amari_z | King Arthur Fic: Rude Awakenings, Part 2 (Resurrection AU)

Continued from here.

Tor woke to the sound of someone pounding on the door. He tried to claw his way out from under the covers, but the sheets refused to release him and he ended up thumping to the floor. Rubbing his sore bottom, he managed to untangle himself and stand up. A glance at Lavaine's bed unsurprisingly revealed a lump undisturbed by the ruckus. Lavaine was probably going to be hung over for days. What had the idiot been doing anyway, drinking with Lancelot and that ungrateful donut stealer Bors?

Tor made it to the door and jerked it open. He was not particularly surprised to find Galahad standing there with his fist raised. Tor scrubbed a hand through his hair. "What's so important?" he demanded. "I was sleeping."

Galahad brushed by him and into the room. He was holding a plastic bag, which Tor recognized with a sinking feeling.

"You promised you'd help," Galahad reminded him. Tor wanted to bang his head into the wall. Or better yet, bang Galahad's head into the wall. How did he get himself into these things?

When they had snuck off to London the other day, one of the snotty shop clerks, after praising Galahad's blue eyes (making Galahad preen), had then said, with a sniff, "But it's a shame about your hair. All dull and mousy." Rather than punching the little prig (as Tor had been hoping), Galahad had instead gotten all kinds of information about things to do to your hair . . . up lighting, or something. Galahad had then dragged Tor off to the chemist's where Galahad had spent nearly an hour trying to figure out what box of product to buy. Tor had passed the time by riding the shopping carts around the aisles. The best part of that had been when Tor had accidentally knocked over a tall display of cans. The tumbling cans had made a huge crash, and he had managed to run away before anyone had seen that he was the culprit. In the excitement over his narrow escape, he had found himself agreeing when Galahad had demanded that he help with this dye stuff.

Galahad was fishing out two boxes from the bag. Tor sighed and followed him to the bathroom. He jumped up to sit on the counter while Galahad carefully read the directions.

"Hey, Tor, give me one of your shirts."

Tor was halfway out of the bathroom before he turned around and demanded, "Why?"

"It says to protect your clothing. The dye will ruin the color. Come on, give me one of your shirts."

Tor grumbled to himself, but went and dug out a pink t-shirt from the bottom of one of his drawers. "Here." He threw it at Galahad's face. It had been white when Tor had bought it. "You can have it." Galahad quickly changed his shirt and then pulled on a pair of plastic gloves that he peeled off the same paper that had the directions. He began to pour one of the bottles into the other. "You're dripping it," Tor warned.

"Shut up." The tip of Galahad's tongue was poking out of the corner of his mouth as he concentrated.

Tor leaned closer to watch, but then jerked back, eyes watering. "That smells disgusting!" He cautiously leaned closer again and took another whiff before pulling back. "Are you sure this stuff won't just eat through your skin?"

"It's perfectly safe," Galahad said. "The girl at the shop said so."

Tor rolled his eyes and picked up the directions. "You're supposed to do a test first."

"A test?" Galahad looked uneasy for the first time.

"Yeah, in case it, I dunno, makes your hair fall out or something," Tor blithely made up.

Galahad's plastic-covered hands flew up to grip at his hair. "Maybe we should test it first."

"Good idea." Tor seized at a lock of hair front and center on Galahad's head. "I say we use this bit." Galahad jerked away and gave him a shove.

"I'm not testing it on my own hair! I don't want a bald patch!"

"Well, you're not testing it on mine! My hair isn't close to the same color as yours, anyway."

Galahad's looked stymied for a moment, but then his eyes drifted toward the door and the bedroom beyond and the wisps of light brown hair poking up over the covers of Lavaine's bed. "I have an idea."

Tor was still protesting as they propped the unconscious Lavaine in a chair. "We're gong to get in trouble! And I'm the one who sleeps in the same room as him. He's going to kill me in my sleep!"

Galahad was not to be dissuaded. "Why would he? He'll wake up and his hair will look nice and he'll be happy. Besides, he owes us. We're the ones who had to carry him out to the car last night and then into the house, and up the bloody stairs. Stupid Gaheris. And I think Lavaine needs to cut back on the donuts. He's too heavy. They make you fat, you know." Tor, who liked donuts quite a bit more than Lavaine, sucked his stomach in. "Besides, he was so drunk last night, he won't remember anything. We can always say he asked us to do it."

Tor made a face, but did not bother to argue. Once Galahad was set on a scheme, there was no talking him out of it. And he was kind of curious to see what the disgusting stuff would do to human hair.

Once they had arranged Lavaine's limp body to Galahad's satisfaction, Galahad retrieved the bottle he had mixed from the bathroom. Galahad was soon busily applying the noxious dye to Lavaine's unsuspecting head. Galahad was trying to do something by sectioning off Lavaine's hair, but he had not combed it before starting, and so was having difficulties. Tor hoped that Lavaine was not too fond of the shirt he had worn last night, because Galahad was getting dye all over it.

As Tor watched Galahad’s efforts, he shook his head. "What was he thinking, anyway, trying to keep up with Bors and Lancelot?"

The tip of Galahad's tongue was sticking out again. "You know he always wanted to be just like Lancelot. Stupid git."

"Well, he almost succeeded. Lancelot got pretty drunk last night himself. He probably would have ended up passed out too, if Arthur hadn't called and made him go back to the house." Tor was quiet for minute, before he said, "It's kind of weird, you know."

"What?"

"Lancelot. I mean, I know he and Arthur were fucking before, but half the time it seemed like Lancelot hated Arthur. And now, well, it's like they're practically married."

Galahad snorted. "Hardly." He had done about half of Lavaine's hair by now. It was harder than the directions made it sound. "But it was only like that in the beginning, mostly. Lancelot was pretty crazy back when he started sleeping with Arthur. But it kind of changed between him and Arthur after we went to Eboracum for that month and had to leave Lancelot behind. You remember, right?"

"That was awful. Everyone expected him to have died from that wound by the time we got back." It had been the strangest thing not to have Lancelot there with them, terrorizing them and infuriating them by turns, and then to think that he would likely be in the ground before they got back, buried by Roman hands—

"I think something changed for Arthur after that," Galahad said.

