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Merlin - Not by Half
Title: Not by Half
Genre: Gen, Gwaine & Merlin friendship (more if you squint)
Rating: PG-13
Length: ~1,800 words
Spoilers: End of Series 4
Warnings: Panic attacks, PTSD, allusion to eating disorders
Synopsis: Gwaine knew the marks Morgana left behind would eventually fade. He simply was not there yet, not by half.
Author's Notes: For the "panic attack" square at![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
hc_bingo. Please heed the warnings.
Disclaimer: I do not own these characters and am making no profit from this.
Also at Archive of Our Own.
The thing of it was, it never happened in battle. Oh, sure, there was the usual anticipation, the rush of blood in his ears as he plotted and planned the best approach to an enemy twice his size, but never the sheer, unadulterated sense of panic that graced him when he was huddled alone in his chambers at night, when the smell and sight of food made his mouth fill with bile instead water in delight, when his heart beat far too quickly, and his breath came in startled gasps.
He had taken to eating his meals in private, where no one could judge or notice the way he had to force down enough to keep him going for another day, try not to horde the little pieces or hide them away on his person for fear there would be no more for far too long. On the rare times that eating in public was unavoidable, what with Camelot and all of her bloody feasts, he just hoped no one saw how little he actually ate, how he only consumed even that much with a healthy draught of ale or wine or the poison of the night, always checking to make certain Elyan and Gaius first had their share.
The drink helped, to an extent. Waking in the morning to the pounding headache of a hangover ranked near equal to forcing himself to rise after yet another sleepless night. Both made him less than reliable, in training and whilst on patrol. Both made him irritable and more likely to snap, more likely to seek the solace of his private refuge, more likely to seek the one thing that seemed to key him off even more than most.
It was a bitter cycle, and he knew he needed it to end. The problem was figuring out just how to do it.
Surprisingly, it was Merlin that helped. His friend cornered him after a feast one night, called him out on his behaviour, and they had spent long hours discussing just where life had gone wrong over tea and biscuits of all things. That night though, much later than was possibly sane, he curled up in bed and had the most restful of sleeps he had managed since Morgana had began her little game.
It became a bit of a thing after that. Merlin sat and ate with him and they shared the stories of the day when they could. When it was not possible, when the king needed his servant's services more than a night with a silly secret, Percival near magically appeared and the usually quiet lug of a man would tell tales of a blissfully simple home life and how he came to be the man he was today.
He knew Merlin was behind that as well. He had caught him in the act more than once, rushing off to Arthur's whims and pausing just long enough to whisper something to Percival along the way. The git did not even have the decency to look sorry, and had once out and out said, "Look after Gwaine tonight, yeah? I need someone to come home to that's not an absolute prat."
Percival had laughed and promised and that night they shared a flagon and the better half of a roast liberated from the kitchens and the other knight had the decency not to mention the brief moment where Gwaine nearly skewered him with a table knife during a supposedly mock battle for the final piece of meat. And when he left, the door sliding shut behind him, Gwaine had to remind himself that it was not locked, that he was free, that he could go where he wanted when he wanted and not have to worry about fighting his way through a legion of armed men loyal to an insane queen.
In the morning, he was not surprised to wake in a rarely used stairwell that led to one of the highest parapets, the door swung open to allow the cool dawn to wash over him and to ease the tight band he felt across his chest even still. He breathed deeply of the fresh air and wondered when he would be free from his latest prison, wondered if it were even possible as, this time, the barriers were self imposed and invisible to even his own eyes.
It all came to a head, as he knew it eventually would, one afternoon after a particularly brutal battle. He returned to his rooms waterlogged and with a decent slice across his forearm where his bracer had failed him. He had begged off the care of the physician, knowing there were those worse off than he, and knowing he had far worse wounds tended to successfully by his own less than skilled hands in the past.
The room was cold and dank, no fire built up in the hearth as no one had known when the knights would return. The grey sky filtered in murky light through the windows, casting the area in shades of shadows lit fully only by the occasional burst of lightning.
