Work Text:
Merlin frowned as he came to a stop on the garden path.
The morning dew lay heavy in the rejuvenated grass. It almost looked like it had rained during the night with how wet the garden was. Snails covered the low stone wall, making their way over lichen and moss. Young branches bent under the weight of their buds. The light green leaves that sprouted at the ends of the twigs were only as big as fingernails. Some buds were still closed though, waxy and shining. White cherry flower petals had flown in from the neighbouring garden, freckling the grass with white.
It made for a picturesque sight, all in all.
His darling snowdrops, however, were trampled.
Through the patch, right by his window, there was a trail of damaged flowers which led towards the back door into the kitchen door.
Cutting through the grass, Merlin dropped his satchel and jacket as he sank down by the snowdrops. Admittedly, the little blooms had been on their final days. The warm weather had wilted some of the bulbs, a few knots of them only sporting overgrown stalks and leaves. But there had been some flowers left which he had monitored carefully.
He had picked the species of snowdrops for his garden with care, curating a collection which fought through the late winter snow and stood fast even in spring in the shadowed part of the garden. It had caught his interest for a time, had given him a reason to travel, to talk with collectors and gardeners devoting their lives to growth and such a gentle thing as a flower. His garden had needed furnishing, and Merlin had not been about to forget any season.
Snowdrops had almost been in England for as long as he had.
There was a kinship in that he had a hard time not feeling. He equally nurtured and neglected the thought as the years passed by.
So now seeing the broken stems lay flat across the ground, the white bells crushed, made a funny feeling of unease prickle in his chest. He picked one up and tsked as the stem folded on itself, drooping sadly.
Merlin looked towards his cottage.
The windows were dark and all looked still from the outside. The wind rustled the trees, but no birds sang in the garden.
He had a visitor.
Today of all days.
Brushing off his hands, Merlin gathered his things and stood up. His knees had darkened from the dew, and his jacket dampened his hands. He flicked water off the bottom of his satchel before he opened it to feign digging for his keys.
The dark windows watched him.
Magic spread from him down into the earth, spreading up into the framework of the cottage. He felt the cracks in the stone and the splintering in the wood. Small imperfections or character, depending on your person. He knew every nook and cranny of the little house, and there, in the living room, in the far corner, was a foreign presence.
Opening the kitchen door, Merlin felt the balmy air from the sun-warmed room washing over him. He shut the door behind him, letting his satchel drop to the floor. His shoes had grown damp from his trek through the grass and his socks had equally grown wet around the toes. He debated tugging them off while he bent down to ruffle about in his satchel. Pulling out today’s paper, the mail, and a magazine he had bought while at the shops, he stuck them under his arm and grabbed his jacket.
On sock-clad feet, he padded into the living room.
In the corner by the bookcase stood a man. The man wore a hoodie and some dark cargo trousers, pockets lining his legs. Backlit, his face was shadowed and his hair looked to be as dark as Merlin’s own. His left shoulder was turned away from Merlin, but Merlin’s thought he could see the tension travel down the limb. By his right hand was a holster, the metal of a gun giving off its shine.
“Sergeant Barnes,” Merlin said, laying his jacket over the back of his chair. “I hope you’ll leave my desk alone this time. It’s not an antique quite yet but it’s one of my favourites.”
James turned to look behind him at the chiffonier desk just by the window. With his face in the light, Merlin’s saw the scruff at his jaw and the sunken quality to his cheeks.
“I’ll try.”
Merlin stilled for a second at James’ reply, eyebrows rising.
The Sergeant was feeling more like himself then.
Merlin nodded and walked around the chair to sit in it, sinking into the plush fabric. He sorted through the mail, chucking the unimportant business to the floor. A familiar handwriting caught his eye making him huff.
Some tosser in London had begun sending him letters urging him to sell his cottage and conveniently sell it to him instead. He claimed to be a lecturer in old English history at some college – though Merlin had never heard of him. Where he had found the information that Merlin owned the cottage was still a mystery, but since the letters had started arriving, Merlin had made a point to stay at the cottage, if only to catch the tosser if he ever tried to scout the grounds.
The letter-sender had presented many arguments for why selling the cottage now would be in Merlin’s best interest. The larger estate it was attached to would surely want to buy the cottage should they get the chance to, and what with how the manor lacked in upkeep, it would be devastating for the cottage to fare a similar fate. The tosser had grand plans, oh yes. He wanted to rejuvenate the place. Moreover, the location was oh so perfect, apparently, with the region’s old history and such a short walk to the lake too.
Merlin tore the letter into pieces, letting the scraps fall onto the carpet.
He thought about the last of the snowdrops trampled in his garden.
Brushing off some wayward bits of paper, Merlin asked, “How did you find my cottage?”