Tor nodded slowly. "I remember. Arthur kept disappearing when we were in Eboracum. He didn't even seem to care when we would get into fights with the legionaries." There had been a lot of fights too, since the Romans stationed at Eboracum had not known to leave the young Sarmatian knights alone. And the knights had not been in the best moods anyway. Well, the Romans had learned. Eventually.

Galahad looked up at him. "I had forgotten that." His brows furrowed and then his eyes widened. For a moment, he actually looked upset.

"What?" Tor demanded. "It's not surprising that you forgot—it was a long time ago for you, after all." But for Tor it was only a year or so ago. He had died a few months later.

“No, that's not it." Galahad shook his head. He was scowling and there was a strange, hard glitter in his eyes. "I just realized— Never mind. Anyway, things got better between them after that. Maybe nearly dying made Lancelot realize that living wasn’t so bad after all.” He paused for a moment. “And maybe Arthur finally got his head half way out of his arse and realized that fucking Lancelot was not on par with killing babies."

For a moment, Tor was shocked by that acid appraisal. It was too easy to forget just how old Galahad really was and how long he had been one of Arthur's knights. It was simpler just to think of him as the friend Tor had always known, and Galahad certainly did not act his actual age. But occasionally, Galahad showed that there was more going on in his head than first appeared. At least sometimes. Tor glanced down at Galahad's current handiwork. Okay, maybe very rarely.

Galahad finally pronounced that he was done. He fetched the plastic cap from the bathroom and got if over Lavaine's matted hair. Tor was relieved that Lavaine had not so much as flickered an eyelash while Galahad had been slopping the dye onto his head, but he was worried about what would happen when they had to wash the stuff out. Surely Lavaine would wake up then?

Galahad glanced at the clock. "We have to wait thirty-five minutes." They left Lavaine sagging in the chair. Galahad sat on Tor's unmade bed, looking bored, while Tor washed and dressed in clean clothes. Galahad had changed back to his own shirt and was hanging upside down over the edge of Tor's bed when Tor got out of the bathroom. "How long has it been?" Galahad demanded.

"Um, three minutes," Tor said. His stomach chose that moment to give a loud rumble. Galahad leaped up. "Let's go eat something then. I'm bored waiting here."

Tor was hungry. He glanced uncertainly at Lavaine and then at the clock. Thirty-two minutes were forever nearly, so what could it hurt?

A lot, it turned out. But it was hardly Tor or Galahad's fault that they encountered Percival in the kitchen, and that Percival and Tor got into an argument that ended in punches being thrown, or that, when Kay came in and broke it up, he stood over them and made them clean up the shambles they had made of the kitchen. By the time they were free and remembered Lavaine, it was already far too late.

~

Lancelot was not pleased. After being dragged out by Arthur into the too sunny daylight (he had forgotten the sunglasses, and since when was Britain sunny anyway?) and being hauled out of the car ("Let's park the car and walk to the restaurant"—what kind of man expected a Sarmatian to walk anywhere?), Lancelot had now been deserted by Arthur as the man made earnest conversation with several someones on the other end of his stupid mobile phone. Stupid Roman. Stupid Britain. Stupid modern technology.

Arthur had given him an apologetic look (which had not moved Lancelot in the slightest) and thrust a few bills at him and, hand over the mouth piece, had said "I have to take this. Why don't you go sit down and get yourself something to drink? There's a café over there."

Arthur had gone off to sit in the car and have the telephone call. Lancelot could have followed him, and made trouble, but he was too annoyed. He eyed the flimsy paper in his hand, and then looked around. The establishment that Arthur had pointed out was at the other end of an open square and had several outdoor tables. No doubt Arthur expected Lancelot to wait for him there. Lancelot snorted. He looked down at what passed as money these days again. It was not that much. But it would serve Arthur right if he just left. He was fairly sure he could figure out how to get back to the house.

For a gleeful moment, he considered Arthur's reaction to that, but then sighed. After lunch, they were supposed to drive to London for that party that Arthur had been fretting about, and Lancelot had already promised days ago that he would behave. Unfortunately, disappearing on the day of the event was not exactly behaving, even by Lancelot's rather loose definition of the term, especially considering that, while Lancelot had no doubt he could eventually find his way to the house, he had little idea of how he would go about it or how long it would take.

Lancelot scowled and eyed the café again. A sudden thought occurred to him, and he brightened.

He went over to counter and gave the young women there his most charming smile. "Excuse me, miss. Which of your drinks has the most caffeine?

Five minutes later, Lancelot was sitting at a table with a triple espresso and a piece of paper with some numbers written on it that the woman had handed him along with the drink and a smile far closer to a leer than Lancelot was used to seeing on a woman's face. The paper did not interest him, although the drink did. He let the breeze carry the scrap away, and turned his attention to the coffee. It did not last long. Ten more minutes after that, Lancelot was once more annoyed and increasingly restless. Leaving the money Arthur had given him on the table, he began to pace around the square, muttering increasingly improbable speculation about Arthur's ancestry to himself.

When he caught the sight of something familiar out of the corner of his eye, he spun around, and snarled in Latin, "What the fuck took you—" He broke off, confused.

The sun was shinning into his eyes, half blinding him, but this was not Arthur. He could have sworn—

There was a resemblance. The young man was nearly as tall as Arthur, although not quite as broad. He had similar features, although this man's were a little finer, a little less rugged. His hair was darker and straighter than Arthur's and worn longer. But it was the sight of the eyes that made Lancelot's breath catch. They were Arthur's eyes—large and brilliant green. Lancelot had never seen that color on anyone else.

Lancelot forced himself to stop staring. Surely out of the six billion people now said to be stuffed into the world, some of them would have green eyes—even green eyes of that particular shade.

The young man was staring back at him, making no move to walk off, and so Lancelot forced himself to be speak. "I mistook you for someone else."

"I supposed." The man gave a crooked smile that made Lancelot blink. "You've been waiting for someone, I take it?"

"It's fairly obvious, isn't it?" Lancelot said rudely. He became aware that the man was studying him with vivid interest, and Lancelot found himself oddly uncomfortable. He made himself ignore the disconcerting resemblance and gaze coldly back. So what if the man looked like Arthur? He was not exactly pleased with Arthur at the moment.

The man did not seem to register the venom behind the look. "From your reaction, I was thinking that I should be grateful not to be whoever it is who has kept you waiting, but," the man met Lancelot's eyes boldly, "now I'm not too sure."

