyone has an idea of their own, and they're trying to keep up with experiments and patients in the meantime. And he's responsible for it all.

He doesn't know when he became so adult.

His phone beeps and he checks it quickly, worried at the possibility of another problem. And it is a problem, just not one he expects. Your son misses you.

Nausea fills his belly, quick and hot and tasting of shame.

But he pushes it down and thumbs out a reply. i miss him2. tlel him ilhim ok?

Arthur used to joke Merlin's texting skills never graduated past rudimentary.

He isn't able to read the reply for two hours and when he finally does, over a hastily grabbed lunch of stale bread and suspect turkey, it doesn't do anything to relieve his stress. Instead it compounds it, a knot twisting into the back of his neck, and he groans loud and long with his face pressed down into his desk calendar.

"What is it?" Gilli, his executive assistant, asks around a mouthful of roast beef. Wordlessly, without raising his head, Merlin sticks out his phone and Gilli reads the set of messages aloud. "Your son misses you. I miss him too, tell him I love him, okay? Tell him yourself. I'm sure you'll be home on time tonight. Like every other night this week." He looks at Merlin, sucks in air through his teeth. "Ouch. Sorry, boss. That stings. Especially because there's no way you're getting out of here before nine."

Merlin's head lurches up. "What? Why? Why not?" He begins flipping through the plethora of papers and folders stacked all over his desk, like that'll tell him something.

"Because," Gilli says, eye-roll apparent in his tone. "After that special session with the board this afternoon, you told me to line up appointments with a bunch of your patients, remember? You kept saying, 'I can't today, just put it on Saturday,' all week and today is Saturday and you can't put them off any longer."

Merlin blinks, opens his mouth as if to make an argument; then his face crumples and he goes right back to laying on his desk, smashing his head into his arms. There are words building in the back of his throat that he just can't say, words that taste a lot like sick, sour panic. They can't keep going on like this. It hurts too fucking much.

Maybe if they'd been this formal with one another since the beginning, he could stand it. But he and Arthur lived in each other's pockets for over a decade, ever since their groups had collided second year of uni. Sure, they'd hated each other for a good six months before Gwen and Gwaine conspired to lock them on a roof together, screaming about sexual tension. But even in those months, it hadn't been like this. He can't even say when it changed. There isn't a date or event he can point to and say, "That did it. That messed it all up." It had just -- happened. With a lot of little things along the way contributing to what they have now.

But it's been about three years since it started falling apart and he cannot handle any more. He misses his Arthur so much he can barely stand to be around this new one, who looks at him with barely-disguised disgust when he looks at all. He just doesn't know what he did.

He snuffles a little, determined not to give into the stress that's making tears build. Gilli asks, "Do you want me to reply for you?"

But Merlin soldiers on. "No, no. Just clean this up, would you? I'm sure I'm already late for something." He stands, brushing quickly at his shirt, conspicuously leaving his phone on the table as he makes to exit. Then he pauses at the door. "Maybe tea when you get a chance?"

"Sure, boss. Sure."

The pity in his tone would be sad if it wasn't so welcome.

Merlin sighs one last time, going off desperate to find a situation he can actually solve.

--------

There is a soft, tender sense of spring permeating the park, and Arthur drinks deep of the rain-cleansed air as Caelia chases an alarmed Ambrose across the grass. Morgana is making a pretense of coaching them, mostly just an excuse to tackle one of the kids and laugh as the other tries to fend her off. Arthur grins as one such exchange gets underway, beginning with Ambrose threading through his aunt's legs and ending with Caelia cupped in Morgana's lap, smushing her mother's cheeks together between two chubby paws. Their eyes are the same, both that strange pale green ringed in darkness; coupled with her father's strawberry-blonde waves, she's in many ways a perfect amalgamation of her parents. Arthur occasionally wonders what it would be like to have a little blonde haired girl with Merlin's blue eyes. Then his son smiles that silly grin, full of crooked teeth and dark holes with a pink tongue poking through, and he wouldn't have it any other way.

He feels a hand clap down on his shoulder and turns to greet Leon, who had been allowed a lie-in after a late night at the office. He's the Head of Interorganizational Relations for Albion Group, the think-tank Arthur started after his father's death using the skeletal remains of Camelot, Uther's company. Basically, they work to create new and improved policy especially in the areas of war, weapons, diplomacy, and security, then lobby the government to implement said policy. Leon is especially gifted in interacting with the Armed Forces and police, and trains his people to be as diplomatic as he is. They wouldn't be able to do half as much research without him.

