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amari_zTitle: Rude Awakenings
Warnings: Slash
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, The Shopping Expedition, Dangerous Games, and this one.
Notes: Huge thanks to two incredible ladies. To![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
sasha_b for typo slaying beyond the call of duty and for putting up with my neurotic exam-administering tendencies. And to darklyscarlett for her thoughtful and helpful comments (and for being my consultant on all things British). We also have her to thank for once more coming up with some truly awesome names. As always, all feedback will be loved.
The battlefield was made of smoke and fire, the hellish sounds of the dying and wounded, the stink of blood and human butchery. The ravens were already feasting.
He felt half blind as he searched through chaos, looking for familiar forms. He spotted the horse first. And then Guinevere, kneeling on the ground, beside—
He was running before he realized it, but in his heart he already knew what he would find. Somewhere, above the sounds of battle, he could hear someone wailing, but he could make no sense of it.
As he dropped to his knees beside the still form, he did not need to check for a pulse to know that Lancelot was dead. For Arthur had never before seen his face so peaceful.
Arthur had thought to offer a sacrifice. He should have known it could never be that simple.
Arthur threw his head back and screamed up to the sky.
Arthur woke, his arms tightening convulsively around the warm body they held. Although he felt like he might choke, he forced himself to take a few deep breaths and to remember where—when—he was, still he levered himself up on an elbow. Just to make sure.
Lancelot did not stir, probably more passed out than asleep. Arthur stared at him in the dim moonlight and willed himself to calm. But his mind flashed back to the dream image—the memory—of the small, private smile on Lancelot's face, and he felt his body tense all over again. He blinked hard against the image and studied Lancelot's expression. Lancelot was not smiling, instead, his lips were tight and there was a slight furrow between his brows. The beginning of a headache, no doubt.
Arthur let his hand stroke over Lancelot's brow, hoping to provide some ease, both for himself and the sleeper. Lancelot did not respond, and, after a few moments, Arthur found his fingers straying down the beardless check and then over to soft lips. He could feel Lancelot's breath against his fingers.
What he really wanted was for the other man to wake, so he could lose himself in warm, living flesh, but Lancelot was dead (he flinched at the phrase) to the world. When Arthur lay down again, one of his arms circled around Lancelot's chest so he could feel the slow, rhythmic rise and fall of his breath. His left hand came to rest on Lancelot's abdomen, splayed there over the taut muscles.
He pressed his face into the juncture of Lancelot's neck and shoulder, rubbing his cheek into the smooth flesh. But as Arthur finally began to drift back toward sleep, the fingers of his right hand came to rest atop the scar over Lancelot's heart.
~
The house was quiet and still when Gareth wandered into the kitchen in search of breakfast.
Kay was alone in the kitchen. He gave Gareth an inquiring look as he filled the teapot, and Gareth nodded and took a seat.
Gareth propped his elbow on the table and leaned his head on his hand. He had woken up early when his lady had rung him before beginning her workday. After a nice chat, he had been too awake to go back to sleep, but apparently not quite awake enough to sit up straight. "No one else up yet?" he asked, yawning.
Kay shook his head. "I've heard some noises now and again, but I've not seen anyone." He fussed about with some bread, shaking his head as he found that someone had left several empty plastic wrappers in the bread bin. Gaheris's tour as kitchen supervisor had ended, and Percival was now in charge. While Percival could be relied upon to keep the shelves stocked, his ideas of a tidy kitchen were less than exacting.
"You didn't have any trouble getting the lads home last night, did you?" Gareth asked as Kay put a plate of toast down on the counter.
"Nothing that was not easily handled." Kay's eyes glinted for a moment, but his tone was mild. "They'll all live—even if they may wish otherwise when they first wake up." Kay paused. "Dag had to carry Dinaden home."
"Dinaden?" Gareth's brows rose in surprise.
Kay nodded.
Gareth scrubbed at his eyes. "What actually is going on with those two?"
Kay did not need to ask whom Gareth was referring to. "Who knows? I tried to speak to Tristan about it a little while ago, and he wouldn't say a word, just gave me one of those looks. And in case I had any doubt—well, let's just say, he made his displeasure at my interference known."
Gareth nearly smiled, but managed not to. The interactions between Tristan and Kay tended to be interesting. "How?"
Kay began to pour out the tea. He managed the task without spilling a drop, but he used a dishtowel to wipe down the countertop nonetheless. "Boots."
It took Gareth a minute to figure that out. "I thought that was Galahad."
Kay only looked back at him.
"Right. Well, no one bears a grudge like Tristan—"
"Except Agravaine," Kay corrected. "Or Lancelot, for that matter."