He knelt beside the chimney and carefully placed the wood just so, hoping to have the fire warm the area while he struggled out of the last of his armour. He held the flint in his hand, ready to begin, when everything became far too much, far too real to handle.
The cold sunk in beyond the layers he wore, damp cloth stuck to suddenly sweaty skin. The smell of metal and his own blood mixed with the musty odour of the now dripping rush mats, took him to another time, another place, another living nightmare. His stomach ached from lack of food, bruises bloomed bright and painful across his exposed skin, and he knew, just knew, that at any moment he would be called to fight again, called to battle for entertainment, called to try to live long enough to earn mouldy scraps that just might be enough for the others to survive.
He whipped around when he heard the door creak open behind him, the sword he swore he had held in his hand replaced with nothing save for air. He grabbed a small log from the kindling pile, realised it was a better weapon than some he had been gifted with during his trials.
There was a voice, calming and familiar and so painfully out of place that it must have been a trick, must have been more of Morgana's sorcery. He swung out, felt the blow connect solidly for the briefest of moments before he found himself tossed back against the stone wall, hands empty and no memory of how he got there.
His breath came in fast pants, too fast, too much of a weakness given away. They would exploit that now, the high chuckle of a maniacal woman already echoing in his ears, driving deep to his very mind.
His world faded to just that laugh, just that struggle to breathe. He tried to press closer to the wall, but felt nothing, had nothing to ground himself with, nothing to guide him though the growing darkness.
And then, through the chaos of that nothingness, the most peculiar thing happened: he felt a gentle pressure across his shoulders, a slight swaying sensation though he could not tell if was his body or the room moving in such a rhythmic motion.
Eventually, he felt the pressure grow, felt his arm brush against something similar to a wall, felt the unevenness of the rushes beneath his arse. He dared to open eyes he did not remember closing, and saw the darkness begin to fade, the light slowly grow to encompass the room around him.
And it was a room, it was his room, not some despicable cell buried beneath the castle. The rushes smelt of rushes again, and not of decaying straw scuttling with vermin. A fire was burning bright and candles lit all around him and Merlin, bloody Merlin, was holding him tight, rocking him gently, whispering something that could have been spells or curses or his very name for all Gwaine could tell.
He concentrated on the sound, heard his own breath harsh in the emptiness of the room, heard the whispers of reassurances vary in cadence with each press forward and back, forward and back.
He fumbled himself free, stumbled on unsteady feet over to the window, ripped the sash open and let the blissfully frigid air wash over him, the spatter of rain wash across his face, his starving lungs take their fill from the glorious world around him.
He heard the shuffle of footsteps behind him and knew Merlin was making his presence known as he approached. He braced himself for the gentle touch across his shoulder, was still surprised when it came.
"Better?" Merlin asked, as if he wished to know if the roast pig held more flavour than the roast goose.
"Not by half," Gwaine admitted, chest still heaving to breathe.
"We'll get there," Merlin replied, and he sounded so certain, so sure of himself that Gwaine longed to believe him.
Gwaine dared to look away from the window, away from freedom, long enough to meet his friend's eyes, knowing he owed him at least that. He only managed it for a moment, shame washing over him as quickly as the water that threatened to drench them both. He caught sight of the splinters that decorated Merlin favourite woollen shirt, and that shame grew tenfold as he realised he put them there, that he attacked someone just trying to look after him because he was doing such a piss-poor job of doing it himself.
But Merlin did not say a word about it. Did not mock or tease or or joke, did not explain how he got there so quickly, how he withstood the blow, how he set the room to rights while attempting to do the same for his friend.
Gwaine wanted to ask him when and how and why and all the other questions that flooded his addled mind. Instead, he shifted ever so slightly to lean shoulder to damaged shoulder, let Merlin take just a bit of the burden he no longer knew if he could manage on his own, and sighed, "In time?"
"In time," Merlin agreed. He shivered in the cold and his lips were turning a slight shade of blue, but he leaned closer and gave off more warmth than he dared to take. "We'll get there eventually," he said, and Gwaine took it as the promise it was.