"Another quiet Saturday on the Western Front," he says, sipping at a travel mug of tea.

"Always," Arthur replies. "So how did -- "

"Arthur," Leon breaks in. "It was fine. If it wasn't you would know. And it's Saturday, we're in a park with our families. It's okay to relax."

He flinched at the word family. There's no way Leon didn't notice.

And, sure enough. "Of course I use the term 'family' loosely. Where's Merlin?"

Arthur turns away, back to watching their children and his sister play. "Three guesses."

Leon sighs. "Have you talked to him yet?"

At Arthur's lack of response, Leon grips his biceps in his free hand and turns him, expression intent behind his mirrored aviators. "You have to speak to him, Arthur. This has gone on long enough."

"What am I supposed to say? Sorry we're not good enough for you to spend five bloody minutes with but you could at least pretend to want to be around, for Ambrose's sake?" He laughs, and it's bitter. "Not likely."

"You say anything. That's the point. You talk. Arthur." Leon pushes his sunglasses onto his head, which is his universal signal for seriousness. Arthur rolls his eyes but listens. "You remember when Morgana came back?" They'd dated throughout college until Morgana had slipped away from them all, the revelation about her parentage coupled with the appearance of her half-sister, Morgause, tugging her down a dark path of drugs and rebellion. It had taken a lot to get her away from the edge and none of them discounted what Leon had done, the hours he'd spent with her, the fact he'd left a prestigious career with the army, all for the sake of Morgana. "I know we've talked about it a bit, at the time and since, and you've all thanked me like it was all some sort of miracle on my part. But I don't think any of you lot realizes just how much work it was. Like we just sat about and chatted a bit and let therapy take its course." He emphatically shakes his head no. "We had to talk, to scrape up things neither of us wanted to examine, to every single day make the decision to be better, to be together. And not just her, Arthur. Me, too. I had to learn to stop sacrificing myself and to ride out her dark moods without thinking she was going to disappear."

Arthur snorts. "Merlin doesn't have dark moods. As far as I can tell, he has no mood at all."

"So ask him why. Don't sit around and allow your marriage to fall apart." Leon shrugs, all too serious. "Unless that's what you want."

"No! Of course not." Arthur tucks his arms tightly together. "I love him. I just -- "

When there's no end to that sentence forthcoming, Leon stares at him again. "When did that become something less than worth fighting for?"

The scream sends both Arthur and Leon running before it really reaches Arthur's brain, still reeling from the punch of Leon's words. There is blood, thin and bright and red, pouring out of his son's leg. Greasy nausea clings to the back of Arthur's throat as he throws himself to the ground at Ambrose's side, hands already trying to staunch the flow. A shirt is thrust into them and he presses hard. It's only when Ambrose whimpers that Arthur realizes the screams weren't coming from him but instead from Caelia, now sniffling beside him, a bloody stick in her grip. "Sorry, Brose. Sorry." She keeps repeating it over and over, the words running into one another and coated in a layer of sobs.

Arthur loves her, but he barely resists the urge to push her back before she can do more damage.

"Dad?" Ambrose's voice is shaky.

"You'll be okay, son. I promise. You're going to be alright." Arthur knows he should say more, should've been more comforting from the beginning, but the amount of blood is calling up too many memories of the war. He has to keep his lips pressed tight to stop them from getting out.

"I know but -- my ankle, too, Dad. It hurts." There are tears now, silent ones streaming down his son's freckled face. Arthur pulls off his shoe, pushes down his sock. His tiny ankle is swollen and purpled, laced through with streaks of red. Arthur swallows, nods.

"Right." He lifts Ambrose effortlessly -- so small, his son, so skinny -- and looks to Leon. "Lance's. I'm taking him to Lance."

Bare-chested Leon has his own child pressed to his body, one little eye peeking out, swollen from the tears still flowing. She's hiccuping now, Morgana rubbing her back to soothe her, trying to look unworried and failing. Leon says, "Okay. Let us quiet her down and we'll come behind. And, Arthur -- shouldn't someone call Merlin?"

He hadn't even thought. It scares him, that it isn't a thought in his mind. "Please. And Lance. To let him know we're coming." He rolls a shoulder toward the street, the need to move bearing down on him like a train. "I have to take him." The blood is soaking through the shirt.

Morgana replies, "Go. And Arthur -- we're so sorry."

He shrugs wordlessly and carries his son away.