Lancelot blinked. Was this man actually flirting with him? Lancelot met the vivid green eyes and felt something twist inside of him. Off balance, he found himself staring again. Stop it, idiot. It's not Arthur.

Realizing that he had been silent too long, Lancelot opened his mouth to say something less than polite, but the man started speaking first. "I'm afraid I'm in a bit of hurry, although I wish I weren't. Please call me." A card was thrust into Lancelot's hand and then, with another too familiar smile, the man was striding off. Lancelot stared after him, shocked and bemused.

"Who were you talking to?"

Lancelot barely managed to keep from starting. He shoved the card into his pocket and spun around. This time, it really was Arthur. "No one." He disguised his confusion with a glare.

Arthur held his hands up in front of him. "Pax. I'm sorry for making you wait. It really was important."

Lancelot merely gave a curt nod, and Arthur looked both surprised and relieved. Evidently not wanting to question his luck, Arthur added hastily, "The restaurant is not far from here. Shall we go?"

Lancelot followed Arthur, although he cast one look back over his shoulder in the direction the man had disappeared. This modern drink must have addled his wits.

He fingered the card in his pocket. He should throw it away.

~

"That little pissant, I'm not listening to him whine later about why we left him behind." Gaheris grumbled.

Gawain turned his head away so Gaheris would not see his grin. Gaheris had been complaining nonstop about how they had been unable to find Galahad when they had decided to go into the city to do some errands. "Just as well," Gawain soothed, trying to keep the laughter out of his voice. "He'd want to visit all the clothes shops. And then he’d complain that the ones in London are better."

They had a couple of stops to make, the first of which was the chemist. Gaheris was fairly sure that someone had misunderstood the purpose of toothpaste and was eating the stuff—how else to explain why they were going through it so quickly? Gaheris was still speculating on who exactly that might be, when Gawain, who had exited the shop in front of Gaheris, stopped dead. Gaheris collided with his back. "What—?" he began, but Gawain suddenly took off running, heedless of the people he was shoving out of his way. Gaheris stared after him in astonishment for a moment before scooping up the bag Gawain had dropped and sprinting after him, dodging around crowds of shoppers a little less recklessly. He found Gawain at the corner of the next street, looking frantically around.

"What the bloody hell—?" Gaheris demanded as he stopped beside him. Gawain blindly seized his arm, his eyes still searching. His fingers bit deep into Gaheris's flesh. Gaheris went quiet as he caught a look at Gawain's face. He had not seen such a look in a very long time.

Gawain was cursing viciously. "He's gone."

"What—?"

Gawain's fingers dug deeper into Gaheris's arm. "It was him. We have to go back to the house. Now."

~

Arthur was relieved when they reached London. It had been halfway through lunch that the caffeine had fully kicked in and Arthur had realized the horrible tactical blunder he had made in directing Lancelot toward a coffee-serving establishment.

Lancelot had spent the entire car ride fidgeting and seeming physically incapable of either sitting still or being silent. During the car ride, he had treated Arthur to a cutting, rapid fire discourse on (1) the stupidity of the way the Britons (blindly following Roman precedent) had designed their modern roadway system, (2) how the spread of the Christian church, in all its various old and new fangled forms, had wrecked the world, (3) why football was inane (Arthur did not disagree, although his reasons were different from those of Lancelot, who seemed to be objecting mostly to the lack of violent physical contact, but he hoped that Lancelot would not be making free with this opinion in the house, because then violent physical contact was likely to be the result), (4) what was wrong with the British political system (just about everything from what Arthur could understand) and (5) why a culture without horses was automatically suspect (Arthur was not sure he followed this diatribe, but Lancelot was certainly vehement about it). There had also been innumerable tangents in between.

Arthur had been a bit disturbed by just how much information Lancelot had absorbed over the last few months, as well as just how rapidly Lancelot could actually talk. He had barely been able to get a word in, and when he did manage to voice an opinion, it was dismissed with a lightening quick thoroughness that Arthur could not begin to refute. He simply could not talk fast enough, and besides, by the time he got his thoughts in order, Lancelot was two topics away. It had not helped his concentration that Lancelot's tendency to illustrate his speech with his hands, had also undergone an . . . enhancement. Arthur only avoided getting hit in the head by emphatically gesticulating hands by ducking. A lot.

The relief that Arthur felt as they got out of the car—at least no more time in a confined space and the effect of the caffeine did seem to be diminishing—was short lived.

Ms. Delaney had set up a suite of rooms for them in the hotel where the party was taking place. While Arthur stood in a corner (not cowering, nor hiding) discussing some things with Robert Scott, the first order of business had been fitting Lancelot with dress shoes. The shoes presented to him alternatively pinched, were ugly, or were flimsy and useless. Arthur finally had to step in and tell Lancelot that he was neither going to be fighting or riding in these shoes, so just pick a pair that fit already. He got a vicious glare in response. Thankfully, Lancelot was distracted after that by something he overheard Ms. Delaney say, and turned his gaze away from Arthur to snarl, "And what exactly is wrong with my hair?"

After that, Lancelot was hustled off into the other room. Arthur was too frayed to follow, and feeling only a little guilty, left Ms. Delaney and her staff to their fate. It was their job, after all, he told himself.

~

Lancelot sat in the chair, his hair dripping wet, and eyed the strange little man holding the scissors with undisguised suspicion. The man did not seem to notice, busy as he was blathering on in a breathless voice about Lancelot's bone structure. Lancelot was not sure whether or not to be offended.

Although he understood the purpose of this, when the man started to touch Lancelot's hair, he found himself tensing. Galehaut and then Dagonet had always cut his hair for him, and he did not like the idea of a strange man touching him. To his surprise, Lillian Delaney thumped him on the shoulder. "Hold still and be quiet," she demanded. Apparently, she had reached the end of her patience and was done playing games. Lancelot preferred her this way—although he still detested her.

He forced himself to relax, and after a while actually found himself getting drowsy. The hands in his hair were rather soothing. He was surprised, then, when he opened his eyes and saw his hair. The fluttery little bastard had stolen his curls.

~

Despite listening for alarming sounds from the other room with half an ear, Arthur became absorbed in his discussion with Robert. It was with surprise that he realized how much time had passed when Ms. Delaney came in, shutting the door to the other room behind her. "He's nearly ready." She looked exasperated. "I'm going to dress. Mr. Castus, you should get ready as well. Your tuxedo is in the closet." She and Robert excused themselves.

