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amari_zTitle: The Shopping Expedition
Warnings: None, except it's crack.
Series: Part of the AU that began with Resurrection. The order is Resurrection, Tools of the Trade, Slave to Fashion, Trouble in the Making, Out on the Town, Weapons of Choice, Myths, Legends and Lies, Lessons in Deportment, Ties to Bind and this one.
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sasha_b asked for shopping. Who am I to refuse her anything? Thanks to darklyscarlett for help with finding a locale and general London geography.
Lancelot did not start getting restless until the last part of the trip. Apart from the initial scuffle over who would be driving, the trip had been pleasant. (Arthur won that argument again by pointing out that Lancelot still did not have a driver's license, which was not strictly speaking true, since while Lancelot did not physically possess his license, it was currently sitting in a drawer in Arthur's desk carefully buried under a stack of papers.)
Arthur had passed the time telling Lancelot stories about the knights' early days in this new time. From Lancelot's pointed comments, he had heard some of the stories, but from a distinctly different perspective. Arthur had just finished telling him of how Tristan, usually so coolly unflappable, had accidentally flooded one of the bathrooms, when they hit city traffic.
Lancelot looked around. "Why are the cars stopping? Are we there?"
"Not for a little while yet."
Lancelot sat still for a moment, but his impatience was betrayed by the tap of his fingers on his knee. "Then why is everyone stopped?" he demanded again.
"You've heard of traffic jams. We're in one. It's normal."
"Normal? But what's the hold up?"
Arthur shrugged. With all the conveniences of modern life, there also came the annoyances. "There could be an accident, but probably it's just too many cars."
Lancelot pulled himself up a little in his seat as though trying to see over the cars in front of them. "Too many cars? If the car in front that's stopped would just move—"
Arthur tried to hide a smile. Lancelot would take revenge if he thought he was being laughed at. "There are just a lot of cars. It's congested. Think of all of you knights trying to ride out of the gate at the same time. With a couple of centuries trying to get out as well."
Lancelot did not seem to believe him. He lowered his window and leaned out, only to come up short when the seatbelt held him back. Swearing, he moved to unfasten it, but Arthur caught at his hand. "Sit your arse back in the seat, Lancelot. It'll move when it moves."
"I want to see—"
"There's nothing to see. You'll just have to be patient." He winced a little as that word slipped out. It was probably Lancelot's least favorite word in any language—maybe after Roman. And God.
Lancelot gave him a look, but rolled the window back up. After a few seconds of silence, he said, "I don't see why we have to come to Londinium to buy clothes anyway."
"London," Arthur corrected automatically.
Lancelot waved a negligent hand. "Whatever." Arthur refused to rise to the bait. Lancelot knew very well what the city was named now. "There were plenty of places selling clothes in that other city near the house, whateritwascalled."
Arthur's hands tightened slightly on the steering wheel. "I told you already. You need clothes suitable for making appearances with me. You want to have nice clothes, don't you?" he appealed. Although Lancelot would never in any millennium admit it, he was particular about his appearance. Arthur would not exactly call him vain—
"I don't really care," Lancelot countered. "The clothes I have already seem fine." Half of those clothes were in actuality Arthur's and too big, the others, which fit properly, had been purchased, rather to Arthur's surprise, by Dagonet while Lancelot had slept for those three long days after Merlin had summoned him. Somehow, even the boots had been the right size.
"Well, you need better clothes, and London is the place to buy them."
"I'm not wearing any of those gaudy colors like Galahad," Lancelot warned, sounding quite serious. Arthur bit back a laugh as he tried to picture it. Lancelot, even now, rarely wore anything but black.
"No gaudy colors," Arthur assured him.
"And none of that frippery you wear." Lancelot's finger stabbed in the direction of Arthur's tie.
This was an ongoing fight. "Lancelot," Arthur said, with what patience he could muster, and for what felt like the hundredth time, "no one is going to try to strangle you with your tie." Except maybe me if you keep this up.
"Right. Because I won't be wearing one. Bloody stupid things."
Arthur let it drop for now.
"And why exactly are you taking me?" Lancelot continued. "When did you start taking any interest in clothes? Jols used to have to hide your tunics when they got too old otherwise you'd wear them until they were rags."
Arthur was not insulted, but he was cautious in his response. "I know a little. But the people at the store are there to assist." This, while likely, true, was not the complete truth. But he did not want to fight for rest of the day. Ambush seemed to be the best strategy.
~
When they finally reached central London, Arthur checked his watch (and ignored the way Lancelot rolled his eyes). "We're early. Why don't we find a place to park the car and take a walk." Arthur had actually planned it that way, thinking it would be a good idea to get Lancelot a bit familiar with the city.
"Early? How can we be early for shopping?"
Arthur's brain scrambled for a moment, but he came out with, "We have an appointment at the store for someone to assist us."
Lancelot seemed to accept that and muttered something about over punctual Romans, before looking around. "This is it? It doesn't look like it." He took in the seemingly endless lines of buildings. "Where are the walls?"
Arthur sighed. "Long gone. There's nothing left of the old city. It's was all destroyed or built over."
For a moment, Lancelot actually looked taken aback, but then he began to smirk.
"What?" Arthur demanded, even though he should have known better than to ask.
"Nothing. Except I always wondered at Roman arrogance—building in stone to last eternity. Well, it doesn't seemed to have worked that well after all."
Arthur bit his tongue.
~
When Lancelot caught sight of the Tower, for the first time, he seemed mildly impressed.
"That was built far after our time by warriors who came over from the continent and became the rulers of the country," Arthur explained.
A quick glance away from the road revealed that Lancelot appeared to be sizing the place up for an attack. "It would be a good base,” Lancelot mused. “Who lives there?"
Arthur shook his head. "No one. It's a museum. People come from all over the world to see it."
"Anyone can just walk in?" Lancelot sounded disgusted.
"Yes, if they pay the entrance fee," Arthur said, voice dry.
“And what the fuck is that,” Lancelot asked after a moment his eyes catching sight of Greater London Authority Headquarters.
Arthur sighed. “It’s the building of the city government. They seem quite proud of it.”
Lancelot gave him an incredulous look. “You mean it was built like that on purpose?”
“I believe so.”
Lancelot was muttering to himself. Arthur studiously pretended he did not hear words that suggested that Lancelot was plotting the building’s destruction. Lancelot cast one more look at the building and shuddered. To Arthur he said, “Drive faster.”
~
After parking the car, Arthur took Lancelot to walk along the Tamesis first. At first Lancelot would not believe it was the right river. It was not just the name that had been diminished, but the river he remembered had been far wider. This river seemed insipid in comparison. The whole of this land seemed a pale imitation of what it had been. He had detested this country, but he could not help noticing how badly nature had been beaten down and overrun.
~
They walked along the river for a while, Lancelot occasionally asking questions. He was, to Arthur's relief, only vaguely incredulous when Arthur explained to him what the Eye was—Arthur had been rather worried he would insist on riding it. Arthur had discovered recently that he was not too fond of great heights, something he was not about to reveal to Lancelot if he could help it.
"This is the Palace of Westminster—the parliament," he told Lancelot as the building became visible.