--------

Merlin grins cheekily at his patient, amused by her reaction to her latest medication. "I'm not necessarily going to write down 'wildcat', Freya. But I appreciate that your sex drive's returned. It means the anti-depressants are doing what they should."

Freya smiles sweetly back. "You asked." She stretches, much like the cat she's named herself. "I haven't felt this good since I started treatment. Since before I got cancer, actually."

"That's what we were hoping for." He reaches out and pats her ankle. "Now -- "

Their moment is interrupted by Gilli poking his head into the room. "Dr. E-P? Excuse me, Ms. Attwater. Dr. E-P, you have a phone call."

"Can't it wait?" Freya is his last patient and he wants to get finished and go home.

"It's been waiting. It's your sister-in-law. She's been calling for the past three hours. She says if she has to wait any longer, she's going to come down here and -- I don't feel comfortable repeating it."

Merlin is instantly seized with panic. Morgana never calls him a the office. Something's wrong. "Freya, can you reschedule with Gilli? I'm going to have to take this."

"Sure, Merlin. I'm good, anyway. I'll see you next week."

He smiles absently at her then exits, pulling the phone from Gilli's hand. "Hello? Morgana?"

"Merlin, thank god. I've been trying to talk to you for fucking ever."

"I'm sorry, I had -- "

"I don't care. It's Ambrose."

His hand goes out to the wall to keep himself upright as his knees threaten to give way. He really should've eaten more than a few bites of that sandwich. "What? What happened? Where is he?"

"Calm down. He's okay. He and Arthur, we're all at Lance and Gwen's." She draws a deep breath. "We were playing in the park and Caelia decided she wanted to play Knights. But she didn't tell us first, she just picked up a stick and went after Ambrose. There was a -- a protrusion on the stick and it sliced deep enough that he started bleeding everywhere. He also twisted his ankle as he fell."

"He -- but he's okay?"

"Yes, yeah, Lance got him all stitched up and medicated and Gwen made enough hot chocolate for us to swim in. He and Cae are watching Angelina Ballerina now, though they're getting close to sleep. He has his leg up. I think -- oh, here's Arthur."

"Merlin?"

"Arthur. Is he okay?" The phone is gripped so tightly in his hand he can hear the plastic creaking. At first, it's a relief to hear his husband's voice.

"He's fine. Are you finally coming home?" The tone is cold, distant, and Merlin bristles at it.

"Yes. I can be there in half an hour." He can hear himself adopting that formal tone he absolutely hates.

"Alright. We'll pack up and meet you there."

There's a break. Both of them simply breathe into the phone.

Ultimately, Arthur speaks again. "We need to talk."

"I -- yes. I agree." Merlin swallows, tries to lighten the ominous tone. "I'll see you soon?"

"Good. Goodbye." He hangs up without waiting for a response.

Merlin stares at the phone in his hand and tries not to think about the ways this could end.

--------

Everything is different the next time Merlin walks through the door of his flat. The lights are all on, the air warm and moving, and there are voices coming from down the hall, out of Ambrose's room. He hurries through dropping his stuff and rushes back to see Arthur stepping out, clicking the light off but leaving the door open. They stand awkwardly on opposite sides of the hall, both of them crossing their arms. "Is he ... ?" Merlin asks.

"He's fine. Close to falling asleep. I think the blood loss and the medicine and the running around before that have worn him out." Arthur suddenly realizes, takes a step back. "You're welcome to go in, of course. I'm sure he'd like to see you."

Merlin isn't sure how to respond to that, to the formal permission to enter their son's bedroom. So he simply half-smiles and brushes past him, holding back a hiss at the contact. It's been so fucking long.

His smile stretches as he sits down on the bed, in the same spot he was in almost exactly twenty-four hours before. He brushes a hand over Ambrose's forehead, giving comfort while surreptitiously checking his temperature. "Hello, Mab. Heard you had a busy day of it."

Ambrose shrugs, grins. "I got a giant bandage. And I'm going to have a scar." He gestures proudly at his leg poking out of the blankets, ice pack strapped to his ankle. "The stitches and the needle were gross. But Caelia felt real bad and Auntie Morgana got all weird when Uncle Lance was stitching me up and she had to hold my hand and Auntie Gwen gave me three mugs of hot chocolate and -- and -- " He goes from enthralled to weeping without a blink. " -- and I missed you."

"Ah, my boy, my boy." Merlin leans down, practically laying on him, and sweeps him into his arms. "I missed you, too. Dwi'n dy garu di, fy mab."