Gareth could not really disagree with that. "Anyway, even so, you'd think Tristan would be grateful for a second chance."
"I used to think Tristan's issue was that Dinaden died when they were at odds, but clearly that's not the problem. What does Lancelot say?"
"No idea."
Kay handed Gareth a mug and then sat down with his own. After drinking in silence for a while, he asked, "What was that about with Lancelot last night anyway?"
Gareth shrugged as he stirred two heaping spoons of sugar into his mug. He knew the question Kay was really asking. "I don't know. He didn't even get into an argument with Arthur when we got home. I can't remember the last time he drank quite that much."
"I can," Kay said.
Gareth bit his lip. "This was different. Lancelot never lets his guard down like that—"
Kay shook his head. "You're not thinking back far enough."
It took Gareth a moment to understand. "You mean—? That was nothing like this. Besides, that was a long time ago."
It was Kay's turn to shrug. "Everything is a long time ago to us now."
Gareth blew out an exasperated breath. "You know what I mean."
Any response Kay might have made was cut off as they heard the thuds of approaching footsteps. "Like a bear wearing shoes," Kay muttered just before Galahad burst into the kitchen. Galahad, still dressed in the rumpled clothes he had slept in, hair standing on end, mumbled a greeting and headed straight for the cupboards. Gareth watched, bemused, as in short order Galahad gathered a carton of chocolate milk, a carton of juice, a glass, a bowl, a banana, a spoon, and a box of one of those horrid cereals that he insisted on eating. Spreading his prizes out before him on the counter, he gave a blissful smile, and dumped a large quantity of cereal into the bowl (while managing to spill a fair amount of it on the counter) and then splashed milk liberally in the same general direction. Gareth glanced at Kay and restrained a smile at the way Kay was eyeing Galahad's breakfast preparation efforts.
Oblivious, Galahad began to spoon cereal into his mouth, crunching down with evident relish. Gareth restrained a shudder as he noticed that the pink and purple of the cereal was leeching into the chocolate milk and creating quite an unappetizing color.
Galahad finally looked up in order to snag a piece of the toast. He saw the two other knights watching him, and demanded, through a mouthful of cereal, "What?"
~
When Arthur woke again morning light was streaming through the windows. He automatically pressed against the body he held, and he felt a jolt of fire move up through his belly as his morning arousal made itself known. He mouthed the back of Lancelot's neck and let his hips shift, seeking out the warmth between Lancelot's thighs. He breathed out a slow sigh as, still half asleep, he ground himself against Lancelot.
Lancelot shifted, making a querulous sound. The pleasure of the lean muscles flexing against him was fleeting; a sharp elbow suddenly thrust backward into Arthur's stomach. Arthur let out a surprised oof, and Lancelot rolled away.
"M'sleepin' ge'off." Lancelot mumbled into the pillow. Arthur, jolted out of the pleasant, sleepy haze, stared, wide-eyed and breathless for a moment. But as soon as he could breathe again, Arthur found himself snickering, which only became actual laughter after Lancelot buried his face deeper into the pillow, growling, "Kill you. Shut fuckin'up."
Arthur managed to choke back the laughter and got out of bed after pressing a kiss to tousled curls, a gesture of affection which earned him a wild if violent backward flail of Lancelot's fist. He had a lot to do today—they had a lot to do today—but perhaps it would be wise to let Lancelot sleep awhile longer. Today of all days Arthur did not want to have to go out in public with a black eye. Besides, given where Arthur was going this morning, it was probably better for both of them if Lancelot did not wake up. Lancelot had never been able to keep his snide comments to himself when Arthur went to church.
~
Kay and Gareth were studiously ignoring Galahad and his fourth bowl of vomit-colored cereal, when Lovel and Mador came chattering into the kitchen.
"No," Mador was saying, "he knew all along what the bad guy was up to—that was the whole reason—"
"Good morning," Gareth interrupted. "We missed you at the tavern last night."
"Yeah, well, we were watching movies," Mador said.
"There were lots of explosions," Lovel supplied, and enthusiastically threw his hands into the air to demonstrate.
"And a lot of pretty girls," Mador added with a grin.
Gareth chuckled. "Well, as long as you had fun."
The two knights began to ransack the kitchen in search of breakfast. Galahad eyed them suspiciously and pulled his cereal box closer.
As with many of the knights who had died early in their service, Gareth had a hard time not thinking of them as children (they were children, really), and he worried about these two and some of the others. It sometimes seemed as if they were isolating themselves too much from the rest of the knights. But in the face of their boyish enthusiasm, he wondered if he was making something out of nothing.