"Ah. The government building. Your future residence. Why am I not surprised to see it has a big clock?" Lancelot looked it over with a professional eye. "It doesn't look very defensible."
Not quite sure if Lancelot was teasing him, he ignored the last remarks, but said seriously, "No one actually lives there. The prime minister's house is somewhere else. And of course then there's the royal residence at Buckingham Palace."
"So you'll be evicting them, then. Is it a nice palace? Are there stables?" Arthur gave Lancelot a hard stare, but Lancelot only looked back at him, the picture of mild inquiry.
"They'll be no need." Arthur could not quite resist correcting. "The queen is just a figure head. The royal family is only a symbol now, they wield no actual power."
"Ah." Lancelot gave him a sideways glance, and sure now that he was being teased, Arthur resisted the urge to cuff him.
After another moment or studying the building, Lancelot gave him another slant-eyed look and said, "I don't know why you're bothering with this election business. Give me a half a day—less—and I bet we could seize this parliament building. Easy."
This time, Arthur did not resist the urge. Lancelot glared and rubbed at the side of his head, but seemed almost smug about it.
Arthur shook his head, and deciding he did not want to know, resumed walking. He discretely checked his watch while trying to subtly steer Lancelot away from the temptation to sarcasm that was Westminster Abbey.
He was not sure how long it would take them to get to the store, so they should probably start heading in that direction.
~
Lancelot was feeling annoyed with the crowded noise of the city by the time they arrived at New Bond Street. The shops on this street stank of wealth and privilege in a way that made his skin itch. He looked over at Arthur who seemed intent on reaching whatever one of these shops was their destination. Lancelot had a bad feeling about this.
He nearly missed the way Arthur's eyes lingered on one of the storefronts. He rolled his eyes. A bookshop. He should have known. He was about to hustle Arthur along when he caught something out of the corner of his eye.
It could not be. Then he smirked to himself.
"Why don't you go in?" he asked Arthur. "We have time still, right?"
Arthur gave him a surprised look. Then glanced at that infernal watch. "You don't mind?"
"No. I'll wait out here."
Arthur's look went from surprised to wary. "You could come in."
"Me, in a bookstore?" Lancelot raised a disdainful eyebrow. "Don't be offensive."
Arthur grinned at that, the corners of his eyes crinkling. "Alright. I won't take long. But don't wander off." Lancelot rolled his eyes and made a shooing motion.
When Arthur was safely out of sight, he let the smirk break free and retraced their steps.
~
Tor huddled behind a trash bin and hissed at Galahad, "They didn't see us, did they?"
"I don't think so. Hey! Oww! That's my foot."
"Sorry," Tor said, his tone not very convincing. This was all Galahad's fault anyway.
"So do you think it's safe to come out?" he asked after a few seconds.
"Look around and check."
"Why me?" Tor demanded, but he cautiously stood up and peered around the corner.
And then he shrieked and leaped back.
"What?" Galahad demanded. Rather than answering, Tor shoved him around the corner.
Galahad barely managed to stop himself from falling at Lancelot's feet. Lancelot was leaning against the building wall, watching them with interest.
"Oh, hi," Galahad managed, trying to sound casual as he shoved the large Armani shopping bag behind him. "What a coincidence. Running into you here."
Tor, despite his still pounding heart, snorted. Galahad was an idiot.
Lancelot evidently agreed. "Oh? So it wasn't you who whined at Arthur for half an hour this morning about how it wasn't fair that you weren't allowed to come to London?"
No, that had been Galahad. Tor had actually been rather impressed. One of those stern looks from Arthur would have sent him retreating instantly, but Galahad had persisted. Well, Galahad knew Arthur a lot better than Tor did.
"Um," Galahad began intelligently, but then blurted out, "It's not fair! Why do you get to buy new clothes? You don't even care. And all the good shops are here!"
Tor tried to step on Galahad's foot again, but missed.
"I wouldn't have thought there was any room left in your closet," Lancelot commented. "How did you get here? Surely you didn't hide in the back of the car?"
"No," Galahad said, sounding sulky. "Train."
Lancelot did not seem angry, which allowed Tor's heart to slow down to something like its regular pace.
But it sped up again as dark eyes turned to him. "I hadn't realized you'd also developed such an interest in fashion."
Tor was offended. "No! I want football boots. You know? Those shoes with points on the bottom for football." He wished he had been wearing them when he had stepped on Galahad's foot earlier. Lancelot did not look convinced, and he found himself admitting, "And he promised we'd get some Krispy Kreme donuts."
"What?"
"Donuts. They're food. They sell them here at some store. He and Gawain and Gaheris brought some back last time." He closed his eyes, remembering, a dreamy smile stretching across his lips.
He recalled where he was and opened his eyes to find that Lancelot was eyeing him, an eyebrow quirked. "He said we could get some if I came with him," he finished. And this time, he was not going to let Percival have a single one.
Lancelot just continued to look at him.
Tor fidgeted for a moment, but then blurted, "Arthur didn't see us, did he?"
"No." Lancelot glanced over his shoulder. "He's occupied with amusing himself."
"Are you going to tell him?"
"He won't!" Galahad insisted. "You won't, right?" He seemed less certain as he looked at Lancelot.
Lancelot seemed to be thinking it over. "Well," he mused aloud. "If Arthur finds out the two of you are running loose on your own, he'll probably insist on dragging you both off by the ear and seeing you back to the house."
"You—" Galahad began, but fell silent at Lancelot's look.
"Which means that I won't have this shopping thing inflicted on me. Or at least it will be delayed until the next time Arthur manages to have a free day. So, it seems that the best course of action for me would be to go fetch Arthur right now." He seemed pleased; Tor wanted to wail. He really did not want to face Arthur's disapproving look.
Then a gleam appeared in Lancelot's eyes, which made Tor swallow, even as Galahad perked up.
"But?" Galahad asked hopefully.
"Perhaps I'll forget I saw you—if you'll do me a small favor."
He glanced over his shoulder again, checking to make sure that Arthur was nowhere in sight before he asked, "Do you have a knife?"
~
Arthur held the door of the store open for Lancelot and steeled himself for the coming confrontation. He felt a little guilty about the whole thing. Lancelot had been remarkably well behaved all day. He had not even commented when Arthur, after realizing that he had spent far longer than he had thought, had come rushing out of the bookstore. Lancelot had merely been waiting with every appearance of patience. It had been odd, but perhaps Lancelot was actually enjoying the city, despite all the disparaging comments.
Reminding himself that Lancelot would exploit the smallest sign of weakness, he squared his shoulders and led the way into the store.
"Ah! Mr. Castus! Right on time! How good to see you." Lillian Delaney's refined voice cut through the air, clear as the shriek of the first arrow in an ambush.
Lancelot's eyes widened and then narrowed. "You're dead," he hissed at Arthur in Latin.
~
"No."
"This one is quite fine—"
"No."
"Well, this one—"
"No."
Arthur hid a smile with his hand. They had been ushered into a private room, and, at Ms. Delaney's direction, a staff of clerks had begun bringing out clothing. Lancelot, arms crossed, eyes belligerent, had yet to agree to a single thing. The normally imperturbable Ms. Delaney was actually beginning to look a little frazzled.