End.
Feedback is always welcomed.
Genre: Gen, Gwaine & Merlin friendship (more if you squint)
Rating: PG-13
Length: ~1,800 words
Spoilers: End of Series 4
Warnings: Panic attacks, PTSD, allusion to eating disorders
Synopsis: Gwaine knew the marks Morgana left behind would eventually fade. He simply was not there yet, not by half.
Author's Notes: For the "panic attack" square at
hc_bingo. Please heed the warnings.Disclaimer: I do not own these characters and am making no profit from this.
Also at Archive of Our Own.
The thing of it was, it never happened in battle. Oh, sure, there was the usual anticipation, the rush of blood in his ears as he plotted and planned the best approach to an enemy twice his size, but never the sheer, unadulterated sense of panic that graced him when he was huddled alone in his chambers at night, when the smell and sight of food made his mouth fill with bile instead water in delight, when his heart beat far too quickly, and his breath came in startled gasps.
He had taken to eating his meals in private, where no one could judge or notice the way he had to force down enough to keep him going for another day, try not to horde the little pieces or hide them away on his person for fear there would be no more for far too long. On the rare times that eating in public was unavoidable, what with Camelot and all of her bloody feasts, he just hoped no one saw how little he actually ate, how he only consumed even that much with a healthy draught of ale or wine or the poison of the night, always checking to make certain Elyan and Gaius first had their share.
The drink helped, to an extent. Waking in the morning to the pounding headache of a hangover ranked near equal to forcing himself to rise after yet another sleepless night. Both made him less than reliable, in training and whilst on patrol. Both made him irritable and more likely to snap, more likely to seek the solace of his private refuge, more likely to seek the one thing that seemed to key him off even more than most.
It was a bitter cycle, and he knew he needed it to end. The problem was figuring out just how to do it.
Surprisingly, it was Merlin that helped. His friend cornered him after a feast one night, called him out on his behaviour, and they had spent long hours discussing just where life had gone wrong over tea and biscuits of all things. That night though, much later than was possibly sane, he curled up in bed and had the most restful of sleeps he had managed since Morgana had began her little game.
It became a bit of a thing after that. Merlin sat and ate with him and they shared the stories of the day when they could. When it was not possible, when the king needed his servant's services more than a night with a silly secret, Percival near magically appeared and the usually quiet lug of a man would tell tales of a blissfully simple home life and how he came to be the man he was today.
He knew Merlin was behind that as well. He had caught him in the act more than once, rushing off to Arthur's whims and pausing just long enough to whisper something to Percival along the way. The git did not even have the decency to look sorry, and had once out and out said, "Look after Gwaine tonight, yeah? I need someone to come home to that's not an absolute prat."
Percival had laughed and promised and that night they shared a flagon and the better half of a roast liberated from the kitchens and the other knight had the decency not to mention the brief moment where Gwaine nearly skewered him with a table knife during a supposedly mock battle for the final piece of meat. And when he left, the door sliding shut behind him, Gwaine had to remind himself that it was not locked, that he was free, that he could go where he wanted when he wanted and not have to worry about fighting his way through a legion of armed men loyal to an insane queen.
In the morning, he was not surprised to wake in a rarely used stairwell that led to one of the highest parapets, the door swung open to allow the cool dawn to wash over him and to ease the tight band he felt across his chest even still. He breathed deeply of the fresh air and wondered when he would be free from his latest prison, wondered if it were even possible as, this time, the barriers were self imposed and invisible to even his own eyes.
It all came to a head, as he knew it eventually would, one afternoon after a particularly brutal battle. He returned to his rooms waterlogged and with a decent slice across his forearm where his bracer had failed him. He had begged off the care of the physician, knowing there were those worse off than he, and knowing he had far worse wounds tended to successfully by his own less than skilled hands in the past.
The room was cold and dank, no fire built up in the hearth as no one had known when the knights would return. The grey sky filtered in murky light through the windows, casting the area in shades of shadows lit fully only by the occasional burst of lightning.