James’ gaze flickered from the pile of scraps by Merlin’s feet to Merlin’s eyes. “I found the address in your house in London.”
Merlin sighed, shucking another letter to the floor. “’Suppose my discretion needs some work.”
Having sorted his mail, he balanced the stack of relevant correspondence on the arm of the chair. He read some of the headlines of the newspaper, stalling for time.
James, the Winter Soldier, did not move a muscle. He only stared.
Setting down the paper, Merlin dragged his gaze to the man haunting his living room.
“Why are you here?” Merlin searched his blank face. “You seem to be feeling better.”
James cut his gaze away, if only for a moment. A few seconds passed, and then, “How is he?”
Merlin stretched out his legs, crossing them at the ankles. He forced his shoulders to relax and took a deep breath. The paper drooped in his hands.
“He is well, I think,” Merlin began. “He’s focused on the chase. Last letter I received came from northern Italy.”
If the location was of any interest to James, he did not show it. The only reaction to Merlin’s words was a small twitch of his hands.
The letters had been coming more and more sporadically as of late. Always with differing stamps and countries of origin.
His eyes cut to the letter opener on the table.
Merlin had saved the wounded letter from James’ last visit. He had had it framed, as silly as it was. He had thought, in the weeks following James’ first visit, that James would make contact with Steve the following days, if not weeks. But as the time went, months came and passed, and Steve’s letters stayed ever so artificially hopeful, he had begun to lose hope that the chase was coming to an end.
The frame and encased letter now resided in one of his cupboards, waiting for its time.
“He’s trying his best to remain steadfast,” Merlin continued, “to keep up hope. Determined to a fault.”
James nodded, his jaw working.
Merlin looked back to the newspaper while he waited. The news had nothing of note really, but he had been wrong before.
“He’s well?” James asked after a minute.
“Physically? I imagine so.” Merlin paused, eyes to the paper. In his periphery, he saw James’ gaze flicker from him to the floor and back. “He’s scared.”
“Scared?”
“Scared of losing you.” Merlin traced the contour of James’ shoulders with his eyes. The tense shape of them, the heavy slope. “What about you?”
Merlin desperately wished he had a clock or something that could tick in the background and not leave the room so quiet. If he could cover himself in newspaper he would.
“I don’t know,” James said.
Merlin remembered suddenly that Steve had said that his Bucky’s eyes were steel-blue. Different from Steve’s own cornflower eyes.
The blasted quiet lasted for a minute more.
“He still misses you.”
“I know.”
Merlin fiddled with the corner of the paper. “He could do with some sign that you’re better, you know.”
“I’m not the one he’s missing,” James said. There was a slight strain there, something not quite paced. “I don’t remember enough to be… him.”
“I don’t think that would matter to him,” Merlin said. “I think he’ll have you as you are.”
“He does not know what I’ve done.” James looked to the side. “He wasn’t there.”
And for a moment, the words echoed in the room.
Echoed and ached.
Merlin felt the paper under his hands, thumbed at it harder than he should.
His Arthur also had cornflower eyes.
Not that Merlin could quite imagine the shade anymore.
“No, he wasn’t,” – Merlin swallowed – “But he’ll forgive you nonetheless.”
James looked away, locked his eyes onto something to the right of Merlin, by the opposite wall. Folding the paper, Merlin looked down at his now blackened fingers. The paper had been damp already, having been left in the mailbox overnight, and the ink had transferred to the pads of his fingers. He dragged them over his trousers before he stood up, ignoring the way James tensed by the bookshelf.
“I’m also waiting for someone, a friend, to come back to me,” he said as he cleaned up his mail. “I never got the chance to tell him what I’d done to protect him. All the ugly and bad. I think he figured some of it out… before he left… but now I’ve lived so long without him, I don’t… I don’t know what he’ll say when he sees me now. What I’ve become while he’s been away.”
Merlin did not look up, only ordered the envelopes again, refusing to engage with the cold, old feeling in his chest. Sometimes, it was best not to look, not to examine, not to tremble before it with eyes wide-open.
Sometimes, you could close your eyes and hide in the dark, for just a little moment.
“Where is he?”
Merlin startled at James voice but quickly busied himself with moving the letters to the chiffonier. “You could say he is asleep, like your Steve was.”
Opening the chiffonier, Merlin stacked the letters in the designated pigeonhole, not thinking about how his hands shook by his side. His heart beat steady in his chest, far too used to the feeling.
Only when he closed the desk again did he realise he had done it all with magic.
Turning to James, he saw that the other man had his eyes locked on him already, but there was no calculating look in his eyes. Something troubled lay there instead.
James looked from Merlin to the window and back to him again. “Are you scared?” he asked, voice quiet in the room.