The chief of the store personnel, who had seemed extremely pleased when he had gotten his first look at Lancelot, and had even gushed a bit about how fine Lancelot would look in the clothes they had, by now looked like he wanted to start crying.
Arthur should not laugh, but he could not help it. Watching someone else trying to coax a pissed off Lancelot into doing something was a rare pleasure. Besides, he should enjoy himself while he could. The evil looks that Lancelot occasionally shot him boded ill for his future happiness.
Deciding, though, that enough was enough, Arthur murmured to Lancelot, "The faster you agree to something, the faster we'll get out of here."
Lancelot gave him an unimpressed look, but then his eyes glinted in a way that made Arthur realize it was not necessarily in his own best interest to get out of this place quickly.
"Well, you seem to have things well in hand," he lied to Ms. Delaney and stood up. Sometimes, retreat was a strategically sound move. "I think I'll go take a look at the watches. He doesn't have one."
"Arthur, you bastard, you take one step out of this fucking room—" Lancelot growled at him in Latin.
Arthur blithely ignored him. As he fled, he heard one of the denser of the store clerks tentatively ask, "What language was that? It sounded familiar, but—"
"Welsh," Lancelot said, voice flat.
Arthur managed not to burst into laughter until he was out of hearing range.
~
Arthur did spend some time looking at watches but he was not delusional enough to actually try to buy Lancelot one.
He then passed the time walking through the store and counting how many items he could find with the store's distinctive tartan pattern. As he made his survey, despite his best efforts, he was not quite able to dodge a sneak attack by one of the store’s zealous employees. The man, who wielded a black and white patterned bottle, had popped up from around a corner and managed to spray him with a spicy smelling perfume.
Having counted, and recounted twice—just to be doubly sure—the tartan patterned goods, he could not think of anything else to do, so he ventured back to the room. He had not heard any sounds of screaming, so he was hoping for the best.
A peace of sorts seemed to have been negotiated. Lancelot looked faintly smug, and Ms. Delaney somewhat bewildered. Arthur felt a momentary sympathy for the woman; he had no doubt that his own face had often sported a similar expression. But, mostly, Arthur hoped that Lancelot was counting himself the victor their skirmish and that his disposition would therefore be a bit improved.
Clothing was heaped everywhere, as though it had rained down in some violent torrent from the sky. Amid the chaos, clothes that seemed to have met with Lancelot's approval were hanging neatly on a rack. Arthur had no eye for such things, but there were certainly no gaudy colors among them. Nor did he see a single tie.
"And now we just need to have the suits fitted," Ms. Delaney was saying; she sounded exhausted.
"What?" Some of the smugness faded.
"They need to fit properly." She handed Lancelot some clothes and gestured in the direction of a side room. "You can change in there. The tailor is on his way."
Lancelot muttered to himself, but took the clothes and went. He appeared to have decided to ignore Arthur completely. For now.
When Lancelot had disappeared into the room, Ms. Delaney turned to look at Arthur. "Well, he does have good taste." She sounded grudging.
Arthur's lips twitched but he restrained himself, and politely said, "He has always had an eye for beautiful things."
"We haven't considered shoes yet," she informed him after a moment of silence.
Arthur gave her an alarmed look.
"I was thinking that we would hold off on that today. Perhaps I'll have my assistant pick up a selection which he can try on the next time we have a meeting."
"That's a good idea," Arthur said, relieved.
~
Lancelot was eyeing the man who approached him with a measuring tape with wary disapproval. "What is he doing?" he demanded.
"He's going to fix the fitting," Ms. Delaney said, her patient facade completely worn through. "Just stand still."
Lancelot twitched as the man knelt and reached for the hem of the trousers. Arthur, who had had his own suits fitted, opened his mouth, but it was too late. As the tailor moved to measure the inseam, Lancelot balked.
The tailor found his hand seized and the surprise on his face turned to terror as Lancelot smiled a smile that showed off his sharp, white teeth. "Are you aiming to get your fingers broken?"
~
Arthur had pried Lancelot's hand off the unfortunate tailor and hustled off him into the dressing room.
"What are you doing? He put his hand—" Lancelot began, furious.
"He's doing his job. He's not trying to grope you," Arthur said in Latin, aware that the flimsy door he shut behind them would not do much to muffle their voices.
It might have been funny if Lancelot eyes did not hold that killing rage. Actually, on a moment's reflection, there was nothing funny about it at all. "He's just measuring the length of your leg. Think of him as being like your armorer. He just needs to make sure everything fits right."
"If that oaf of a blacksmith Titus had ever put his hands—"
Feeling like they were getting sidetracked, Arthur reached out and cupped Lancelot's cheek, trying to focus his attention. "He's just doing his job," he repeated. "I promise you." He ran his thumb over Lancelot's cheekbone, attempting to soothe. "If it was otherwise, do you think I would have allowed it?"
Lancelot's eyes shuttered. "He'd already have been begging for his mother if you hadn't interfered."
Lancelot stood still as a statue for the rest of the terrified tailor's efforts. The man seemed to content himself with approximating the inseam measurements, Arthur noted. Arthur found Lancelot's stillness rather disturbing, but was nevertheless grateful that the rest of their time in the store passed without incident.
So, while they left terror, confusion and some destruction (if you counted the mountains of scattered clothing that Lancelot had left for the staff to put away) in their wake, Arthur was just relieved that there had been no bloodshed. Or so he told himself as they left the store after Arthur had said polite farewells to a rather shell-shocked Ms. Delaney.
"I thought perhaps we could go somewhere and have a nice dinner," Arthur ventured to his silent companion. "You must be hungry—I'm starved anyway." He was rather hoping for some caustic response about whether Lancelot was now to be trusted to dine in public.
But Lancelot, still stony faced, merely nodded and followed Arthur down the street. After a few blocks, he said, "Don't think this means you're forgiven."
Arthur heaved a sigh of relief at that familiar tone. "No, of course. I don't think that at all."
~
Dinner was surprisingly pleasant, although Arthur had been a bit tense wondering what Lancelot would say and do. Lancelot, however, had not really acted up—in truth Arthur had been grateful for all the sarcastic comments and jibes, it was far better than sitting across from a Lancelot who spent the meal silently glaring at him. He knew that by experience.
The only bad moment had come while they were waiting to be seated at the restaurant and Lancelot, wrinkling his nose, had demanded, “What is that smell on you?”
Arthur had flushed, but pretended he had no idea what Lancelot was talking about. He was not entirely sure that Lancelot had believed him, but he was not about to admit that an officious little man with a spray bottle had gotten the best of him.
It was getting late by the time they reached the parking structure where they had left the car, and it was quiet and mostly empty. Arthur unlocked the car doors and was about to get in when Lancelot asked, "Is it suppose to look like that?"
Arthur straightened and went over. Lancelot was standing by the back of the car looking down at the . . . tire. The flat tire.
"I take it that's a no," Lancelot said as Arthur had finished uttering a few words that might not have been heard in Britain for a number of centuries.
"Yes, Lancelot," Arthur gritted out, "it is a no."
"So what now?" Lancelot leaned against the side of the car, looking vaguely bored. "It's broken. Do we buy a new car?"
