PTA.pdf

PTA

Title: PTA

Rating: NC-17

Pairing: Merlin/Arthur, Merlin/adult Mordred

Word Count: 22,000

Spoilers: Spoilers for Series 1 & 2.

Disclaimer: The characters donÔt belong to me; they are the property of the BBC and Shine.

No profit is being made.

Summary: Written for the following kinkme_merlin prompt: Established relationship: 3

months from the wedding Merlin is beaten up where he works and forgets about everything and

everyone. The meds tell Arthur to take him home, but never to tell him about their relationship (deep

sentimental issues might cause him distress). So Arthur hides everything: the pictures, the

engagement rings, he moves his bed into another room... so that Merlin thinks they're just roommates.

An old Merlin-piner takes advantage of the situation and starts to hang out with him. Arthur is

devastated but he knows he has to keep quiet for Merlin's sanity. The only comfort Arthur has are the

videos of their last holiday, where he had proposed to Merlin.

One day Arthur falls asleep with his laptop open, and when Merlin enters the room he can see himself,

but not quite smiling and kissing the same Arthur who's now sleeping clutching at two shiny rings.

Warnings: PTA stands for post-traumatic amnesia, thank you Google, so the whole story

deals with memory loss and the repercussions thereof.

Barebacking.

When Arthur got the call from the A&E nurse, he'd been at work, fielding calls from a

number of clients and preparing a proposal for the acquisition of a smaller Japanese

company his father had had his eyes on for more than a year. He'd thought it vital that he be

able to convince Mr Kobayashi that a take-over was in every one's best interests. It'd be even

better for everybody concerned if it wasn't hostile, he'd maintained. Paying attention to the

wording, weighing each turn of phrase so that it conveyed its exact meaning without

potentially ostracising the other party was his current aim.

Glaring at his computer screen hadn't made it any easier.

So when he brought the receiver to his ear, he was sure he'd hear the soft tones of Mr

Kobayashi's secretary, telling him that some of the proposed points of the contract couldn't

and wouldn't be accepted unless they reached another form of compromise.

When he heard a different voice, terse and professional, he knew something was wrong. His

first thought was that father had been taken ill. Uther Pendragon was a man in his late fifties

who had a stressful job; it might have been conceivable.

It was the feeling of dread that settled in the pit of his stomach even before he was told that

made him feel light-headed; made the blood roar in his ears. For a long moment, frozen in

time, he could take in no data; found it difficult to grab a pen and jot down the necessary

details, the name of the hospital, department, treating consultant.

It was beyond belief because what they were telling him was all so vague. Each time Arthur

pressed for an answer, he got the same terse reply. ÑIt would be better if you talked to Doctor

Thomas yourself, sir,Ò the voice repeated for the second time.

ÑI want to be told what's happened,Ò Arthur clamoured to know. He'd always been a man

who based his decisions on hard facts, solid figures. This threatened to be more important

than any business proposition, than any merger, take-over, friendly or hostile, or launch of a

new satellite company had ever been.

ÑPlease, sir,Ò the nurse told him. ÑIt'd be best if you heard it directly from Doctor Thomas'

lips, sir.Ò

Arthur's imagination ran away with him.

As he dashed out of his office, leaving his jacket behind but remembering to get his car keys,

he convinced himself the worst had happened. Something had happened to Merlin while he

hadn't been there.

That he made it to the hospital in one piece was more a matter of luck Ï or fate, if you tended

to believe in those things, and considering his own mother's life and premature death he did

Ï than of prudence, his driving having been more of a wild racing, uncaring of the traffic

lights, the bends in the road or the pedestrians, than a sane activity aimed at conveying him

from point A to B.

After a further twenty minutes spent in a white-washed ante-room, he was shown in a small

office cum surgery, where a white lab-coat wearing doctor was waiting for him, seated

behind a highly organised desk.

ÑIs he alive?Ò

The doctor extended his hand out to him. Arthur didn't take it.

ÑI was sure you'd been told,Ò Dr Thomas replied. ÑWe had you down as the next of kin. Mr

Emrys is alive and relatively well.Ò

Arthur had never trusted doctors. He didn't want to start by confiding in this one. ÑIf he's

alive and well, why wasn't I allowed to speak to him? Why did I receive a phone call from a

nurse who decided not to disclose any particulars?Ò

ÑThat,Ò the doctor said, leaning forward and steepling his fingers, Ñis the reason why 'we',

and by that I mean my colleagues and I, preferred to talk to you first. Face to face.Ò

Arthur started pacing in order not to attack the cryptic doctor. ÑTell me,Ò he asked, voice a

croak. ÑJust tell me.Ò

ÑYour partner, I understand...Ò

ÑWe're married Ï civil union Ï same thing. But the formalities are irrelevant,Ò Arthur said,

stopping in his tracks, placing both hands on his hips so as not to run them through his hair.

