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Prompt: I'm thirsty for Merlin in modern world, so here's a prompt: Bec Merlin's lived so long and he's seen a lot of shit and he had anxiety for o begin with, Merlin has really fucking bad anxiety (like, debilitating), and maybe the Knights and Arthur or back or it's just Merlin and Leon, but someone convinces Merlin to look into getting a service dog and it just turns into Merlin being out with a service dog and maybe training it (and throw in a dash of alerts to panic/anxiety attacks plz?) Live you! - anon
Merlin vaguely remembers Gaius saying something about how only when the body feels that it is in a safe place does it truly start to break down.
Well, having Arthur back after 1500 years would certainly explain why now, after all that Merlin has seen and lived through, now his body decides it is the perfect time to completely and utterly fall apart.
His hands start to shake when he gets near matches or burning fireplaces. The glint of light off of knives and silverware looks like swords, armor, the clanging sound they make ringing in his ears for hours. One time as they were watching TV one of the characters sharpened their tools in preparation to carve up a roast beast and he had been thrown into a panic attack faster than he could register what was on the screen.
He started to struggle with going outside again. When the world was too big and too fast and too different and it didn’t matter that Arthur was back because Arthur was in a big red hoodie and jeans, not in his tunic and trousers like he should be. Arthur wasn’t around when everything changed and now everything is different so Merlin can’t afford to waste a single second making sure Arthur is safe.
His magic refuses to help. If anything, it makes it worse. It whispers to him that he can make things better, that he can keep himself safe, but he can’t because he’d be trapping himself and Arthur in this apartment and he knows, he knows everything is fine.
But sometimes it’s so hard to remember that.
Arthur helps. Of course, Arthur helps. Arthur comes rushing to him the moment Merlin calls out and holds him, whispers that he’s safe, Merlin’s safe, everyone’s alright. That he’s not angry with Merlin, it’s alright too. He hushes any apologies and soothes the hands that threaten to dig into the tiles on the floor and says that you don’t have anything to apologize for, you’ve done nothing wrong, it’s alright, I forgive you.
Arthur holds his hands and helps him breathe. Arthur wipes the tears from his face and replaces them with chaste presses of hands or fingers or lips. Arthur scoops him up and carries him to the couch, or the chair, or a bed, laying Merlin across his lap so the warm weight of Arthur is what he can feel over the hum and buzz of his mind.
But Arthur isn’t always there.
Leon helps, because Leon is the best man Merlin knows and he has plenty of experience with helping Merlin. Leon is by Merlin’s side the second he needs to be, crouching down to help Merlin hide in the lea of him, to cup the back of his neck and carefully instruct him to breathe, to be safe, to be here with him, here and now, and not stuck in the past. Leon spreads his arms wide and whispers come, shed your tears, I have you, my friend.
Leon stands firm and unyielding in the storm of Merlin and anchors him here. When Arthur feels too far away, Leon cups his hands around the shaking Merlin and pulls him up, up, up until he can breathe again. He’s there in a warm hand on Merlin’s back, guiding him to sit like a startled foal until Merlin can breathe normally again.
But Leon isn’t always there.
Merlin knows it’s not fair. They can’t meet the needs he has because they have needs and boundaries of their own and no matter how much they all wish they could, neither of them can be what Merlin needs all the time. They just can’t.
So he does what any person with common sense would do and talks to his therapist.
“Have you thought about getting a service dog?”
Merlin tilts his head. “Aren’t those for people with disabilities?”
Melanie smiles. “Merlin, you have a disability.”
“I do?”
“You have a condition that prevents you from going outside safely,” she says patiently, “there are moments where you cannot speak because of something outside of your control, and it severely affects your ability to function for long periods at a time.”
She makes a face.
“For…legal reasons, it would also qualify as a disability since it makes it hard for you to seek gainful employment, but that definition is—“
“A bunch of bollocks.”
She nods. “Quite.”
Merlin shifts in the chair. “So I could get a service dog?”
“You could either get a service dog that would be trained to provide several tasks for you that would help with your anxiety, or you could get an emotional support animal that would have slightly less training but be easier to get. It also wouldn’t be limited to a dog.”