Arthur gave an exasperated snort. "No. We just have to change the tire." Arthur had, of course, heard of doing that, but never seen it done nor had occasion to try it.
"Ah? And what would that entail?"
Without answering, Arthur went to the passenger door and opened it. He looked through the glove compartment. It had been meticulously clean only a few weeks ago, but now, somehow it had become filled with . . . stuff—a fashion magazine, four packets of salt, a deck of cards, Arthur's missing blue and yellow stripped tie, which Lancelot had taken a violent dislike to, a sticky plastic bottle half-filled with juice, a few random objects that looked like rocks, a crumpled racing form that smelled of beer, a plastic knife. And was that a bit of a leather harness? Yes it was. What the hell? Well, that was not important now. Arthur finally found the owner's manual and yanked it out of the debris. He closed his eyes for a moment when he found that some of the pages were sticking together by virtue of the manual's proximity to the juice bottle, but then sighed and began to look through it.
"How long is this going to take?" Lancelot asked, drumming his fingers against the car impatiently.
Arthur took a deep breath. "As long as it does. Here, why don't you take a look at the manual and see what the directions say while I check what equipment we have."
Lancelot waved a dismissive hand. "If your horse was sick, I could help you, but I don't know anything about this sort of thing. And how would I? You won't even let me drive."
Arthur gave Lancelot a long look, and Lancelot just looked back without blinking. Arthur let out another sigh. Trying to force a recalcitrant Lancelot to cooperate was just not worth the trouble. Especially after the day they had just had. He went around to the boot, taking the manual with him.
When he emerged a few minutes later with the spare tire, the jack and the tire iron, Lancelot had settled himself against a nearby pillar and was watching him with skeptical eyes. "Can't you just call someone to come and fix it for you? That's what they do on television. Of course, those are usually women."
"This isn't television," Arthur said evenly. "There are directions right here. It shouldn't be difficult." He knew how to change a wagon wheel. How much different could it be? And he would be damned if asked someone to help him with something he could perfectly well manage himself. Especially with Lancelot watching.
A half hour later, Arthur, after a few wrong starts, had removed the hubcap and jacked up the car. After about the first ten minutes or so, Lancelot had seemed to tire of making comments, and after one last "Are you sure you don't want to call someone?" was now whistling to himself. The tune was from a song that was probably the most vulgar drinking song Arthur had ever heard, and which therefore had been a great favorite among his knights. He hated that song. And now with Lancelot whistling it, he could not help but hear those disgusting lyrics again in his head.
Arthur bit his tongue to keep himself from telling Lancelot to shut up. Whistling, after all, no matter what the tune, was much better than Lancelot's blow-by-blow commentary on Arthur's efforts.
After consulting the manual once more, he picked up the tire iron and set it over the first of the lug nuts. He pushed. It did not budge. Frowning, he flexed his hands and this time he wrenched hard at the thing.
Nothing.
Lancelot stopped whistling and began to laugh. "I've been telling you that you need more exercise."
Arthur ignored him, and continued to try to get the stupid thing to turn. Ten infuriating and sweaty minutes later, he was blowing on his reddened hands (and for the first time in the year since he had been resurrected, he found himself truly missing his old calluses) and the cursed thing had not budged.
Lancelot stopped laughing long enough to ask sweetly, "Are you sure you're turning in the right direction?"
Arthur turned to glower at him, but then took a surreptitious peek at the manual. Counterclockwise. He began to swear again, but the anger gave him the strength to get the bolts off in fairly short order, even the one he had spent the last ten minutes tightening.
About an hour later, the car was back on the ground, the jack, tire iron and flat tire (it looked like it had been slashed by something sharp) were stowed in the boot, and Arthur's back and arm muscles were aching. Arthur kicked at Lancelot's outstretched leg. "Get up. Let's go."
Lancelot, who had seemed to take a nap there at the end, blinked at him, and then looked over at the car. He looked dubious. "Are you sure you've done it right? It's not going to fall off once you start driving is it?"
"Shut up and get in the car," Arthur said through clenched teeth. They would not get home before midnight as it was, so he did not really have time to be killing Lancelot now.
~
It was nearly one in the morning when Lancelot came down the stairs into the basement. He found Tristan, Gareth, Gawain and Bors sitting on the practice room floor, drinking beer and waiting for him.
"So, no trouble?" he asked, as he snagged one of the unclaimed bottles.
Tristan inclined his head, his eyes gleaming.
Gareth elaborated, "You gave us plenty of time. The truck got here just after dark and we got everything unloaded and hidden in the back room. We checked it over too, and everything seems to be in order. We won't be sure, of course, until we test them out."
"You managed to keep Arthur out really late," Bors said slyly. "How did you distract him?"
Lancelot smirked. "I had a little unexpected help." He looked over at Gawain who was laughing at Bors's remark. "Your boy slipped his leash."
Gawain looked surprised. "How did you—? Well, anyway, don't worry, Gaheris is already making his—both of their—lives miserable. Galahad swiped his credit card, so he's not feeling particularly forgiving. I think they're scrubbing the kitchen floor as we speak."
"So we'll be ready to start testing the guns tomorrow," Gareth said, wanting to get the discussion back on track.
"Good." Lancelot smiled. "I'm in the mood to kill something—even if it is just a paper target."
Warnings: None, except it's crack.
Series: Part of the AU that began with Resurrection. The order is Resurrection, Tools of the Trade, Slave to Fashion, Trouble in the Making, Out on the Town, Weapons of Choice, Myths, Legends and Lies, Lessons in Deportment, Ties to Bind and this one.
Notes:
sasha_b asked for shopping. Who am I to refuse her anything? Thanks to darklyscarlett for help with finding a locale and general London geography.Lancelot did not start getting restless until the last part of the trip. Apart from the initial scuffle over who would be driving, the trip had been pleasant. (Arthur won that argument again by pointing out that Lancelot still did not have a driver's license, which was not strictly speaking true, since while Lancelot did not physically possess his license, it was currently sitting in a drawer in Arthur's desk carefully buried under a stack of papers.)
Arthur had passed the time telling Lancelot stories about the knights' early days in this new time. From Lancelot's pointed comments, he had heard some of the stories, but from a distinctly different perspective. Arthur had just finished telling him of how Tristan, usually so coolly unflappable, had accidentally flooded one of the bathrooms, when they hit city traffic.
Lancelot looked around. "Why are the cars stopping? Are we there?"
"Not for a little while yet."
Lancelot sat still for a moment, but his impatience was betrayed by the tap of his fingers on his knee. "Then why is everyone stopped?" he demanded again.
"You've heard of traffic jams. We're in one. It's normal."
"Normal? But what's the hold up?"
Arthur shrugged. With all the conveniences of modern life, there also came the annoyances. "There could be an accident, but probably it's just too many cars."
Lancelot pulled himself up a little in his seat as though trying to see over the cars in front of them. "Too many cars? If the car in front that's stopped would just move—"
Arthur tried to hide a smile. Lancelot would take revenge if he thought he was being laughed at. "There are just a lot of cars. It's congested. Think of all of you knights trying to ride out of the gate at the same time. With a couple of centuries trying to get out as well."