Mador and Lovel collected their spoils, which mainly consisted of brightly colored bags that made crackling noises and a whole carton of milk (there had been a moment when they had looked interested in the chocolate milk in Galahad's possession, but they evidently decided against making a move for it). "We're going to go watch the telly. Come on, Lovel," Mador said.
As they headed out, Gareth heard them mumble a surprisingly subdued greeting, and wondered what had changed their mood so suddenly. He recognized the responding voice immediately and felt his uneasiness return.
Arthur entered the kitchen, but glanced back over his shoulder, a frown on his face, before greeting Kay, Galahad and Gareth. He gave Galahad's gravity-defying hair a second look, but did not comment.
"There's toast," Kay said, gesturing toward the plate on the table. He poured Arthur some tea without being asked. Arthur nodded in thanks, and sat down with them.
"Lancelot still asleep?" Gareth asked.
"Mostly," Arthur said, his lips twitching in a half smile. He reached for some toast.
Gareth chuckled. "Perhaps that's for the best. He's not going to be sweet tempered when he wakes up."
"He already tried to blacken my eye this morning," Arthur said placidly, and Galahad choked on his cereal. Gareth helpfully pounded him on the back.
"At least nothing will need stitches this time," Kay said wryly, ignoring Galahad's sputtering. "It's always a treat to try to patch up Lancelot and Agravaine when they're hung over."
Arthur looked surprised and then thoughtful. "I had forgotten. So have they outgrown that finally?"
Gareth snorted. "Agravaine wasn't there. He stayed home. He's the one who always picks the fights."
"Of course, Lancelot is usually quite enthusiastic about finishing them," Kay added dryly.
"Why?" Arthur asked. "I know Agravaine and Lancelot have always rubbed each other the wrong way, but with Agravaine it's always been something more."
Surprise kept Gareth silent for a moment, but Kay answered. "Agravaine's always felt competitive toward Lancelot. Lancelot's the only one of us who actually outranks him."
Arthur frowned and he appeared ready to argue.
"Sarmatian, not cavalry, Arthur," Gareth said. Did the man really not know? How could he not? "Lancelot's clan is higher ranked than Agravaine's, which makes Agravaine pissy." Seeing no hint of comprehension in Arthur's eyes, Gareth continued, "Most of the rest us are just plain warrior caste—except lore master Kay here. It rankles for Agravaine." Gareth paused again. Not quite able to keep the disapproval out of his voice, he added, "I thought you knew." It made no difference (expect to Agravaine), but why did Arthur not know? What was it that Arthur and Lancelot spent so many hours over the years talking about then?
"No." Arthur's frown had deepened. Galahad was looking between Gareth and Arthur, forgetting for a moment the cereal growing soggy in his bowl. "I've never heard of this before."
Gareth sighed. How to explain this simply? "Well, Sarmatian clans have castes. The castes originally had a functionary purpose, but they had long ago lost their meanings, although some of the old trapping remained. Agravaine is from a high-ranked clan, but Lancelot's clan is higher ranked."
"The first few months, Agravaine did not even realize which clan Lancelot was from," Kay said. "Lancelot never said anything. I'm afraid I'm the one that let it slip—I recognized Lancelot's name."
"And boy, did that put the little brat into a snit.” Gareth chucked. “All the while Agravaine had been looking down his nose at everyone."
"These castes—what do they mean?"
"Nothing, really, anymore," Kay said. "Or I should say, nothing back then, either. These things had their origins in the ways of the Ancestors." Gareth discreetly nudged at Kay's foot. Kay gave him an irritated look, but cut off the tangent he had been about to launch into and continued. "The old ranking system no longer had any practical meaning by our time. And although Lancelot's clan had still been powerful even just a few generations before, they were barely subsisting when we left Sarmatia." Kay's voice took on that familiar, lecturing tone, and Gareth sighed to himself. Well, at least he had diverted Kay from getting into an explanation of Sarmatian origins and Sarmatian gods. Gareth could picture the patient look on Arthur's face that would have resulted in—one that would not quite hide the faint air of disapproval. Maybe it was not so surprising that Lancelot had never spoken of these things to Arthur. But, then again, provoking Arthur was nothing that Lancelot had ever seemed interested in avoiding.
Kay was still talking. "Lancelot’s clan was nearly wiped out during the uprising against Rome. Only women and children were left, and the clan never recovered from it. But in the elder times, Lancelot's clan's caste was where the shaman and the war leaders came from."
Arthur choked on his tea. "Lancelot's family were priests?" He looked like he might burst out laughing.
Kay was not smiling. "Not exactly. And, as I said, that was long before our time, anyway."
Galahad, looking indignant, opened his mouth to say something, but Gareth jumped in and quickly changed the subject. "Arthur, are you going out?" He kicked Galahad hard in the shin. Galahad glared at Gareth, but clamped his mouth shut.