“What’s the difference?”
“A psychiatric service dog is something that you’d need a physician’s recommendation for,” Melanie explains, “and you’d have to be part of the dog’s training. You’d need to be able to give commands and care for your dog and have a recommendation from your healthcare provider.”
Merlin blinks. “That’s…a lot.”
“It is,” Melanie nods, “but it would give you the benefit of being covered under laws around service animals and the extensive training.”
“So an emotional support animal is…?”
“Just that.” She shifts her weight in the chair. “Their main jobs are to provide comfort throughout the day and in times of stress. They normally aren’t trained to bring you things like medication or to go get someone if you really need them. A psychiatric service dog could be trained to do both of those things, along with detecting signs of an attack before it happens.”
Merlin chews on his lip. “I don’t…I don’t know if I need all of that.”
“Most service animals aren’t trained to do every single possible task. They’re trained based on what you need from them; if a task won’t help you, you probably won’t get a service animal trained to help you with that.”
“How do I know what I need?”
“Well,” Melanie says, tucking her legs under her, “what do you normally do when you have a bad episode?”
A sudden heat rushes to Merlin’s face.
“Take your time,” Melanie says calmly, “and you don’t need to tell me everything if you don’t want to. It might be enough just to think about it.”
Merlin shuffles, toying with his hands. The top of his shirt grows scratchy as he tries to breathe.
“Merlin?”
He takes a deep breath and lets it out over eight counts. “Um…I like having someone tell me it’s alright,” he stammers, “or—or feeling someone hold me. I don’t—uh, normally when I take my medication in the morning it’s—I don’t think bringing the medication to me would help much?”
Melanie nods. “What else does help?”
“I, um, I need something to do with my hands.” He flexes them. “When I don’t, I, uh, I tend to…it’s not good.”
“What about leading up to the episodes?”
He shakes his head. “I can still tell when they’re about to happen and they normally stress me out more.”
“Okay. From what it sounds like, you’d mainly need a support animal that could distract you from things that stress you out,” Melanie suggests, “and can provide physical comfort when you are stressed?”
“Y-yeah, I think so?”
She nods and smiles. “We can look into getting you a service dog that meets those needs.”
“Can I…think about it first?”
“Of course. Take all the time you need.”
Arthur and Leon think it’s a good idea. Merlin thinks it over the next week or so and returns to Melanie with a hesitant yes.
“I’m proud of you,” she smiles as she writes up the recommendation, “this is a difficult thing to figure out.”
“Thanks.”
“I’m sending you to one of my colleagues,” she says as she passes him the slip of paper, “he can tell you a little more about the process of selecting a service animal and the training process.”
“Would I have to be super involved?”
“In your case, probably not,” she says, “not to the extent of some service animal training, but it would be good for you and the animal to form a relationship early on. But talk to Allan about it.”
Allan meets them at the facility as Arthur and Leon walk behind him. He holds out his hand for Merlin to shake and shows them inside.
“Melanie told me a little bit about your case,” he says as they sit down in an office, “do you know if you’re looking for a dog you’d want to be able to give commands to or just an emotional support animal?”
“Uh…”
“We can train dogs to recognize the signs of an attack,” Allan explains, “and respond by providing tactile stimulation like licking your face or your hands or resting their weight on you to give you something to focus on, or we can provide you with a dog that isn’t trained in any way, it’s just meant to be a soothing presence.”
“I think I need a dog that can recognize the attacks.”
“Okay!” Allan reaches for a set of keys. “There are a few steps we need to go through to get everything squared away, are you ready?”
The paperwork is a slog. Thank god Leon actually knows how to sit down and grind through paperwork, Arthur and Merlin sure never learned how. It passes in a bit of a daze, most of Merlin’s attention focusing on the way Arthur’s hand squeezes his, keeping him here, keeping him grounded.
“Alright,” Allan says eventually, “that’s everything. Would you like to go back and see the dogs?”
Merlin perks up, ignoring Arthur’s snicker. “Can we?”
“Sure. Keep in mind that what you need from your dog is going to dictate which dog you pick. If you need a dog that you can lean against, don’t pick a shitzu.”