Arthur got changed with his customary efficiency. When he was ready, he glanced at his watch. It was nearly time to go. He walked over to the door to the other room and went in, not bothering to knock. "We're getting late, Lancelot. Just put the damn shoes on—" he began.

But Lancelot was already wearing his shoes. In an odd repeat of this morning, he was standing by the window, this time looking out over the magnificent view of the park the hotel afforded. Arthur felt his jaw drop. Lancelot looked—

Very nearly like a stranger. An elegant, beautiful stranger. He could have stepped straight from a picture in one of those glossy magazines. Arthur stared, utterly disconcerted. Lancelot's curly hair had been smoothed, and it gave his face an entirely different cast. He wore his clothes as though he had been born to them. He looked— Arthur did not have any words.

"What are you staring at?" The voice, the tone, was reassuringly familiar. Although, when had Arthur stopped noticing just how rich the timbre of Lancelot's voice was? "If you say a word about the hair, I might have to punch you," Lancelot continued. "That little man promised it would go back to normal after it got wet. But then again, since I had him by the throat at the time, he might have been lying," Lancelot mused, but Arthur was not really listening.

Swallowing, Arthur moved closer, and feeling a little like he was daring too much, touched Lancelot's cheek, his fingers wandering over a prominent cheekbone.

Lancelot stared back at him, eyebrows raised quizzically. "I think that stupid woman also sprayed me with something. I smell like you did after we went shopping."

Arthur leaned closer. Oh dear God, he did not smell anything like Arthur had. Arthur wondered what would happen if they missed this party altogether, but then took hold of himself. A lot of people had worked hard on this. He would not shirk his responsibilities.

He stepped back and cleared his throat. "We should go." The sooner they got this night finished, the sooner he could take Lancelot home. He automatically glanced down at his watch.

"You found it, I see."

Arthur headed toward the door to the hallway. "Yes, last night. In your pocket. What were you doing with it, anyway?"

Lancelot waved a hand. "You left it behind," he said, as though that was supposed to explain everything. "You know, I'd never really looked at it very carefully before." He took Arthur's arm, forcing Arthur to pause by the door, and lifted Arthur's wrist so he could study the watch. "It's really quite expensive, isn't? Rather ostentatious." His lips quirked. "Galahad must be green with envy. But it's not what I'd expect you to choose, Arthur." Dark eyes met Arthur's and Arthur swallowed, and this time it had nothing to do with intoxication of Lancelot's presence. When Arthur said nothing, Lancelot asked, "Did someone pick it for you?"

"Yes. I'm hardly an expert on such things," Arthur said brusquely. He jerked open the door. "Come, we're running late."

Since his back was turned, Arthur did not see how Lancelot's eyes narrowed nor how his lips compressed into a flat line.

~

Dagonet, Bors, Kay, Gareth, Gaheris and Gawain had gathered in the room that usually hosted the knights' poker games with the door shut and locked behind them.

"Are you sure?" Gareth asked.

The knights all stood around the table at the center of the room, except Gawain who was jerkily pacing around its periphery. Gawain stopped and glared. "Do you think I'd actually mistake him?"

"Still, from what you say yourself, you only caught a glimpse of someone who looked like him a crowd. It could have been a coincidence. You could have been mistaken," Kay said

Gawain stalked to the center of the room and, facing Kay across the table, slammed his hands down on the wood. Not a few of the knights started at the resulting bang and then stared at Gawain in surprise. It was utterly out of character for the normally even-tempered knight. "I'd recognize him anywhere," he growled. "You," his gaze stabbed Kay and then Gareth, "don't know."

"If Gawain says it was him, then it was," Bors said. He pulled out a chair and sat down.

The other knights—they who had not lived to see Arthur's kingdom—exchanged glances, but then one by one they took their seats. All except Gawain who resumed his agitated pacing.

"Okay," Gareth said at last. "Say it is him—how in the Ancestor's names did he get here?"

"There's no way to know," Kay said slowly. "But we're here, aren't we?"

"That was Merlin's magic," Bors said.

"And how did Merlin get here?" Kay asked. "Who brought him back?"

"I asked him once," Gawain said. "He didn't give me a straight answer, although he seemed to be implying that he had never died." He glanced at Bors. "You outlived me by a good many years. Did he—?"

Bors shook his head. "He disappeared, afterward. Everyone assumed he was dead—he was an old bugger. But there was never a body."

"So if we came back, and Merlin's here, it's not impossible that there are others," Kay said.

Gawain halted his pacing and came forward. His hands clenched around the back of Gaheris's chair. "Are you thinking that Merlin brought him back?"

Kay met Gawain's eyes squarely. "You tell me. I never knew Merlin. Would he do such a thing?"

"Why would he?" Dagonet demanded. He looked at Bors. "You said he was loyal to Arthur."

Bors shrugged. "He was. Without him, I doubt Arthur could have united the tribes—or at least not so quickly. Arthur came to trust him."

"But you two?" Gareth glanced between Bors and Gawain.

The two knights exchanged a look. Bors shrugged again. "He made my skin creep."

"Regardless of how this man came to be here now," Gaheris said after a moment, "we have to warn the others about him."

"We have to tell Arthur," Dagonet said.

"Do you think Arthur doesn't already know?" Kay asked.

Their heads jerked around to stare at him. Unperturbed, he stared back.

"Why the bloody hell," Bors demanded, his bellow overriding the other voices that had been raised in protest, "if Arthur knew, wouldn't he tell us?”

Kay raised his eyebrows and coolly. "Why did Arthur have us keep silent about his existence in the first place? I never understood Arthur's reasons." Around the table, eyes widened. "Why, I wondered, did it matter? It was in the past. It would mean nothing to any of us now. Unless, it wasn't just in the past at all."

They all were silent for a long while. "We have to tell Arthur—ask him first," Dagonet said at last. "If he knew and didn't tell us, he must have had a reason."

"So, we need to talk to Arthur," Gareth said. He paused. "But first, no offense Gawain, we need to make sure of what you saw."

Gawain opened his mouth to snarl a protest, but Gareth raised a pacifying hand. "Look, I know you're sure it was him, but this world is a big place. Can you be absolutely sure that it's not someone who just looks a lot like him?"

Gawain's mouth tightened, but after a moment, he shook his head.

