Title: He Shows Her
Pairing: Merlin/Morgana
Rating: mature
Summary: He can't, he breaks, and he
shows her.
( He Shows HerCollapse )He shows her.
He told himself that he wouldn't. He convinced himself that he'd never do it, he
couldn't do it. He couldn't for Arthur. He couldn't for the sake of Camelot, for
Albion. He
couldn't.
He didn't expect it. He didn't expect to break at something so small. It was a quiet sob so full of lost faith and hope so false that maybe it was never quite there in the first place. A single, solitary sob.
He sighs and it's
heavy with burden, full of destiny and guilt all rolled into one heavy ball in his chest and he shows her.
He says her name three times before she spares him a glance over her cold shoulder and it's powerful, full of despair and hurt and insecurity and he closes his eyes to get away from it all.
It's a small thing, really, another small thing on the big list of things he didn't expect. He didn't expect it to be Morgana. He didn't expect to be in her chambers. He didn't expect to be so full of guilt and uncertainty. He didn't expect the small fire in the palm of his hand to be blue.
No words are exchanged but none are needed, not anymore. When he finally opens his eyes the ball in his chest drops to his gut with a sickening thud and he looks up to meet her gaze which is suddenly much nearer than it ought to be.
She's right at his outstretched hand where the small blue flame still dances happily, unobtrusive and unhindered by the tension in the air, unaware of the despair in the room.
He says her name.
She's so
close and he can nearly
feel her, and he can smell her hair and see the stain left behind by a single tear that rolled down her cheek and he's not sure if the confusion and insecurity in her eyes is much better the the betrayal and the sadness that presented itself there before.
He doesn't
expect it and suddenly the flame is out and she's
on him, desperate and clinging to something that he cannot decipher but he gives it to her anyway.
He doesn't have time to ask what she's doing what she's
thinking before he decides that he doesn't care anymore.
He's not sure how they made it to her four poster bed, no place for a serving boy and yet.
He's not sure when the grief turned into need and her despair into desire and her cold shoulder into open mouthed kisses, rough and bruising and passionate and
needing and he's not sure as to what but he's
giving it.
He's not certain where his shirt went, his neckerchief, her dress, their undergarments. He's not sure when his betrayal turned into their tangled limbs and sweaty skin and lips on lips and such palpable desperation in the air.
She says his name and suddenly he's on her, he's inside of her, he's on top of her and he shouts her name in reply, grips her headboard with white knuckles and gives and gives and gives.
They lie together for a while.
He dresses, slips on his shirt and locates his neckerchief and ties the laces on his trousers like this is something they've done a thousand times before, like this is routine.
Arthur will be looking for him.
He closes his eyes. He doesn't look at her. He doesn't need to. Suddenly the insecurity and the uncertainty and the
how could you's aren't so palpable and he can
feel it.
He pauses at the door. He says her name and pauses and stammers and stutters. He keeps his gaze to the floor and suddenly the ball in his chest isn't so large, isn't so cumbersome and full of questions, right and wrongs,
what am I doing's.
He showed her.