"Rwyf wrth fy modd i chi, hefyd, Da." Ambrose presses his face into Merlin's neck, lets out a few stuttering sobs. Then he pulls away and tries to smile. "I'm okay. I'm just tired."

"Go to sleep, then, sweet boy." Merlin kisses Ambrose's forehead, warmly, unwilling to let go, but finally standing up and making his way to the door.

"Da?"

He turns. "Yes, Brose?"

"Shut it, please." Ambrose folds his hands over his stomach and settles his brow. "I'd like the dark to think."

Merlin stifles a laugh he's scared would turn into tears and does as he was asked to do. He expects to see Arthur still in the hall but he's nowhere to be found. "Arthur?"

"Kitchen."

Merlin heads that direction and spots his husband leaning against the sink, beer in hand. There's another on the island, top popped. He picks it up, takes a slow, long pull. "So."

Arthur grips is beer in both palms, twists. Then he bangs it down and glares at Merlin. "So what the hell, Merlin? Where the fuck were you today? I know they were calling you for hours. Why didn't you answer?"

"You know I'm busy, Arthur. My position -- "

"Yes, I know all about your bloody position." Arthur shakes his head in disgust. "You know, you're not the only one with an important job -- "

"I never said I was!" Merlin breaks in, indignant.

Arthur stares at him. "As I was saying, you're not the only one with an important job. That's not an excuse for not answering the phone in an emergency."

"I didn't even -- Gilli runs the phones. I didn't know about it until I took that last call!"

"And why is that? Staff aren't trained well enough to know when your family calls and says it's an emergency they give you the fucking phone?"

"I don't know, Arthur. I don't know. I didn't stay to talk to Gilli about it, I just left." Merlin is suddenly tired, so fucking tired. He sits on a barstool at the island, starts peeling the label from the bottle. "I'm sorry. Okay? I'll talk to him. I should've been there."

"Damn right you should've been there. For weeks you should've been there." Arthur slams his hands into the counter again. "Do you know he's practically stopped asking if you're coming home? Today, while he was fucking bleeding all over me and having his skin sewn up by his bloody uncle instead of his father and having to learn about ligaments and pain, he only asked after you once?"

All the feeling drains out of Merlin's face. He can feel himself go pale. "I didn't know -- I've just been trying to -- I didn't know, Arthur."

"Right, right. Well, that excuses everything. Your bloody ignorance." Arthur laughs, but there's no humor in it. "Somehow you're ignorant of the fact that we need you, that your family needs you here. That our son needs his father. That I -- that I need you, Merlin." Arthur looks up and directly at him for the first time, pain stark in his blue, blue eyes. "You're my husband. How could you not know I need you?"

Unable to stay there a minute longer, to face his agony, he stalks out of the kitchen and ostensibly back to their bedroom.

Merlin sits, stunned, at the island. Arthur's right. How could he have missed it? But then -- but then --

As quickly as Arthur leaves, Merlin does, too, straight back for the bedroom, barely missing slamming the door behind him. Arthur turns from their dresser, surprise written on his face. Merlin doesn't care.

"How could I not know? How could you?" he says, gaze strong and snapping. "This goes both ways, Arthur. I know, I bloody know, alright, that I haven't been there this past month, I know it. But what about the three fucking years before that? What about then?" He advances on his husband. "Don't try and tell me I was the only one missing. Don't try and tell me you were the only one who wasn't getting their needs met."

Arthur throws his arms out to his sides. "Oh, I'm sorry, I didn't realize I'd been missing for so bloody long. I thought this whole time I was right here with you, sleeping next to you, raising our son with you, participating in this marriage with you! But I must have dreamed it all up. My mistake."

"Stop acting like you don't know what I'm talking about." Merlin continues to walk forward, boxing Arthur in. "Stop acting like I'm the only one who's done anything wrong."

Reaching out, Arthur pushes Merlin's shoulders, forcing him back, stepping forward. "Of course you're not the only one. Of course I'm doing things wrong." He punctuates each sentence with another little shove. "That's all I ever do, isn't it? In your eyes? Arthur the prat. Arthur the uptight. Arthur the too bloody fucking posh." His brows are tight, lips tighter. Merlin suddenly takes him in, wondering when Arthur got so tense, so thin. "Well, you didn't have to marry me! You could've just said no! And if you were going to -- if you were -- " Like Ambrose before him, Arthur's emotions turn on a dime, anger bleeding into exhaustion. He shuts his eyes, turns his head away. "If you were going to fall out of love with me, I wish you'd have just said no in the first place."