Gareth looked around the table. "Are we agreed, then?" One by one, with varying degrees of reluctance, they nodded.

“Now what?” Gaheris asked. “How do we go about finding him?”

“We’ll have to figure out a way,” Gareth said.

“He’s already found us,” Gawain said grimly. “It can’t be a coincidence, him showing up so near the house.”

“We have to make sure we know where everyone is at all times. And no one is to go out unarmed,” Kay said.

"Like any of our lot would go out unarmed.” Bors grinned, but the grin quickly faded. “We could sure fucking use Tristan and Dinaden," he muttered.

"Dinaden would tell Tristan. And Tristan would tell Lancelot," Gareth said heavily.

"And would that be so bad?" Gaheris muttered

"We promised Arthur." Dagonet said.

"And if Arthur has been hiding things from us?" Gaheris asked. No one had anything to say to that.

Dagonet's brow furrowed as he noticed for the first time. "Where is Galahad?"

Gaheris snorted. "Off making mischief no doubt. We couldn't find him. We'll have to fill him in once he turns up."

For the second time that day, Gawain's finger's dug into Gaheris, this time into the flesh of his shoulder. "Not a word of this to Galahad."

Gaheris twisted his head back to stare up at Gawain. "What? Why not? There are only three of you who really know—"

"Don't you think there are secrets enough, without—" Gareth said at the same time.

Gaheris was sure that Gawain's fingernails were tearing into his flesh. "Not a bloody word to Galahad!" His voice rose and then lowered. "Do you have any idea what he'll do if he thinks that man is here, alive?"

"The pup will go tearing after him, screaming for blood." Bors said. "There'll be no restraining him."

It took the others, except Gaheris whose mouth had already tightened in bleak realization, a moment to understand.

"Alright," Gareth said. "We won't tell Galahad. For now."

After some further discussion, they left the room in grim silence. As they passed the hall, they encountered Lavaine unsteadily lurching down the staircase.

"Hadrian’s balls, boy, what—?" Bors began.

"Look at my hair!" The normally quiet Lavaine was shrieking as he clung unsteadily to the banister, pale and sweating.

"What hair?" Gaheris muttered to Gawain.

Gareth rushed up the stairs to support the unfortunate knight before he fell. "Oh, fuck," Lavaine moaned. "I'm never drinking again."

Bors thoughtfully rubbed a hand over his own bald head.

Lavaine clutched at Gareth's shirt. "I think I'm going to be sick." And then he was.

~

Tor and Galahad were huddled together in the shadows under the terrace's overhang. They had not moved from the spot since they had washed the dye out of Lavaine's hair and realized they were washing out clumps of hair along with it.

Tor clutched at his head. "Lavaine's going to kill us." He glared at Galahad and hissed, "This is all your fault! You and your stupid up lights!"

"Highlights! And how is it my fault? You're the one who got into a fight with Percival!" Galahad whispered back. Their sallies were only half hearted. They had already had this argument a dozen times as they waited for doom to fall. "Maybe no one will realize it was us," Galahad said hopefully.

Tor gave Galahad a disgusted look.

~

The glittering room was filled with some of Britain's foremost (and wealthiest) citizens, decked out to impress. Ms. Delaney had been opposed to having Lancelot's introduction to the public be this charity event. She had argued that it was best to start out somewhere smaller and less important—somewhere less filled with wealthy and influential potential supporters. Given Arthur's policies, the wealthy were less inclined to support him as it was, so she had reason on her side. Yet Arthur had been adamant.

Arthur moved to stand by Ms. Delaney and paused in his own socializing to watch Lancelot. Lancelot, even in this room of well-groomed, beautiful people, stood out like a fine sword in a pile of mass-produced kitchen knives.

Rather than staying at his side as Arthur had expected, Lancelot had wandered off from the start, chatting with people as though he were utterly at ease in these foreign surroundings. He seemed to charm everyone he spoke to. Arthur, who thought he knew everything about Lancelot, had been taken by surprise. He had always known that Lancelot could be utterly charming when he chose, but he had never seen it exhibited on such a scale before. And why would he have, he berated himself. Lancelot had never been interested in charming any Roman, whatever the potential benefit. His interest had always been in provoking Romans, no matter what the consequences.

Right now, Lancelot was standing in the midst of a circle of admirers of both sexes, looking relaxed and completely interested in what was being said to him. Arthur nearly rolled his eyes. His initial worry over whether Lancelot was going to be able to handle this, mixed with the more serious concern over whether Lancelot was going to behave himself, had given away to an odd irritation as he watched Lancelot.

He glanced over at Ms. Delaney. She too was looking in Lancelot's direction, a mixture of relief, annoyance and disbelief on her face.

"I told you he would be fine," he murmured to her.

"This is more than fine." She forgot herself enough to let some acid into her tone. Her elegantly shaped brows furrowed. "Was he toying with me the whole time?"

Arthur tried to hide a chuckle as a cough. "No, no. He was really just as irritated with you as he acted—more. But with Lancelot it's usually not about what he can do, but what he wants to. Tonight he has decided to be charming." A little too charming.

Her eyes suddenly widened in alarm. "Do you see who he's talking to? That's Lady Alais. Dear God, if he offends her—"

Arthur hid his own sudden start of alarm. Lady Alais had only recently begun to deign to speak even to him. "It'll be fine," he murmured, half to reassure her, half to reassure himself. "He promised—"

Before she could reply, they both realized Lancelot was making his way over to them, the distinguished looking older woman on his arm.

They stopped before Arthur and Ms. Delaney. "Lady Alais, this is Lillian Delaney, the young woman I was speaking to you about." Ms. Delaney gave Lancelot a wary look, which was quickly smoothed over as Lady Alais turned a steely eye on her, sweeping her from head to toe. "And of course, you know Arthur."

Arthur greeted her respectfully. Lady Alais Osgood, Duchess of Peckham and Baroness of Cumnock, was married to one wealthiest men in Britain, and like many women of her background, she had devoted herself to various charitable causes. She was on the board of several large charity organizations, and fellow board members reportedly lived in terror of her disapproval. Among certain circles, she was not so jokingly known as “Lady Malaise,” although no one quite dared call her that in anything louder than a whisper and with frequent looks over the shoulder, whether the lady was present anywhere in the vicinity or not.

