Archive of Our Own

The first time Merlin sees him, it's through a shotgun's sights. He lists against the perimeter fence, dripping blood from a ravaged leg. Merlin's about to squeeze the trigger when he realizes what the stranger's whispering is, "Please," voice rough like it doesn't know the word.

"Idiot," Merlin mutters. "I'm an idiot." He slings the shotgun across his back and opens the fence.

#

Two weeks later, Arthur's well enough to limp, so Merlin works him in the garden out back. The soil's crap and the tomatoes bitter, but Merlin makes him eat. "It's better than scurvy," he says.

Arthur snorts. "You a doctor or something?"

Merlin takes too long to answer. "I was going to be." But med school stopped being a priority right around the time the world went to shit.

#

It should have been a quick trip. Ten minutes down the road, five to gather lumber, another ten back. But halfway there, Arthur's limp has become a shamble and the leg of his trouser is red over his wound.

"I'm fine," he says through clenched teeth. "I'll make it."

Merlin ought to send him home, but he thinks if he has to go and gather supplies while the prat lounges like a king waiting on a servant, he's going to scream. So all he says is, "Keep up, then," and doesn't stop.

#They're nearly back, an hour late, when they're set on by looters. Merlin hears them first. He doesn't look, just slings Arthur's arm over his shoulder and says, "Run."

Arthur does his best, face white and sweat-slick, but every step comes slower than the last. Survival has made Merlin lean and strong, but Arthur's solid muscle. He's heavy, and Merlin isn't fast enough.

They've nearly reached the fence when the gang catches up. Merlin shrugs Arthur's arm off and spins with a growl, grappling to get the shotgun up between them.

Arthur's shouting behind him and someone's fist swings at Merlin's face. I can't believe I'm going to die for this arse, Merlin thinks, just as Arthur comes hurtling in between them, wielding a broken-off tree branch like a cricket bat.

Merlin drags Arthur behind the fence as the others fall back, drags him inside and has to lean his brow against the door for a moment, just breathing.

He turns, scowling. He wants to say, "That was stupid," but Arthur's mouth is on his, hands clutched in his hair, pinning him against the wall. Then they're both grappling at each other, tearing clothes, digging nails into flesh.

Arthur bends him over the rickety card table and fucks him hard and fast. It's just this side of too rough, too dry, with only spit for lube because Merlin won't let Arthur waste their cooking oil. It's brutal and raw and when Arthur growls against Merlin's ear as he comes, it's perfect.

#It's another month before Merlin realizes with sick clarity that they've fallen into routine. Arthur fucks him best after a close call. The next time Arthur pushes him down and climbs over him, Merlin shuts his eyes and tries not to wonder if Arthur's thinking about those creatures while touching him. He has to finish himself off after, one arm thrown over his eyes so he can't see the way Arthur's frowning, won't think about what this means. It's not even want, just need, simple and crude. It like everything else they do, borne out of instinct, necessary for survival. They hunt, they eat, they sleep, they fuck. It's biological imperative. Merlin can't fault him for that, can he?#The next time Arthur reaches for him, Merlin slips away as though he hadn't noticed. "I'll go get water for supper," he says, and takes his time at the pump. If Arthur needs to get off that badly, he can just have a wank and be done with it.

They cook and eat and settle down to sleep without a word. The space that separates them on the narrow mattress feels like a chasm.

#He's used to silence between them. Each day has a routine that they move through like dancers, practiced and sure. They communicate with a glance, a touch, a gesture. Now, though, the silence is fragile. Merlin had grown used to solitude, but now he fears it. If it comes to a choice between his pride and Arthur's company, he knows he'll end up alone again, but he fears he won't remember how to bear it.#He goes out alone now, mostly. It's more dangerous, but it's easier. At least if he finds trouble, Arthur will be out of it, and Merlin won't have to endure the lust that comes after.

This works fine, until the day it doesn't, and he finds himself surrounded by a roving group of bandits on the way back from town. He holds them off with the shotgun for a few minutes, and manages to take one down with a blast to the gut, but there's half a dozen of them. He can't keep them all at bay, not without Arthur covering him. It's just a matter of time until someone gets a grip on his collar and throws him to the ground. The gun skitters out of his grip and he shuts his eyes, tenses. This is it.

There's a sound like thunder and an inhuman roar. The weight on Merlin's back vanishes. Merlin lies in the dust, breath sobbing through his throat. When he manages to push himself to his feet, there are bodies strewn around him, and Arthur is dispatching the last with the stock of Merlin's gun.

Merlin's relieved, until Arthur turns around and Merlin sees the color riding high on his cheeks. Dread settles in the pit of his stomach like a stone.

#Arthur drags him home with an iron grip. As soon as they're inside with the fence and door latched securely behind them, Arthur's hands fly over Merlin's chest, down his stomach, over his hips. Lust curdles on Merlin's tongue despite himself.

"No," he says. And, "Stop. Arthur, stop."

Arthur stops. But he fists his hands in Merlin's hair and presses their brows together. He groans like a dying man. "Why won't you let me touch you anymore?"

Ice replaces the heat that Arthur's touch draws through Merlin's veins. He tries to bite back the words, to keep the silence, but the words tumble from his lips, bitter and furious. "Why do you only want to touch me after those thugs have got you hot under the collar first?"

"What?" The word is a savage, strangled noise. Arthur's hands tighten on Merlin's shoulders until bruises bloom under his fingers.

Merlin's hands curl into fists where he presses them against the wall. "If you don't want me," he says, "if you just want anyone, if it's just because the fight excites you, then— then—"

His voice breaks. He can't finish. He ought to say then you can't have me, but the words stick in his throat. Arthur is his best friend in the whole world. How can Merlin send him away?

Arthur's still staring, his gaze hard and furious. "Is that what you think?"

"It's epinephrine," Merlin says through stiff lips. He can still see the textbook page in front of him, the words cold and unfeeling. "Adrenaline. The sympathetic nervous system—"

"Fuck the nervous system!" Arthur slams him back, hands in his hair and mouth demanding before Merlin can protest. "You almost died."

Merlin wants to shake his head, wants to protest that he was fine and it wasn't that bad, but he knows better. Arthur saved him, and that only makes this harder. "You're just scared. It doesn't mean—"

Arthur's hands tighten, cutting off Merlin's voice. "Scared? Of course I am. Every day," he says, bleak. "Every day, I'm afraid of losing you. The chances you take, the dangers you ignore…" His throat works. He reaches across the distance. Merlin would shy away, but the wall's already at his back. There's nowhere to go.

"Do you know how many times I've seen you nearly die?" Arthur slides his hands over Merlin's jaw, around to the back of his neck, into his hair. He leans his cheek against Merlin's. "And then I look at you and I can't think of anything but how close we came." His fingers slide under the hem of Merlin's shirt. They're hot against his stomach, rough with calluses. Merlin should push Arthur away, but he can't make himself.

Arthur breathes against his ear, "I want to touch you, after you've nearly died, to remind myself you didn't." His hands tighten. Merlin's breath ties knots in his throat. "It's not about them, Merlin. It's about you. It's always been about you."