Merlin stops. He just utterly stops. "Arthur."

"No, Merlin! I know you don't. I know you don't anymore. I don't know what I did, or what I didn't do, but you're gone." Arthur looks back at him, bleak and blank. "I can feel it."

"Then your feelings are wrong. Arthur." He's turned away again, but Merlin won't allow it, not this time. He grips his chin and pulls him back around. "I love you. I'm sorry that you can't feel that. I don't think we -- I think we fell out of the habit of taking care of it. There were so many other things. But I do love you."

Arthur presses his eyes closed. The only other time Merlin has seen his face twist like that is at Uther's bedside, before his death. It strikes him in the heart. "Arthur. Oh, god, Arthur, please." He grabs for him, long arms locking around Arthur's shoulders. Arthur sags into him; Merlin stumbles back to the bed and sits, pulls them both back to lean against the headboard. Arthur ends up half in and half out of his lap, their legs tangled together, his face pressed into the crease of Merlin's neck. There are tears from both, the quiet, poorly held back tears of men who accidentally broke each other's hearts.

"I love you. I always have. There was just so much going on -- Ambrose, then your father, and the company, then my mother, and now my promotion. It's like it just -- "

"Slipped away," Arthur says softly, muffled. "God, for a while I thought I was dreaming it. But then the others started saying things, about how we were acting strange, and I knew it wasn't just me."

"Why didn't you say anything?" The question's out before Merlin can consider it.

"Why didn't you?"

They both sit with that for a minute. Merlin draws in a deep breath. "I want to -- I want to set up time just for us. To talk. I don't care if you want a counselor or -- or therapist or whatever, just -- we need time."

"Can you afford to do that?"

Merlin begins to protest, but Arthur cuts him off. "I wasn't asking to be mean, I was truly asking." He sits up straight, stares at Merlin head on. "I am proud of you, you know. So fucking proud. It's amazing, what you're doing at the centre." Merlin blushes and squirms his eyes away. "And I love you, too." That brings his face back, smile blooming bright. Arthur suddenly has one to match it. Then it settles down. "I think time together is important. But if it's going to hurt your career -- I don't think it would help anything if I were the cause of that."

"No, you won't be. It won't be hurt. Everything is almost done; I was finally able to see patients again today. There's more to do, of course. But I'm beginning to get the feeling there's always going to be more to do." He says it wryly, and Arthur laughs. It's good to hear. "So I can work it out. I will work it out. Because, Arthur -- our family, us, is so much more important than any of the other shit."

Arthur holds his gaze. "Yes. Yes, it is."

Again, they slip into silence, but it's more comfortable now, almost cathartic. When Merlin finds himself beginning to nod off, he pulls himself out of it with a sharp inhalation. "Fuck. I need sleep. I -- I'm taking the day off tomorrow."

Arthur blinks at him, surprised. "Okay?"

"I can do that. That's an okay thing to do. I mean, isn't it?" He begins to doubt himself, then shakes his head. "No, it's fine. If they can't handle themselves for one bloody day, then they're not worth what I pay them." He catches Arthur's grin, socks him lightly with a pillow. "Oh, shut up. You think I haven't learned a thing from you over the years?" Arthur nudges him back companionably. They rest again before Merlin goes on with, "I want to have breakfast, lunch, and dinner with my son. And everything in between. And with you. No phones tomorrow, no laptops, no nothing. Just us. Deal?"

"Deal." Leaning over, Arthur presses his lips to Merlin's. It's an awkward angle, them twisting together, but it's soft and tender and tastes just like it always has, like them. They both pull back smiling. Arthur reaches up and rubs his thumb over Merlin's cheekbone, just like he used to. "Bed?"

They brush their teeth quietly, change without saying anything. Merlin takes a bit longer to get done than Arthur, so he's already in bed by the time Merlin slips in. For a second, he stays to his side.

Then, with a little half-laugh, Merlin flips over, curls warm against Arthur's back, arm wrapping low over his waist. He puts his forehead on Arthur's shoulder and soaks up the smell of him, the feel. His eyes are closed. He knows Arthur's are, too. They lay there for a long time, silent and close.

Finally, Merlin speaks only one word. "Prat."

He can hear the smile in Arthur's voice, in the way he shifts and pulls Merlin's arm tighter about his waist. "Idiot."

Content, Merlin brushes a kiss back and forth against Arthur's shoulder and they both slowly, sweetly, fall asleep.