"Now, Lil," Lancelot began, his voice full of an affectionate familiarity that had Arthur eying him warily and Ms. Delaney looking at him in confusion. "You're not married, are you?"

"What? Well—" she sputtered, but Lancelot interrupted her.

"Lady Alais was telling me the trouble she's having with her eldest son, Dufraine, that fine gentleman over there." He gestured elegantly in the direction of an overweight, balding man who looked like he had been shoveled into his tuxedo and who was currently deeply absorbed in a study of the buffet table. "The young man won't settle down; he claims he can't find the right woman. Lady Alais has wisely decided it's past time to take control of the situation and find him a wife." Lancelot smiled that beautifully sweet smile that meant that anyone with a brain should immediately start running and not stop until they fell from exhaustion—and that then should crawl until their heart gave out. "And I immediately thought of you."

Lady Alais was still studying Ms. Delaney with a clinically assessing look. "You seem acceptable, although your paint is a trifle vulgar."

"I beg your par—" Ms. Delaney began, but the lady had not finished speaking.

"But that's easy enough to remedy. You will come and tell us about yourself," she commanded. Her expression changed as she glanced over at Lancelot. She patted his arm affectionately. "You will excuse us, won't you, dear boy?"

"Of course," Lancelot flashed her another smile. Lady Alais sailed off with a stunned Ms. Delaney in tow. Before she disappeared into the crowd, Ms. Delaney cast a positively murderous look back at Lancelot.

"She's not going to forgive you for that one," Arthur said.

"Good." Lancelot's eyes glittered manically under the polite veneer. Perversely, rather than being alarmed at that look, Arthur found himself feeling a little reassured. "Then one useful thing was accomplished in this circus of overdressed fools. I've had more intelligent conversations while dead drunk on the tavern floor."

~

"I usually don't attend these things," Professor D'Aubigny was telling Lancelot, "but Emrys said it would be a good way to show the D'Aubigny's support of Arthur, since my niece couldn't attend."

"Your niece?" Lancelot asked absently; he had spotted Merlin some time ago, but had lost sight of him in the crowd.

"Yes of course, you know my niece—" D'Aubigny interrupted himself. "Oh, no, I suppose you haven't met her. Lovely girl. A delicate slip of thing, really, but a will of iron." The man chuckled. "Runs circles around all the men. Has since she was a little girl." He leaned closer to Lancelot, his voice dropping conspiratorially, and giving Lancelot a heavy whiff of the wine he had been drinking. "Don't tell my nephews, but I'm quite convinced that she's the one to run the D'Aubigny Group's businesses. Smart as a whip."

"You have no children of your own?" Lancelot asked, not interested in the answer. He could not see any sign of that bastard old man.

"Oh no. But Gigi is the daughter of my favorite cousin, Lula. I'm very fond of her—I mean Gigi, although, I don't mean I'm not found of her mother, because I am. Extremely fond. I'm fond of them both. It really is a shame Gigi couldn't be here tonight." He leaned closer again, to Lancelot's annoyance. "She and Arthur are quite taken with each other," he confided.

Lancelot's attention finally fixed on the professor. "Your niece—"

"Ah, there you are," a hoarse sounding voice interrupted. "I've been looking all over for you." Lancelot turned to find Merlin giving him a genial smile. Whoreson bastard. "And Leighton, my dear friend, how are you?"

"I'm very well Emrys. How are—"

"Leighton, Dean Wentworth has been trying to find you all night," Merlin interrupted smoothly. "Where have you been hiding yourself?"

"Hiding? I've been right here, the whole time. Oh dear. I had better go see what the old boy wants." Looking flustered, the man offered his excuses to Lancelot and hurried off. Which left Lancelot alone with Merlin.

The genial look on the old man's face did not fade. "You clean up well, my boy. I barely recognized you."

"Funny," Lancelot said, not bothering to sound polite, since no one else was listening. "I was about to say the same to you."

Merlin's smile broadened. Lancelot looked coldly back. "When Arthur told me that he planned to bring you here tonight, I must confess I had my doubts. But you're doing quite well. Who would have thought that behind the fierce Sarmatian warrior was such a, well—such an ability to ingratiate yourself? No wonder you survived so many years under the Romans."

Now, Lancelot did smile back. "I did promise Arthur I would behave," he said silkily. "But I have broken my word to Arthur before."

Merlin raised his eyebrows, unperturbed. "Have you? How interesting."

Whatever Lancelot might have said or done was interrupted as D'Aubigny came wandering back, complaining that he had been unable to find Dean Wentworth. Lancelot bit his tongue to keep from snapping at the man—he had hardly been gone long enough to have covered the large room, but seemed to have merely meandered a few steps away and given up.

"Well, no doubt you'll find each other later," Merlin said. "I was just telling Lancelot that I've recently become interested in Sarmatian culture."

"Oh, I had no idea," D'Aubigny enthused. "How fascinating." Lancelot was less ecstatic at the news and watched Merlin narrowly. He was aching to get his hands around that scrawny neck.

"Yes, although I'm finding it slow going. Perhaps you can help me, Lancelot. So little information is available. Even the language largely remains a mystery. Take your name, for example. The translation I discerned for it is rather odd. 'Servant' or 'attendant.' But surely that's a mistranslation. I can hardly imagine some proud tribesman naming his son such a thing. Unless, perhaps, your parents all along intended to hand you over to the Romans." Merlin raised his brows in mild inquiry.

Lancelot scowled. "It is a family name," he bit out. "And why is it any of your business? I thought your field was Fifth Century Britain—something that you at least have reason to know about."

Merlin chuckled as though Lancelot had made a joke, and, after a moment, D'Aubigny let out an uncertain laugh as well.

"Why because of you, dear boy. Because of you. You quite interest me, you realize."

Lancelot did not miss the menace behind the pleasant tone.

~

Rather than abating, Arthur found his irritation growing throughout the night as he tried to keep a surreptitious eye on Lancelot. It was difficult, since Arthur had to give proper attention to his own conversations. But even if he had not been watching, he would have still gotten a fair idea of Lancelot's activities. For no few people, many of whom had never done much more than acknowledge his presence before, came up to Arthur to alternately tell him what a fine young man he had on his staff or to try, with feeble subtlety, to fish for information about Lancelot. Arthur had no worries that anyone's suspicions were aroused, however. Not given the types of questions that were being asked.