Lancelot did not seem to believe him. He lowered his window and leaned out, only to come up short when the seatbelt held him back. Swearing, he moved to unfasten it, but Arthur caught at his hand. "Sit your arse back in the seat, Lancelot. It'll move when it moves."
"I want to see—"
"There's nothing to see. You'll just have to be patient." He winced a little as that word slipped out. It was probably Lancelot's least favorite word in any language—maybe after Roman. And God.
Lancelot gave him a look, but rolled the window back up. After a few seconds of silence, he said, "I don't see why we have to come to Londinium to buy clothes anyway."
"London," Arthur corrected automatically.
Lancelot waved a negligent hand. "Whatever." Arthur refused to rise to the bait. Lancelot knew very well what the city was named now. "There were plenty of places selling clothes in that other city near the house, whateritwascalled."
Arthur's hands tightened slightly on the steering wheel. "I told you already. You need clothes suitable for making appearances with me. You want to have nice clothes, don't you?" he appealed. Although Lancelot would never in any millennium admit it, he was particular about his appearance. Arthur would not exactly call him vain—
"I don't really care," Lancelot countered. "The clothes I have already seem fine." Half of those clothes were in actuality Arthur's and too big, the others, which fit properly, had been purchased, rather to Arthur's surprise, by Dagonet while Lancelot had slept for those three long days after Merlin had summoned him. Somehow, even the boots had been the right size.
"Well, you need better clothes, and London is the place to buy them."
"I'm not wearing any of those gaudy colors like Galahad," Lancelot warned, sounding quite serious. Arthur bit back a laugh as he tried to picture it. Lancelot, even now, rarely wore anything but black.
"No gaudy colors," Arthur assured him.
"And none of that frippery you wear." Lancelot's finger stabbed in the direction of Arthur's tie.
This was an ongoing fight. "Lancelot," Arthur said, with what patience he could muster, and for what felt like the hundredth time, "no one is going to try to strangle you with your tie." Except maybe me if you keep this up.
"Right. Because I won't be wearing one. Bloody stupid things."
Arthur let it drop for now.
"And why exactly are you taking me?" Lancelot continued. "When did you start taking any interest in clothes? Jols used to have to hide your tunics when they got too old otherwise you'd wear them until they were rags."
Arthur was not insulted, but he was cautious in his response. "I know a little. But the people at the store are there to assist." This, while likely, true, was not the complete truth. But he did not want to fight for rest of the day. Ambush seemed to be the best strategy.
When they finally reached central London, Arthur checked his watch (and ignored the way Lancelot rolled his eyes). "We're early. Why don't we find a place to park the car and take a walk." Arthur had actually planned it that way, thinking it would be a good idea to get Lancelot a bit familiar with the city.
"Early? How can we be early for shopping?"
Arthur's brain scrambled for a moment, but he came out with, "We have an appointment at the store for someone to assist us."
Lancelot seemed to accept that and muttered something about over punctual Romans, before looking around. "This is it? It doesn't look like it." He took in the seemingly endless lines of buildings. "Where are the walls?"
Arthur sighed. "Long gone. There's nothing left of the old city. It's was all destroyed or built over."
For a moment, Lancelot actually looked taken aback, but then he began to smirk.
"What?" Arthur demanded, even though he should have known better than to ask.
"Nothing. Except I always wondered at Roman arrogance—building in stone to last eternity. Well, it doesn't seemed to have worked that well after all."
Arthur bit his tongue.
When Lancelot caught sight of the Tower, for the first time, he seemed mildly impressed.
"That was built far after our time by warriors who came over from the continent and became the rulers of the country," Arthur explained.
A quick glance away from the road revealed that Lancelot appeared to be sizing the place up for an attack. "It would be a good base,” Lancelot mused. “Who lives there?"
Arthur shook his head. "No one. It's a museum. People come from all over the world to see it."
"Anyone can just walk in?" Lancelot sounded disgusted.
"Yes, if they pay the entrance fee," Arthur said, voice dry.
“And what the fuck is that,” Lancelot asked after a moment his eyes catching sight of Greater London Authority Headquarters.
Arthur sighed. “It’s the building of the city government. They seem quite proud of it.”
Lancelot gave him an incredulous look. “You mean it was built like that on purpose?”
“I believe so.”
Lancelot was muttering to himself. Arthur studiously pretended he did not hear words that suggested that Lancelot was plotting the building’s destruction. Lancelot cast one more look at the building and shuddered. To Arthur he said, “Drive faster.”
After parking the car, Arthur took Lancelot to walk along the Tamesis first. At first Lancelot would not believe it was the right river. It was not just the name that had been diminished, but the river he remembered had been far wider. This river seemed insipid in comparison. The whole of this land seemed a pale imitation of what it had been. He had detested this country, but he could not help noticing how badly nature had been beaten down and overrun.
They walked along the river for a while, Lancelot occasionally asking questions. He was, to Arthur's relief, only vaguely incredulous when Arthur explained to him what the Eye was—Arthur had been rather worried he would insist on riding it. Arthur had discovered recently that he was not too fond of great heights, something he was not about to reveal to Lancelot if he could help it.
"This is the Palace of Westminster—the parliament," he told Lancelot as the building became visible.
"Ah. The government building. Your future residence. Why am I not surprised to see it has a big clock?" Lancelot looked it over with a professional eye. "It doesn't look very defensible."
Not quite sure if Lancelot was teasing him, he ignored the last remarks, but said seriously, "No one actually lives there. The prime minister's house is somewhere else. And of course then there's the royal residence at Buckingham Palace."
"So you'll be evicting them, then. Is it a nice palace? Are there stables?" Arthur gave Lancelot a hard stare, but Lancelot only looked back at him, the picture of mild inquiry.
"They'll be no need." Arthur could not quite resist correcting. "The queen is just a figure head. The royal family is only a symbol now, they wield no actual power."
"Ah." Lancelot gave him a sideways glance, and sure now that he was being teased, Arthur resisted the urge to cuff him.
After another moment or studying the building, Lancelot gave him another slant-eyed look and said, "I don't know why you're bothering with this election business. Give me a half a day—less—and I bet we could seize this parliament building. Easy."
This time, Arthur did not resist the urge. Lancelot glared and rubbed at the side of his head, but seemed almost smug about it.
Arthur shook his head, and deciding he did not want to know, resumed walking. He discretely checked his watch while trying to subtly steer Lancelot away from the temptation to sarcasm that was Westminster Abbey.
He was not sure how long it would take them to get to the store, so they should probably start heading in that direction.
Lancelot was feeling annoyed with the crowded noise of the city by the time they arrived at New Bond Street. The shops on this street stank of wealth and privilege in a way that made his skin itch. He looked over at Arthur who seemed intent on reaching whatever one of these shops was their destination. Lancelot had a bad feeling about this.
He nearly missed the way Arthur's eyes lingered on one of the storefronts. He rolled his eyes. A bookshop. He should have known. He was about to hustle Arthur along when he caught something out of the corner of his eye.
It could not be. Then he smirked to himself.
"Why don't you go in?" he asked Arthur. "We have time still, right?"
Arthur gave him a surprised look. Then glanced at that infernal watch. "You don't mind?"
"No. I'll wait out here."
Arthur's look went from surprised to wary. "You could come in."