He knelt beside the chimney and carefully placed the wood just so, hoping to have the fire warm the area while he struggled out of the last of his armour. He held the flint in his hand, ready to begin, when everything became far too much, far too real to handle.
The cold sunk in beyond the layers he wore, damp cloth stuck to suddenly sweaty skin. The smell of metal and his own blood mixed with the musty odour of the now dripping rush mats, took him to another time, another place, another living nightmare. His stomach ached from lack of food, bruises bloomed bright and painful across his exposed skin, and he knew, just knew, that at any moment he would be called to fight again, called to battle for entertainment, called to try to live long enough to earn mouldy scraps that just might be enough for the others to survive.
He whipped around when he heard the door creak open behind him, the sword he swore he had held in his hand replaced with nothing save for air. He grabbed a small log from the kindling pile, realised it was a better weapon than some he had been gifted with during his trials.
There was a voice, calming and familiar and so painfully out of place that it must have been a trick, must have been more of Morgana's sorcery. He swung out, felt the blow connect solidly for the briefest of moments before he found himself tossed back against the stone wall, hands empty and no memory of how he got there.
His breath came in fast pants, too fast, too much of a weakness given away. They would exploit that now, the high chuckle of a maniacal woman already echoing in his ears, driving deep to his very mind.
His world faded to just that laugh, just that struggle to breathe. He tried to press closer to the wall, but felt nothing, had nothing to ground himself with, nothing to guide him though the growing darkness.
And then, through the chaos of that nothingness, the most peculiar thing happened: he felt a gentle pressure across his shoulders, a slight swaying sensation though he could not tell if was his body or the room moving in such a rhythmic motion.
Eventually, he felt the pressure grow, felt his arm brush against something similar to a wall, felt the unevenness of the rushes beneath his arse. He dared to open eyes he did not remember closing, and saw the darkness begin to fade, the light slowly grow to encompass the room around him.
And it was a room, it was his room, not some despicable cell buried beneath the castle. The rushes smelt of rushes again, and not of decaying straw scuttling with vermin. A fire was burning bright and candles lit all around him and Merlin, bloody Merlin, was holding him tight, rocking him gently, whispering something that could have been spells or curses or his very name for all Gwaine could tell.
He concentrated on the sound, heard his own breath harsh in the emptiness of the room, heard the whispers of reassurances vary in cadence with each press forward and back, forward and back.
He fumbled himself free, stumbled on unsteady feet over to the window, ripped the sash open and let the blissfully frigid air wash over him, the spatter of rain wash across his face, his starving lungs take their fill from the glorious world around him.
He heard the shuffle of footsteps behind him and knew Merlin was making his presence known as he approached. He braced himself for the gentle touch across his shoulder, was still surprised when it came.
"Better?" Merlin asked, as if he wished to know if the roast pig held more flavour than the roast goose.
"Not by half," Gwaine admitted, chest still heaving to breathe.
"We'll get there," Merlin replied, and he sounded so certain, so sure of himself that Gwaine longed to believe him.
Gwaine dared to look away from the window, away from freedom, long enough to meet his friend's eyes, knowing he owed him at least that. He only managed it for a moment, shame washing over him as quickly as the water that threatened to drench them both. He caught sight of the splinters that decorated Merlin favourite woollen shirt, and that shame grew tenfold as he realised he put them there, that he attacked someone just trying to look after him because he was doing such a piss-poor job of doing it himself.
But Merlin did not say a word about it. Did not mock or tease or or joke, did not explain how he got there so quickly, how he withstood the blow, how he set the room to rights while attempting to do the same for his friend.
Gwaine wanted to ask him when and how and why and all the other questions that flooded his addled mind. Instead, he shifted ever so slightly to lean shoulder to damaged shoulder, let Merlin take just a bit of the burden he no longer knew if he could manage on his own, and sighed, "In time?"
"In time," Merlin agreed. He shivered in the cold and his lips were turning a slight shade of blue, but he leaned closer and gave off more warmth than he dared to take. "We'll get there eventually," he said, and Gwaine took it as the promise it was.
End.
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