Arthur should have been relieved that the cover story had held up, and he kept telling himself that, but to no avail. He had been so concerned that Lancelot's hot temper, sharp tongue, and uncompromising stubbornness would make it difficult for him to pass in this modern world. He should be happy to be proven wrong. Lancelot was amply demonstrating that he could make do—more than make do—very well on his own in this time.

By the end of the night, despite his efforts, Arthur had completely lost track of Lancelot, and his mood had reached a particularly foul pitch. Not even Ms. Delaney and Robert's jubilant assessment that the night had gone spectacularly well alleviated any of his irritation. He finally located Lancelot talking to a young man with too gold skin and too white teeth. After a moment, Arthur recognized him as one of the sons of the Alerdice family. Arthur wanted to scowl at the man, but the Alerdice were among Arthur's supporters, and it would be impolite besides. Still, Arthur was glad to see that the man was taking his leave. But then he was less than pleased as he heard exactly what young Alerdice was saying.

"So, I'll give you a call then. You'll be impressed, I promise you. We lot are the best." With a final too bright grin and a wave, the man strode off.

"What," Arthur demanded as he came up beside Lancelot, "was that about?"

"Polo."

"What?"

"Polo. It's a game involving horses and—"

"I know what polo is," Arthur growled.

Lancelot shrugged. "Then why did you ask?"

Arthur clenched his teeth then let out a breath. "What about polo?"

"He's invited me to play." Lancelot smirked. "There's some kind of club."

Arthur closed his eyes. Dear God. The knights had used to play a game similar to polo—he could not remember what they called it. When Arthur had first taken command he had been surprised at the number of training injuries his knights sustained. It was only when he caught a glimpse of his off-duty knights at play that he had understood. The knights had used long sticks as mallets and whatever small hard object came to hand as a ball (Lancelot had claimed that they had once used the imperial eagle from a legion standard that they had "borrowed," but Arthur had been too horrified to want to give any credence to the story), but, unlike in modern polo, the knights had seemed just as happy hitting each other with the sticks as hitting the ball. He had watched, appalled, as Agravaine had knocked Tor out of the saddle with a vicious whack to the midsection, and, at nearly the same moment, Lucan had hit the ball straight at Bruenor's head. Arthur had bellowed for an immediate halt. The knights had not seemed to understand his objections, but he had insisted. No hitting one another with the sticks. No deliberately aiming the ball at another player. No knocking each other out of the saddle by any means. The knights had stopped playing shortly after that, claiming that it was boring now. There were a few times, however, when Arthur had been called away from the fort on duties that he had returned to find that a few too many of his skilled knights had somehow managed to "fall" off their horses during "training." He had been skeptical but had never pursued it. At the time, he'd had so many battles going on with Lancelot that he'd had to pick his stands carefully.

But Lancelot playing polo? It made him shudder. "Lancelot you can't—" Arthur began. Lancelot merely raised his eyebrows in innocent inquiry. Another thought occurred to Arthur. "He's going to call you?" Arthur demanded. He belatedly regretted making Lancelot memorize the house's telephone number. He had thought it was a necessary safety precaution at the time. "Who else," he demanded suspiciously, "have you given out our number to?"

Lancelot shrugged. "No one really." Before Arthur could relax, he carelessly added, "Except Lady Alais, she insisted on taking me to see what passes as horse racing these days. Oh, and those ridiculous sisters, 'Emo' and 'Juju' Gryffoyn," he made a face at the names, "they were bragging that they have the best breeding stock in Britain, offered to show their family stables to me, and —"

Arthur growled and, seizing Lancelot's elbow, hustled him toward the exit.

~

"So, spill it," Lancelot said.

"What?" They had been driving in silence for about fifteen minutes on their way back to the house.

"Your jaw is clenched. You're gripping that steering wheel as though you're trying to break it in half. And you're speeding. You also haven't said one word since we left that ridiculous party." Lancelot's voice, rather than being light and mocking, had a hard edge to it.

Arthur automatically slowed down, but he retorted, "Ridiculous party? You seemed to be having a good time."

"Oh, yes, marvelous." Lancelot's voice was thick with sarcasm. "The only way it could have been better is if there had been the type of ‘dancing’ that Lillian woman keeps threatening me with."

"It didn't look that way to me," Arthur said, although part of him knew he should be keeping his mouth shut.

Lancelot's temper seemed to ignite like fire over dry, summer grass. "What the fuck is your problem? I behaved, didn't I?" He spit out the word as though it were a curse.

"Oh, you behaved alright," Arthur said heedlessly. "A little too well."

There was a long pause. "What exactly does that mean?" Lancelot's voice had gone smooth and dangerous.

"You know what I mean."

"You're fucking unbelievable. You're the one who wanted me to go to this ridiculous fancy dress party. You've been telling me for days to mind my manners, on which I've been so diligently instructed, and now you have the fucking gall to complain that I did what you wanted?"

"What I wanted—!" Arthur took a deep breath, trying to control his own raging temper. "Just never mind."

"Or was it that I was supposed to trail after you like a good little servant, eyes down and mouth shut? I thought you wanted to win these people over. That's all I've been hearing about from your idiot advisors. 'These are important, powerful people, Lance.' He mimicked Ms. Delaney's voice perfectly, even down to the condescending way she said his name. 'Arthur's success depends on their support'."

"Just drop it, Lancelot!"

"No, I want to know exactly what your problem is. Do I take it next time I'm free to kick the shit out anyone who says something stupid to me? Because that would be a lot of—"

"I said to drop it!" Arthur barked.

They did not say another word to each other for the rest of the drive back.

Arthur's anger had cooled by the time they were home. Lancelot had disappeared into the bathroom, slamming the door behind him. Arthur sat on the edge of the bed and rubbed at his eyes. He was not really sure why he had gotten that furious or how things had gone bad so quickly.

When Lancelot emerged from the bathroom, he had changed out of his tux, which was no doubt discarded in a pile on the bathroom floor. He must have stuck his head under the sink as well, for his hair was once more a mass of unruly, if wet, curls.

Arthur stood. "Look, Lancelot, I—" he broke off, not knowing what to say.

Lancelot crossed his arms and waited. When Arthur did not say anything more, his mouth took on a bitter twist.

Arthur stepped toward him, reaching out to cup his face.