"Me, in a bookstore?" Lancelot raised a disdainful eyebrow. "Don't be offensive."
Arthur grinned at that, the corners of his eyes crinkling. "Alright. I won't take long. But don't wander off." Lancelot rolled his eyes and made a shooing motion.
When Arthur was safely out of sight, he let the smirk break free and retraced their steps.
Tor huddled behind a trash bin and hissed at Galahad, "They didn't see us, did they?"
"I don't think so. Hey! Oww! That's my foot."
"Sorry," Tor said, his tone not very convincing. This was all Galahad's fault anyway.
"So do you think it's safe to come out?" he asked after a few seconds.
"Look around and check."
"Why me?" Tor demanded, but he cautiously stood up and peered around the corner.
And then he shrieked and leaped back.
"What?" Galahad demanded. Rather than answering, Tor shoved him around the corner.
Galahad barely managed to stop himself from falling at Lancelot's feet. Lancelot was leaning against the building wall, watching them with interest.
"Oh, hi," Galahad managed, trying to sound casual as he shoved the large Armani shopping bag behind him. "What a coincidence. Running into you here."
Tor, despite his still pounding heart, snorted. Galahad was an idiot.
Lancelot evidently agreed. "Oh? So it wasn't you who whined at Arthur for half an hour this morning about how it wasn't fair that you weren't allowed to come to London?"
No, that had been Galahad. Tor had actually been rather impressed. One of those stern looks from Arthur would have sent him retreating instantly, but Galahad had persisted. Well, Galahad knew Arthur a lot better than Tor did.
"Um," Galahad began intelligently, but then blurted out, "It's not fair! Why do you get to buy new clothes? You don't even care. And all the good shops are here!"
Tor tried to step on Galahad's foot again, but missed.
"I wouldn't have thought there was any room left in your closet," Lancelot commented. "How did you get here? Surely you didn't hide in the back of the car?"
"No," Galahad said, sounding sulky. "Train."
Lancelot did not seem angry, which allowed Tor's heart to slow down to something like its regular pace.
But it sped up again as dark eyes turned to him. "I hadn't realized you'd also developed such an interest in fashion."
Tor was offended. "No! I want football boots. You know? Those shoes with points on the bottom for football." He wished he had been wearing them when he had stepped on Galahad's foot earlier. Lancelot did not look convinced, and he found himself admitting, "And he promised we'd get some Krispy Kreme donuts."
"What?"
"Donuts. They're food. They sell them here at some store. He and Gawain and Gaheris brought some back last time." He closed his eyes, remembering, a dreamy smile stretching across his lips.
He recalled where he was and opened his eyes to find that Lancelot was eyeing him, an eyebrow quirked. "He said we could get some if I came with him," he finished. And this time, he was not going to let Percival have a single one.
Lancelot just continued to look at him.
Tor fidgeted for a moment, but then blurted, "Arthur didn't see us, did he?"
"No." Lancelot glanced over his shoulder. "He's occupied with amusing himself."
"Are you going to tell him?"
"He won't!" Galahad insisted. "You won't, right?" He seemed less certain as he looked at Lancelot.
Lancelot seemed to be thinking it over. "Well," he mused aloud. "If Arthur finds out the two of you are running loose on your own, he'll probably insist on dragging you both off by the ear and seeing you back to the house."
"You—" Galahad began, but fell silent at Lancelot's look.
"Which means that I won't have this shopping thing inflicted on me. Or at least it will be delayed until the next time Arthur manages to have a free day. So, it seems that the best course of action for me would be to go fetch Arthur right now." He seemed pleased; Tor wanted to wail. He really did not want to face Arthur's disapproving look.
Then a gleam appeared in Lancelot's eyes, which made Tor swallow, even as Galahad perked up.
"But?" Galahad asked hopefully.
"Perhaps I'll forget I saw you—if you'll do me a small favor."
He glanced over his shoulder again, checking to make sure that Arthur was nowhere in sight before he asked, "Do you have a knife?"
Arthur held the door of the store open for Lancelot and steeled himself for the coming confrontation. He felt a little guilty about the whole thing. Lancelot had been remarkably well behaved all day. He had not even commented when Arthur, after realizing that he had spent far longer than he had thought, had come rushing out of the bookstore. Lancelot had merely been waiting with every appearance of patience. It had been odd, but perhaps Lancelot was actually enjoying the city, despite all the disparaging comments.
Reminding himself that Lancelot would exploit the smallest sign of weakness, he squared his shoulders and led the way into the store.
"Ah! Mr. Castus! Right on time! How good to see you." Lillian Delaney's refined voice cut through the air, clear as the shriek of the first arrow in an ambush.
Lancelot's eyes widened and then narrowed. "You're dead," he hissed at Arthur in Latin.
"No."
"This one is quite fine—"
"No."
"Well, this one—"
"No."
Arthur hid a smile with his hand. They had been ushered into a private room, and, at Ms. Delaney's direction, a staff of clerks had begun bringing out clothing. Lancelot, arms crossed, eyes belligerent, had yet to agree to a single thing. The normally imperturbable Ms. Delaney was actually beginning to look a little frazzled.
The chief of the store personnel, who had seemed extremely pleased when he had gotten his first look at Lancelot, and had even gushed a bit about how fine Lancelot would look in the clothes they had, by now looked like he wanted to start crying.
Arthur should not laugh, but he could not help it. Watching someone else trying to coax a pissed off Lancelot into doing something was a rare pleasure. Besides, he should enjoy himself while he could. The evil looks that Lancelot occasionally shot him boded ill for his future happiness.
Deciding, though, that enough was enough, Arthur murmured to Lancelot, "The faster you agree to something, the faster we'll get out of here."
Lancelot gave him an unimpressed look, but then his eyes glinted in a way that made Arthur realize it was not necessarily in his own best interest to get out of this place quickly.
"Well, you seem to have things well in hand," he lied to Ms. Delaney and stood up. Sometimes, retreat was a strategically sound move. "I think I'll go take a look at the watches. He doesn't have one."
"Arthur, you bastard, you take one step out of this fucking room—" Lancelot growled at him in Latin.
Arthur blithely ignored him. As he fled, he heard one of the denser of the store clerks tentatively ask, "What language was that? It sounded familiar, but—"
"Welsh," Lancelot said, voice flat.
Arthur managed not to burst into laughter until he was out of hearing range.
Arthur did spend some time looking at watches but he was not delusional enough to actually try to buy Lancelot one.
He then passed the time walking through the store and counting how many items he could find with the store's distinctive tartan pattern. As he made his survey, despite his best efforts, he was not quite able to dodge a sneak attack by one of the store’s zealous employees. The man, who wielded a black and white patterned bottle, had popped up from around a corner and managed to spray him with a spicy smelling perfume.
Having counted, and recounted twice—just to be doubly sure—the tartan patterned goods, he could not think of anything else to do, so he ventured back to the room. He had not heard any sounds of screaming, so he was hoping for the best.
A peace of sorts seemed to have been negotiated. Lancelot looked faintly smug, and Ms. Delaney somewhat bewildered. Arthur felt a momentary sympathy for the woman; he had no doubt that his own face had often sported a similar expression. But, mostly, Arthur hoped that Lancelot was counting himself the victor their skirmish and that his disposition would therefore be a bit improved.