They spend a lot of time with the dogs. Leon, in particular, gets adopted very quickly by a hound that looks quite similar to one of the hunting dogs from long ago. Arthur manages to get himself swamped by about three puppies the instant he kneels down to tie his boots.
Merlin looks around for a while. His magic is tingling under his fingertips in a way that tells him he needs to find something, but he can’t quite tell what yet.
Then he turns and there’s a dog staring at him.
It’s a large dog, larger than he expected to see, and it has a great dignity as it gets to its feet and pads over to him. Merlin crouches down, eyes wide, as the dog takes a seat in front of him, tilting its head. It snuffles quietly and rests its nose against his forehead.
Something warm washes over him and he shudders.
“Had a feeling you might like him,” Allan’s voice drifts in from somewhere above Merlin’s head, “Guy’s been here a long time, but he always felt like he was waiting for someone.”
“Guy?” That’s Leon. “Is that the dog’s name?”
Merlin swallows through a lump in his throat. “Gaius.”
He hears Arthur’s sharp intake of breath and Gaius huffs. Merlin looks up and the dog snuffles again, burying its face in Merlin’s shoulder.
“Can I have this one, please?”
“You sure can.”
Gaius and Merlin work well together. Merlin can feel his magic thrumming happily as they train, Gaius learning how to recognize the signs of when Merlin’s about to have an attack, Merlin learning how to put his faith into the dog at his side. Gaius’s favorite thing to learn is deep pressure therapy, putting its head or body across Merlin’s lap, getting him to focus, calm down, stimulate him safely. The first time Merlin falls asleep under the dog, the trainers had woken him up gently, saying it was the most effective training session they’d ever seen.
They had a bit of help.
The day Merlin walks out with Gaius next to him, he can’t stop smiling.
“You look good,” Arthur says gently, cupping the back of his neck as he brings him in for a hug, “both of you.”
Gaius huffs. Leon gives the dog a solemn nod and Merlin giggles.
“Are you welcoming him to the family?”
“I’m approving a newly appointed knight,” Leon says with a dignity he’s never quite managed to lose, “and yes, Merlin, I am.”
Gaius spends the walk home walking stately at Merlin’s side, through the park, down the street, and up the steps to their home. It sniffs gently at Merlin’s pant leg as they get inside, nudging him toward the couch.
“Alright, I’m going, I’m going.”
“Who’s for takeout?”
“Ooh, me.”
“Get the good Thai place this time!”
“I will, I will.”
Gaius’s head is warm and soft in Merlin’s lap. Arthur chuckles as he sits next to him on the couch.
“Don’t fall asleep yet,” he teases gently, carding his fingers through Merlin’s hair as Merlin’s head drops to rest on his shoulder, “you’ll miss the food.”
“Gaius can wake me up.”
Arthur chuckles again, scratching his nails across Merlin’s scalp. “I’m glad you have him, Merlin.”
Merlin blinks his eyes open, staring down into the dog’s eyes. Gaius blinks back at him, reaching out his nose to nudge against Arthur’s leg.
“I think he likes you too.”
Merlin floats in the euphoria of having the dog here at last for a few days. They walk in the mornings and the evenings, they spend the day working away, and when Arthur meets them at home, they sit in front of the TV and doze on the couch. It’s a pleasant existence.
Then he has an attack. A bad one.
Gaius picks it up right away, licking gently at Merlin’s knee to distract him in the early stages. And Merlin wants to, wants to focus on the warmth of Gaius’s tongue, even when it moves to his hands, his face, but he can’t. He can’t. It’s—it’s—
A low growl and a sudden warm weight across his body.
He blinks.
Gaius is stretched out across him, rumbling softly. He shifts and the rush of solid warm safe Gaius is enough to make his chest stutter and slow. The dog’s head is on his chest, warm breaths puffing over his skin as the dog breathes, slow and steady. The dog’s head turns slowly and a cold nose presses against his cheek.
Merlin closes his eyes and lets Gaius’s weight sink him into the couch.
He’s alright.
He’s alright.
Gaius is here.