Lancelot jerked away before Arthur could touch him, shaking his head. "When you feel like telling me what the hell is going on, I'll listen. But until then, fuck off." This time, the windows rattled when he slammed the door behind him.

~

Tor wandered the halls, bored. When hunger had finally driven them from their hiding place, they had found that Lavaine was back in bed after having thrown up all over Gareth. (Tor was rather disappointed at having missed that.) Although he and Galahad had received a few suspicious glances, it seemed as though, as yet, anyway, no one was fingering them as the culprits behind Lavaine's hair—or lack thereof. Tor knew better than to think they would escape unscathed, but he would take any reprieve he could get.

But right now he had nothing to do, and he did not quite dare go up to the room he shared with Lavaine. Galahad had disappeared upstairs with Gawain and Gaheris and was likely doing things that Tor did even not want to think about. Even Percival, that bastard, was gone somewhere, so there was no fight Tor could start.

Tor was therefore pleased to find a few of the knights watching a very familiar movie in one of the sitting rooms. He hesitated for a moment as he realized it was Mador, Lovel, Galleron and Meliot, but giving himself a mental shake, he walked in and threw himself onto one of the sofas. To his pleasure, the other knights greeted him casually, and he had to grin when Mador offered him the bowl of popcorn. Before he had gotten into that fight with Agravaine, he had spent a lot of evenings with this lot watching silly movies. He was happy to realize that they did not seem to bear him any grudge, despite all the time they spent with the surly Agravaine. Relaxing, he sank into the cushions, stuffed a handful of popcorn into his mouth, and listened as the knights resumed the familiar round of catcalling and mockery that never seemed to grow tiresome, no matter how many times they watched this particular movie.

The movie was reaching its climax when Lancelot walked in. The mocking comments fell silent and Tor found himself tensing again. If Lancelot noticed anything, he gave no sign. He sat beside Tor, slouching down and propping his bare feet up on the coffee table.

Tor was aware that Mador and the others were casting Lancelot surreptitious, wary glances, and he glanced over at the other knight himself. Lancelot had gone somewhere with Arthur tonight, but he must have changed, because he was wearing a baggy jumper and sweatpants. His eyes were fixed on the screen with evident interest, but after a few minutes, he demanded, "What are those things supposed to be?"

It was Mador who answered, although he sounded a little embarrassed. "They're, um, zombies. Dead people back from the dead, they're, er, reanimated corpses."

Emboldened, as always, once Mador led the way, Lovel added, "They have to eat living people's brains to survive. They're attacking the townspeople." There was perhaps a little too much relish in his tone.

Lancelot was quiet for a moment, but then he begun to snicker. "So it could always be worse, huh?" That surprised laughter out of the rest of them. Galleron actually fell off the couch as he clutched at his stomach.

Two sequels later, the credits were rolling, and Tor glanced around. It was only a few hours until dawn, and the other knights had all fallen asleep somewhere in the middle of the last zombie attack. It had been a surprisingly enjoyable night. The other knights had relaxed around Lancelot, who had started his own wickedly amusing commentary on the movies. Everyone had joined in. It had been fun. The rest of them had watched these movies at least a dozen times, and they knew each other's jokes too well, but Lancelot had had them rolling on the floor.

Tor was happy. He had not liked the way that Agravaine talked about Lancelot, and he was glad that the knights had been reminded that Lancelot was still simply Lancelot, prickly, wicked-tongued, unpredictable, no one who you ever wanted to cross, but so very familiar.

Tor sighed and forced himself to stand. Experience told him that he did not want to sleep here, only to be awakened in a few hours when Kay or Gareth or some other responsible type came in and told them to get up and stop being sluggards (and clean up the popcorn scattered all over the floor—what had they been doing, throwing the stuff?). He supposed he would dare to go sleep in his own room now. He was too sleepy to be scared.

He had thought the others sound asleep, but as he turned to leave, he saw that Lancelot was watching him through lowered lids.

"If you're awake, you should get up. This is not the best place to sleep," Tor murmured to him.

But Lancelot only shook his head slightly and otherwise did not move. Tor shrugged and headed toward his own bed. He had provided fair warning. Maybe the man did not want to risk waking up Arthur—but then again, that did not seem like Lancelot. On second thought, though, Tor was a little surprised that Arthur had not come looking for Lancelot last night. But he was too tired to wonder about that now.

~

Arthur cut down the man before him and spun just in time to catch the blade descending toward his throat. The gleam of metal was all the warning he got and his body moved on ingrained instinct as he twisted to avoid the blow of the second blade, aimed for his gut.

The twin swords spun and flashed, and Arthur dodged and blocked the rapid blows, hard pressed. Most men could not withstand such a disconcerting, double attack, but Arthur was long familiar with this style. He made use of Excalibur's greater reach, his own greater height and strength, and managed to push the other fighter back.

It was only then that Arthur forced himself to meet the gaze of his opponent. Despite himself, he flinched at the sight of the familiar eyes, burning at him with hate; despite expecting it, shock knifed through him. He froze for an instant too long.

He barely managed to block the blow from the left blade. The right blade caught him in the throat. If he could have, he might have laughed, he might have screamed. This was how it was going to end, then. He did not flinch as the left blade flashed and struck.

Arthur woke gasping for air. Aching, he automatically reached for Lancelot, but his groping hands found only empty, cold space where warmth should have been.

~~~

End Note: While I have maintained the fantasy that the knights' names are somehow Sarmatian, I did not completely make up the translation of Lancelot's name that Merlin brings up. If you want to read a rambling account of my pseudo research on the subject, you can find it here. A little procrastination is a dangerous thing.

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From:

anitabuchan.livejournal.com

Wah! No!

The first thing I thought hearing about the man who flirted with Lancelot was that he was Arthur's son - Mordred or something? I don't know, I don't really know the legends. But now I'm not sure. And I'm not sure if he's the same man as the one Gareth saw, and he could also be the secret they're hiding...I'm probably completely wrong, but I'm having so much fun thinking up explanations :).

But I'm very curious about the bit of paper Lancelot's got.

Also about how this is going to affect Arthur and Lancelot, and also Lancelot's relationship with the other knights. Because, out of all of them, who can he trust? Tristan?

Anyway. I loved this, and as always am waiting desperately for the next part.

From:

The Opposite of a Hallmark Card

King Arthur Fic: Rude Awakenings, Part 2 (Resurrection AU)

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