Clothing was heaped everywhere, as though it had rained down in some violent torrent from the sky. Amid the chaos, clothes that seemed to have met with Lancelot's approval were hanging neatly on a rack. Arthur had no eye for such things, but there were certainly no gaudy colors among them. Nor did he see a single tie.
"And now we just need to have the suits fitted," Ms. Delaney was saying; she sounded exhausted.
"What?" Some of the smugness faded.
"They need to fit properly." She handed Lancelot some clothes and gestured in the direction of a side room. "You can change in there. The tailor is on his way."
Lancelot muttered to himself, but took the clothes and went. He appeared to have decided to ignore Arthur completely. For now.
When Lancelot had disappeared into the room, Ms. Delaney turned to look at Arthur. "Well, he does have good taste." She sounded grudging.
Arthur's lips twitched but he restrained himself, and politely said, "He has always had an eye for beautiful things."
"We haven't considered shoes yet," she informed him after a moment of silence.
Arthur gave her an alarmed look.
"I was thinking that we would hold off on that today. Perhaps I'll have my assistant pick up a selection which he can try on the next time we have a meeting."
"That's a good idea," Arthur said, relieved.
Lancelot was eyeing the man who approached him with a measuring tape with wary disapproval. "What is he doing?" he demanded.
"He's going to fix the fitting," Ms. Delaney said, her patient facade completely worn through. "Just stand still."
Lancelot twitched as the man knelt and reached for the hem of the trousers. Arthur, who had had his own suits fitted, opened his mouth, but it was too late. As the tailor moved to measure the inseam, Lancelot balked.
The tailor found his hand seized and the surprise on his face turned to terror as Lancelot smiled a smile that showed off his sharp, white teeth. "Are you aiming to get your fingers broken?"
Arthur had pried Lancelot's hand off the unfortunate tailor and hustled off him into the dressing room.
"What are you doing? He put his hand—" Lancelot began, furious.
"He's doing his job. He's not trying to grope you," Arthur said in Latin, aware that the flimsy door he shut behind them would not do much to muffle their voices.
It might have been funny if Lancelot eyes did not hold that killing rage. Actually, on a moment's reflection, there was nothing funny about it at all. "He's just measuring the length of your leg. Think of him as being like your armorer. He just needs to make sure everything fits right."
"If that oaf of a blacksmith Titus had ever put his hands—"
Feeling like they were getting sidetracked, Arthur reached out and cupped Lancelot's cheek, trying to focus his attention. "He's just doing his job," he repeated. "I promise you." He ran his thumb over Lancelot's cheekbone, attempting to soothe. "If it was otherwise, do you think I would have allowed it?"
Lancelot's eyes shuttered. "He'd already have been begging for his mother if you hadn't interfered."
Lancelot stood still as a statue for the rest of the terrified tailor's efforts. The man seemed to content himself with approximating the inseam measurements, Arthur noted. Arthur found Lancelot's stillness rather disturbing, but was nevertheless grateful that the rest of their time in the store passed without incident.
So, while they left terror, confusion and some destruction (if you counted the mountains of scattered clothing that Lancelot had left for the staff to put away) in their wake, Arthur was just relieved that there had been no bloodshed. Or so he told himself as they left the store after Arthur had said polite farewells to a rather shell-shocked Ms. Delaney.
"I thought perhaps we could go somewhere and have a nice dinner," Arthur ventured to his silent companion. "You must be hungry—I'm starved anyway." He was rather hoping for some caustic response about whether Lancelot was now to be trusted to dine in public.
But Lancelot, still stony faced, merely nodded and followed Arthur down the street. After a few blocks, he said, "Don't think this means you're forgiven."
Arthur heaved a sigh of relief at that familiar tone. "No, of course. I don't think that at all."
Dinner was surprisingly pleasant, although Arthur had been a bit tense wondering what Lancelot would say and do. Lancelot, however, had not really acted up—in truth Arthur had been grateful for all the sarcastic comments and jibes, it was far better than sitting across from a Lancelot who spent the meal silently glaring at him. He knew that by experience.
The only bad moment had come while they were waiting to be seated at the restaurant and Lancelot, wrinkling his nose, had demanded, “What is that smell on you?”
Arthur had flushed, but pretended he had no idea what Lancelot was talking about. He was not entirely sure that Lancelot had believed him, but he was not about to admit that an officious little man with a spray bottle had gotten the best of him.
It was getting late by the time they reached the parking structure where they had left the car, and it was quiet and mostly empty. Arthur unlocked the car doors and was about to get in when Lancelot asked, "Is it suppose to look like that?"
Arthur straightened and went over. Lancelot was standing by the back of the car looking down at the . . . tire. The flat tire.
"I take it that's a no," Lancelot said as Arthur had finished uttering a few words that might not have been heard in Britain for a number of centuries.
"Yes, Lancelot," Arthur gritted out, "it is a no."
"So what now?" Lancelot leaned against the side of the car, looking vaguely bored. "It's broken. Do we buy a new car?"
Arthur gave an exasperated snort. "No. We just have to change the tire." Arthur had, of course, heard of doing that, but never seen it done nor had occasion to try it.
"Ah? And what would that entail?"
Without answering, Arthur went to the passenger door and opened it. He looked through the glove compartment. It had been meticulously clean only a few weeks ago, but now, somehow it had become filled with . . . stuff—a fashion magazine, four packets of salt, a deck of cards, Arthur's missing blue and yellow stripped tie, which Lancelot had taken a violent dislike to, a sticky plastic bottle half-filled with juice, a few random objects that looked like rocks, a crumpled racing form that smelled of beer, a plastic knife. And was that a bit of a leather harness? Yes it was. What the hell? Well, that was not important now. Arthur finally found the owner's manual and yanked it out of the debris. He closed his eyes for a moment when he found that some of the pages were sticking together by virtue of the manual's proximity to the juice bottle, but then sighed and began to look through it.
"How long is this going to take?" Lancelot asked, drumming his fingers against the car impatiently.
Arthur took a deep breath. "As long as it does. Here, why don't you take a look at the manual and see what the directions say while I check what equipment we have."
Lancelot waved a dismissive hand. "If your horse was sick, I could help you, but I don't know anything about this sort of thing. And how would I? You won't even let me drive."
Arthur gave Lancelot a long look, and Lancelot just looked back without blinking. Arthur let out another sigh. Trying to force a recalcitrant Lancelot to cooperate was just not worth the trouble. Especially after the day they had just had. He went around to the boot, taking the manual with him.
When he emerged a few minutes later with the spare tire, the jack and the tire iron, Lancelot had settled himself against a nearby pillar and was watching him with skeptical eyes. "Can't you just call someone to come and fix it for you? That's what they do on television. Of course, those are usually women."
"This isn't television," Arthur said evenly. "There are directions right here. It shouldn't be difficult." He knew how to change a wagon wheel. How much different could it be? And he would be damned if asked someone to help him with something he could perfectly well manage himself. Especially with Lancelot watching.