“I am.” Merlin leaned against the chiffonier. “I am scared but I want it too. He’s the only one who’s known me, and he’s the only one I trust that could tell me if I’ve done well or not.” He chuckled dryly. “I need his permission, I think, to stop worrying. To stop feeling bad.”
James shifted where he stood. “What would he say?”
“He would call me an idiot,” Merlin said. “An idiot and a moron, but I think he would smile while saying it, so it’d be alright.” He crossed his arms around himself, hiding his hands by his sides. “I think he would feel sad he left me for so long. I don’t know what he would say about my actions. I don’t know if he would forgive me. Or if he would think there was anything to forgive. He would know how to make amends though. He’d help me make amends if nothing else.” Merlin willed away the echoing ache. “He’d help me.”
James looked down at the floor, not moving a muscle. “When will he come back?”
“I don’t know.” Merlin sighed. “In due time, I suppose.”
The words tasted sour in his mouth. For some reason he looked to the calendar on the wall, as if that would help him count the days.
“I’ve waited for very long.” He laughed, a tinge of that bitterness in it that he had hoped to keep contained. “I’m rather of jealous of you, Sergeant. Your friend is right here. Awake and running to get you. And mine is not.”
At this, James’ face gave a flash of discontent before he turned to the window again, still not looking at Merlin. “It’s different.”
“Perhaps it is,” Merlin said, with narrowed eyes. “Or perhaps it’s just the same, and I’ve just waited for longer.”
James continued looking out the window, jaw tensed and a line between his eyebrows. Merlin clenched his own fists and pushed away from the chiffonier. He walked to the kitchen, his own jaw working and brows furrowed.
Sun shone in through the windows, lighting up the yellow cupboards. The kitchen was small, with an old gas stove and a fridge which only reached to Merlin’s shoulders. There was a small table on the opposite corner with three chairs of different styles – two painted green and the third one painted white. The floor tiles were in a checkered pattern, having needed some love in the late 50s. He had hoped to keep the original flooring, but the contractor had been adamant an update was needed. Every now and then, he still magicked it to look like it had once had when he had built the cottage, but only for short bursts.
Walking to the counter, he put the kettle on reaching for the tin of dried mint tea. He had mint in a pot every year by the kitchen entrance with all the other herbs, though kept well away from any other growing spaces.
Perhaps he should let the cottage get overrun by mint so the tosser from London would leave off trying to swipe it from under him.
Maybe he could contact the National Trust – they took things like that seriously.
They would not be happy with the mint though.
Merlin took a few deep breaths, feeling the entirety of his lungs expand. He scrubbed at his brow and leaned his weight onto the counter.
Today, he felt tired.
He felt hundreds of years on his shoulders.
Sighing, Merlin reached for two mugs and began to portion out tea. The kettle hovered next to him, ready to pour.
The floorboards creaked behind him, but he continued to prepare the tea.
“You trampled my flowers, you know,” he said, packing away the tea as the kettle steamed and poured delicately into the mugs. He brushed his hands on his trousers and turned around, gesturing towards the garden. “My poor snowdrops. I’d hoped I’d get a week more out of them at least.”
“Oh,” James said, looking away from the floating kettle and to the garden. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s alright,” Merlin said and took the mugs to the little table, “but if you mean to visit me again, then please stay on the garden path.”
James paused for a moment, then nodded.
“They stand for hope. Spring. New beginnings. The snowdrops I mean,” Merlin said, slumping down at the table. The tea smelled green and bright. “I got them after the Crimean War. Soldier brought them home from the battle fields.”
Eyes locked on the garden, James neared the table, resting one hand on the back of the other chair. Merlin watched as James tracked the tufts of snowdrops where they clustered around the shaded parts of the garden.
“You should take some with you when you go,” Merlin said over the rim of his mug. James, who had slowly sat down, froze. Merlin sighed. “I’m not forcing you out, but I’m not willing to host a fugitive and also keep it secret from… our mutual friend. That I cannot do. I won’t tell him of your visit, but you can’t stay here for the night.”
James swallowed and reached for the mug, though only with his right hand. The left stayed hidden under the table. “I understand.”
“Good.” Merlin leant back in his chair. “I’ll prepare lunch. You’ll stay here and eat with me, and then I’ll sit in the garden, and you can do whatever you prefer. Have a shower, eat some more, take a nap. Alright? I’ll keep watch.”
“Alright.”
“Great.” Merlin said and stood up, heading to the stove. Pulling out a pot and lighting the hob, he muttered, “bloody wonderful.”
Merlin decided to fill the silence by airing his grievances about the tosser from London. He made stew and left it puttering on the stove as he made soda bread, remembering Steve had spoken fondly of his mother’s recipe in a letter from last autumn. He threw a glance or two at the assassin by his rickety table as he kneaded the dough. James just sat there, his tea having gone cold, staring at the snowdrops.