ÑWhat happened?Ò

ÑThat we know of there was a robbery.Ò

Arthur inhaled. He was preparing for the worst.

ÑMr Emrys suffered a head injury.Ò The doctor sank back in his chair, his body language

open and deliberately calming. ÑSince he's been hospitalised, we've run scans, tested his

reflexes, and we've been keeping him under observation. Outwardly, apart from a scalp

laceration, he's fine.Ò

ÑOutwardly?Ò

The doctor nodded. ÑPhysically he's in good health. However his responses to certain test-

dictated questions have evidenced a problem that can be ascribed to a condition called PTA.Ò

Arthur frowned. This was gibberish.

The doctor seemed to understand that Arthur was more than confused. He explained,

ÑWhen questioned, he could remember his name and other salient facts about his life. His

mother's name, education and earlier years, but when asked other leading questions he

revealed he didn't know what his occupation was, what had led him to the hospital, where

he lived, and who you, who were after all listed as his next of kin, were. We've diagnosed

him with Post-Traumatic Retrograde Amnesia.Ò

ÑWhat does that mean?Ò Arthur asked.

ÑHe's suffered some memory loss due to brain injury,Ò the doctor stated. His voice was calm,

steady, aimed to pacify. ÑHe may partially or integrally regain his memory later; however

you must bear in mind that he was unconscious for more than two hours. He may suffer

from other complications, but only time can tell.Ò

Arthur wanted to slam his head against the wall, punch the man before him. He wanted to

do something. Retaliate. Concern stopped him. ÑCan I see him?Ò

ÑNaturally,Ò the doctor agreed. ÑBut I'd prefer if you didn't upset him.Ò

ÑI never would.Ò

The doctor shook his head. ÑYour partner Ï your husband,Ò he amended, Ñis severely

concussed, has suffered memory loss but is also vigilant enough to have understood that

something's wrong. He knows he doesn't remember and is alarmed.Ò

Arthur strode over the doctor's desk and placed his hands on its surface, bending down so

he could look medicine man in the eye. ÑAll the more reason for me--Ò

Not intimidated, the doctor raised a hand. ÑNo. He's already distressed as he is. He needs to

recover his memory, if he can, by himself. He mustn't be pushed.Ò

Arthur panicked. He felt faint. ÑWhat do you mean by 'if'Ò

The doctor met Arthur's eyes squarely. Arthur read compassion in them for the first time

since the conversation had begun. ÑI have only statistics to go on, Mr Pendragon, and they

tell me that in the milder PTA cases, the memory loss is of short duration. In those cases, it

can be linked to a failure of consolidation of the memory formation process itself. After a

while the patient is able to both form new memories and retrieve the ones he had previously

stored and briefly 'lost'. They're then able to access them. The statistics also say that patients

with retrograde amnesia of long duration prove to have suffered structural brain damage

with long-lasting retrieval of memory deficit.Ò

ÑMy god.Ò

The doctor took off his glasses and cleaned them on the lapel of his lab coat. ÑThat's why it's

vital we don't add stress to the already volatile mix. He'd likely be terrified. I think you

would too if you couldn't recall large chunks of your own history.Ò

ÑSo what do I tell him?Ò Arthur asked.

ÑFor now you'd better tell him he's a friend,Ò the doctor advised. ÑIf we're lucky, by

tomorrow he'll have recovered most of his memory without any prompting.Ò

ÑI need to see him,Ò Arthur reiterated.

ÑAs long as you don't upset him, subject him to any strong emotion, or force his hand in any

way.Ò

ÑI promise,Ò Arthur said.

****

Merlin was lying on this narrow bed, looking pasty white but otherwise fine. There was a

sutured wound on his forehead, one that crossed his hairline. The area around it had been

shaved to make it possible for the nurses to stitch him up.

But the thing was that despite that, the blue circles under and around his eyes and his now

wan skin colour, Merlin looked as he'd looked that morning or on any other day.

It was recognisably him, to the point that Arthur's first urge was to run to him, sit on his

trolley-like bed and behave normally.

What stopped him Ï what made the situation sink in was Merlin's behaviour.

When Arthur was ushered in, Merlin lifted his head and there was no recognition in his eyes.

Although the doctors had explained that it would be so, it was like a punch in the gut. It felt

as if somebody had his bowels in a death grip and was twisting viciously.

The eerie white light streaming in from the window next to the bed completed the picture,

making the whole event feel like an out of body experience, a dream, a nightmare, the

elaborate flight of fancy a demi-devil had devised.

And then there were the beeping monitors and the shiny metal surfaces; they seemed to be

strange appliances belonging to a sci-fi film set. Or so they appeared to Arthur who'd never

set his foot in a hospital before Ï at least not voluntarily thanks to the tales of medical

malpractice his father had regaled him with through the years.

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