Title: compartmentalization
Rating: PG
Characters: Merlin, Gwen
Genre: friendships, hurt/comfort
Word Count: 2,612
Summary: {Gwen half-chuckles and whispers so quietly that Merlin has to strain to hear it, “I can’t believe he kept it.”} Months after Arthur’s death, Merlin and Gwen clean through his old chambers.
Author’s Notes: Written for tumblr’s MerlinMemoryMonth prompt which shows an image of a stack of suitcases.
“You never do things the easy way, do you, Merlin?”
The door is only half open, but already he sees her from behind, bottom on the floor, her left arm taut, hand open flat on the ground. Her blue skirts create a circumference of at least five feet around her and Merlin thinks she’s been there awhile.
“How did you kn-?”
“I heard the water in the bucket sloshing around,” Gwen says as if it were the most obvious thing in the world; he peeks down at the full bucket of water, now calm in his clutch. He shoves his way fully inside the room he knows as well as his own and sets the bucket down before approaching Gwen, her body still turned from him.
“Honestly, if you insist on keeping these chambers clean, I don’t know why you don’t just do it with a wave of your hand. Magic is legal now, you know. And you are in the process of receiving a big promotion.”
“I know. And I know I have you to thank for that,” Merlin sighs, his hand lightly gripping Gwen’s shoulder for support as he slowly positions himself on the floor beside her, cringing as his knees crack. It’s been half a year since Arthur left them, and in those six months, there are days Merlin feels he’s aged sixty years. He thinks sometimes that Arthur’s high maintenance kept him young and on his toes.
Gwen glances at his hand smoothing out the fabric of her dress and instinctively places her own hand on his, warm and welcoming.
“I suppose I wash up the ordinary way for the same reason you have been sitting here on a freezing, stone floor, doing something that you could just ask a servant to do,” Merlin points out, mentally noting the various pieces of luggage, some opened and stuffed, some still waiting shut on the side. Laid atop of one bag is a slightly discolored white letter, with Arthur’s name sprawled across it in Gwen’s dainty penmanship.
“And if it’s the truth you’re after, I also do it because it helps me feel close to him.” (The feeling lasts a split second, but he swears he experiences the splashing on his chest, smells the stink of the filthy pail, hears the hollow knock of Arthur’s knuckles against the wooden bucket. He shakes, and for a moment, thinks he’ll look like a wet dog to Gwen, but it only comes off as a tremor.)
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