Through cooking and serving late lunch, Merlin kept up the chatter. If James noticed the off-beat pauses and the sporadic mumbles, then he did not indicate as such. Once he had cleared his bowl and eaten most of the soda bread, James cleaned away the dishes, his movements slow but precise.
Merlin left him there and went to the linen closet, frowning at the coming batch of laundry.
His washing machine was from the 70s and shite.
Grabbing linens, covers and a pillow, Merlin moved to make up a bed on the sofa, pulling the sheet snuggly over the cushions. He rightened the corners and folded down the cover until it looked inviting enough. Muttering, he went over to the window and opened it, letting the breeze bring in some fresh air.
Next, he laid out towels in the bathroom and looked for spare toothbrushes. He scowled at the toiletries but still dug out any and all first aid articles he could find.
The sound of dishes being washed had disappeared and the kitchen lay quiet, but Merlin did not go back yet. Heading back into the living room, Merlin nabbed a blanket and folded it close to his body as he came to a halt in front of the bookcase.
The book spines were in a myriad of colour, some more faded than others. His eyes skipped over the titles and authors, waiting for something to stand out. He shuffled along the bookcase until a collection of pamphlets made him pause. With a steady hand he pulled out the pamphlet with the green cover.
A Snowdrop by Walter de la Mare.
He opened the pamphlet, ignoring the poem – he knew it already – but staying a moment by the illustrations. The cover was soft in his palms, made supple with age.
Glancing back at the neat row of pamphlets, he pulled out a few more, most at random, but his hand strayed to the ones he knew well. Self to Self. The Early Whistler. The Triumph of the Machine. Alone. The Linnet’s Nest.
The Grave of Arthur.
Merlin turned as he shuffled them, leaving A Snowdrop on the very top.
“Something for you to read, should you want to,” he said, holding up the stack by his head. James stood in the doorway, waiting. Merlin sighed and left the pamphlets on the coffee table. “I don’t have any letters of Steve’s to give you I’m afraid. They’re all in London.”
James nodded, but did not step further into the room.
Merlin gestured to the sofa. “I have wards placed all over the house so if you want to rest…”
Taking a step into the room, James’ eyes flickered from the bed to the stack of pamphlets, to the window and then back to Merlin.
His eyes were tired. A familiar blue, and a familiar strain. Young and old at once.
Merlin massaged at his brow.
“There are towels in the bathroom,” he muttered, and picked a book from the bookcase without looking at the cover. He kept his eyes to the floor as he hurried past James towards the kitchen. “I’ll be in the garden if you need me.”
The breeze welcomed him as he stepped outside, the tender spring sunshine falling on his cheek. Merlin left his blanket and book by the iron-wrought table and brought his wicker-chair into the sunny spot next the kitchen door, positioning it with care on the uneven stone. He slumped into the chair and pulled the blanket over his knees, settling the book into his lap.
Merlin looked out over the garden.
Dappled sunlight lit the bare vegetable patch.
A few birds chirped in trees.
The snowdrops shone like tiny stars on a dull, green sky, twinkling – or swaying as it were.
He had come over some bulbs on the tails of the Crimean War when the returning soldiers had taken them home. Of course, there had been droves of snowdrops in garden around England already, but the appreciation for them had surged. He had bought them off a mother to a returning soldier, her garden having been taken over by them, prospering in the soil. The son had come to the door, a leg lost but smiling wide as his mother had bartered and haggled.
Merlin had given her a shilling for the bulbs and an additional four for the opportunity to do so.
War, upon war, upon war.
Battle after battle.
Never ending wounds.
It was all a blasted miracle such a thing like flowers could ever grow on old battle fields. Or perhaps it was just the greatest irony there was to offer.
The tree buds had just started to unfurl, dotting the branches with green. Crocuses in purple, yellow and white were coming along, full cups blooming wide. Soon there would be cowslips, grape hyacinth, and daffodils taking over the garden. The wood anemones would slowly be overshadowed by the leaves of the summer flowers.
The garden looked the best in late spring, or early summer, whatever the right descriptor was. The abundance of summer was beautiful, but there was a sweet earnestness to the spring flowers Merlin preferred.
He stared at the snowdrops.
The tosser from London would probably dig the lot of them up.
A Snowdrop was… fitting he supposed. The Snowdrop by Letitia Landon, though, floated through his thoughts as he watched the little white bells sway and nod in the grass.
Arthur had never seen snowdrops.
The flowers blurred, and a few hot tears streaked down his face.
Merlin dragged a hand over his eyes, settling his face into a frown to stave off the hot, aching feeling in his chest, and opened the book, settling into his chair.
He listened to the sounds of the birds and the rustling breeze.
And if he strained, he thought he could hear the deep breaths of a soldier, finally asleep.