A half hour later, Arthur, after a few wrong starts, had removed the hubcap and jacked up the car. After about the first ten minutes or so, Lancelot had seemed to tire of making comments, and after one last "Are you sure you don't want to call someone?" was now whistling to himself. The tune was from a song that was probably the most vulgar drinking song Arthur had ever heard, and which therefore had been a great favorite among his knights. He hated that song. And now with Lancelot whistling it, he could not help but hear those disgusting lyrics again in his head.
Arthur bit his tongue to keep himself from telling Lancelot to shut up. Whistling, after all, no matter what the tune, was much better than Lancelot's blow-by-blow commentary on Arthur's efforts.
After consulting the manual once more, he picked up the tire iron and set it over the first of the lug nuts. He pushed. It did not budge. Frowning, he flexed his hands and this time he wrenched hard at the thing.
Nothing.
Lancelot stopped whistling and began to laugh. "I've been telling you that you need more exercise."
Arthur ignored him, and continued to try to get the stupid thing to turn. Ten infuriating and sweaty minutes later, he was blowing on his reddened hands (and for the first time in the year since he had been resurrected, he found himself truly missing his old calluses) and the cursed thing had not budged.
Lancelot stopped laughing long enough to ask sweetly, "Are you sure you're turning in the right direction?"
Arthur turned to glower at him, but then took a surreptitious peek at the manual. Counterclockwise. He began to swear again, but the anger gave him the strength to get the bolts off in fairly short order, even the one he had spent the last ten minutes tightening.
About an hour later, the car was back on the ground, the jack, tire iron and flat tire (it looked like it had been slashed by something sharp) were stowed in the boot, and Arthur's back and arm muscles were aching. Arthur kicked at Lancelot's outstretched leg. "Get up. Let's go."
Lancelot, who had seemed to take a nap there at the end, blinked at him, and then looked over at the car. He looked dubious. "Are you sure you've done it right? It's not going to fall off once you start driving is it?"
"Shut up and get in the car," Arthur said through clenched teeth. They would not get home before midnight as it was, so he did not really have time to be killing Lancelot now.
It was nearly one in the morning when Lancelot came down the stairs into the basement. He found Tristan, Gareth, Gawain and Bors sitting on the practice room floor, drinking beer and waiting for him.
"So, no trouble?" he asked, as he snagged one of the unclaimed bottles.
Tristan inclined his head, his eyes gleaming.
Gareth elaborated, "You gave us plenty of time. The truck got here just after dark and we got everything unloaded and hidden in the back room. We checked it over too, and everything seems to be in order. We won't be sure, of course, until we test them out."
"You managed to keep Arthur out really late," Bors said slyly. "How did you distract him?"
Lancelot smirked. "I had a little unexpected help." He looked over at Gawain who was laughing at Bors's remark. "Your boy slipped his leash."
Gawain looked surprised. "How did you—? Well, anyway, don't worry, Gaheris is already making his—both of their—lives miserable. Galahad swiped his credit card, so he's not feeling particularly forgiving. I think they're scrubbing the kitchen floor as we speak."
"So we'll be ready to start testing the guns tomorrow," Gareth said, wanting to get the discussion back on track.
"Good." Lancelot smiled. "I'm in the mood to kill something—even if it is just a paper target."
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2006-05-14 11:31 am (UTC)Great, great just great.
Livi
no subject
Date: 2006-05-14 06:03 pm (UTC)As for the guns, secrets generally do have a way of getting out, eventually. ; )
Thanks for reading!
The Shopping Expedition
Date: 2006-05-14 02:56 pm (UTC)More please!
Shelley
Re: The Shopping Expedition
Date: 2006-05-14 06:05 pm (UTC)Thanks for commenting!
no subject
Date: 2006-05-14 04:42 pm (UTC)Really, this chapter is awfully funny! The image of poor exasperated Arthur, tearing up his hands trying to change a tire while Lance just reclines and rags on him -- that had me LMAO.
And loved how you got the fragrance on Arthur. I think Lance still associates the scent of horse and leather with his man, so this is going to take a bit of getting used to.
So, Lance HAS a driver's license lying around somewhere. Hmm...
Oh, you got bookshop right, but then Lance comes back with sayingbookstore. But that's all.
Can't hardly wait for the next installment. Great job!
no subject
Date: 2006-05-14 06:13 pm (UTC)The fragrance was entirely your doing, but I figured that Arthur was a safter target then Lancelot. The story was not supposed to end in the cops being called, after all.
Thanks for your support with this. I have a feeling the next one is going to result in a lot of moaning and whining by yours truly before it reaches completion, so bear with me. ; )
Hope you're doing okay. Would love to catch up with you when you have a chance.
no subject
Date: 2006-05-14 09:32 pm (UTC)Fun to read yet again. Looking forward to the next.
no subject
Date: 2006-05-15 12:21 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-05-15 07:37 pm (UTC)Big hugs and lots of love,
Doro
no subject
Date: 2006-05-16 12:15 am (UTC)The Shopping expedition
Date: 2006-05-15 08:05 pm (UTC)I'm picturing Lancelot in designer duds - oooooieeeee! He does have the build for them with those long elegant legs. (fanning self)
Great chapter , want more soon!
Marti
Re: The Shopping expedition
Date: 2006-05-16 12:18 am (UTC)I'm glad you enjoyed it, and thanks for your comments!
no subject
Date: 2006-05-19 02:44 pm (UTC)Great chapter - I LOVE the way Lancelot pushes EVERYONE'S buttons!!!! He just has that way of charming you one minute and then making you look like crap the next. He always seems to work a situation to HIS advantage - that's what I love - I know he can't wait to get his hands on those guns!!!! I can just imagine poor Arthur having migraines over this!!!!
Can't wait for more
*Gerdie*
no subject
Date: 2006-05-20 12:41 am (UTC)Thanks for reading and your comments. :D
no subject
Date: 2006-05-23 01:31 am (UTC)I can't wait to read more!
I'm going to friend you if you don't mind. I always like to ask before I friend someone. :)
no subject
Date: 2006-05-23 01:45 am (UTC)I'm glad you're enjoying the series. And of course, feel free to friend me--I'm always always happy to meet fans of KA. : )
Thanks for commenting!
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Date: 2006-06-02 02:59 pm (UTC)Any word on updates for either "Resurrection" or the "Rites of Passage" series? I know it takes some time to get the "plot bunnies" going - but BOTH of these series are SO GREAT - I am greedy for a new chapter EVERYDAY (which is not possible but wished)
Keep up the great storyline - I always wonder just what Lancelot will get into next - THANK GOODNESS for Arthur that so far Lancelot is the ONLY one that is raising his own kind of hell - would be a lot worse if ALL the knights acted that way - especially after losing 1500 years - hahahaha
*Gerdie*
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Date: 2006-06-03 07:07 pm (UTC)I'm working on the next Resurrection story, but it's taking me a while, since I've become really busy at work. Hopefully, I'll get cracking on it soon. I'm afraid Rites has been a bit sidelined by Resurrection, but I will not be abandoning it. I've written bits of the next stories, and I'll get them done eventually.
And personally I suspect all the knights are out there raising hell somewhere off screen. Maybe we will see some of their efforts on screen eventually. : )
I'm glad you're enjoying the stories, and I certainly hope to have more time to work on them soon.
Thanks for your comments!