To Gareth's relief, Arthur was distracted. He glanced at his watch. "Yes. For a little while. I'll be back around noon. If Lancelot wakes up before then, remind him that I'll be back and he needs to try on his clothes for tonight."
"More clothes?" Kay said, belatedly playing along, "I'm sure he'll be thrilled."
Arthur made a face and stood, checking to make sure he had his wallet and keys. Gareth had sudden realization. "Er, Arthur, maybe you should take a different car today."
Arthur did not appear to understand.
"I haven't seen Bors this morning," Gareth said pointedly. Arthur's eyes widened, and he rushed out toward the garage to check on the state of his car.
~
Lancelot's eyes opened when he heard the door click softly shut behind Arthur. He rolled onto his back and bit back a groan as it felt like his head kept rolling after his body had stilled. If he were lucky—and he never was—the damn thing would roll right off and leave him in peace.
He stared up at the ceiling. Its blinding, pristine whiteness mocked him. He snarled at it, but that only made his head pound, and the ceiling was not cowed. Poxy demons take Arthur, anyway. It was his fault Lancelot had drunk so much last night because—
Anger got him out of bed despite the pain in his head, and although his stomach gave an unfortunate lurch, he ignored it. He had fought whole battles more hung over than this. And there was medicine in the bathroom. This modern age was good for something at least.
After washing down the pills with a great deal of water, Lancelot stumbled back toward the bed. On the way, he caught sight of his clothes heaped on a chair. He had not undressed himself last night. Cursing his stupidity, he snatched up his jeans and began to dig through the pockets. He found the crumpled piece of paper in the left pocket. Lancelot's fingers clenched around the paper. Arthur had not found it.
Lancelot climbed back into bed and pulled the sheets over his bare flesh. Beneath the covers, he smoothed out the paper and stared at it. The passing of a night and the consuming of copious amounts of alcohol had not changed its meaning. Looking at the dates on the page, Lancelot tried to force his brain to work. But his thoughts were a jumble, stymied; a soft voice murmured, This cannot be, but a louder, sneering voice reminded him, You knew all along that this was coming, fool, for how else did you think this would end?
~
Dinaden woke with a belated awareness that someone was watching him. His hand grasped the knife under his pillow. A second later, he released his grip as he recognizing the presence in his room. He opened his eyes to see Tristan standing at the foot of his bed. Tristan's brilliant eyes were watching him from beneath the sweep of his hair—far tidier than it had once been, but still hanging in his face. Dinaden froze, unable to look away.
"I—" Dinaden began hoarsely, wincing at the way his own voice stabbed into his head. How long had Tristan been standing there, anyway?
"You have twenty minutes to get ready. Or we leave without you." The door slammed shut behind Tristan before Dinaden could manage a response. The noise made him clutch at his head. He groaned as he realized what Tristan was talking about. Sniper training. They had fucking sniper training today.
Dinaden briefly considered the merits of blowing his own head off with the gun in the nightstand, but then quickly disregarded the idea. Too loud. The knife would be better.
It was another minute before he managed to crawl out of bed. He had to get ready. He had little doubt that Tristan's threat was made in earnest. And as much as he would rather curl up on the bed with the covers pulled over his head, he was not about to let Tristan and Agravaine out alone together (much less with firearms). Lucan and Palomides would be no help; those two maniacs would doubtlessly be delighted to egg on any violence. Stifling another moan, Dinaden went in search of clean clothes, a bath and some paracetamol. Lots of paracetamol.
Eighteen minutes later, he was dressed and nearly ready to go. With one minute to spare, he gave up on searching for his sunglasses. He could have sworn he had left them sitting on the dresser near the door, but they were no where in sight. Resigning himself to being tortured by the unforgiving sunlight, Dinaden headed to the garage.
~
Galehaut found Lancelot huddled in the corner of his horse's stall, a jug of what was most likely cheap wine at his knees. Galehaut sat down beside him and Lancelot did not protest when he lifted the jug away.
Galehaut repressed a sigh at how light it was. He took a drink and grimaced at the taste. Cheap indeed. No doubt the taste was not exactly the point. He cast a careful sidelong glance at Lancelot, and as it always did lately, his gaze lingered. Lancelot had shot up a few inches over this last season, his fifteenth summer, but none them could afford to be awkward with their bodies. For all the coltishness of the long, thin limbs, there was a grace to Lancelot that drew the eye. But right now, Lancelot was sitting with his legs drawn up and his face buried against his knees. Galehaut knew far better than to think that he was crying.
Words of sympathy would invoke nothing but rage. "It's not your fault," might have offered some bare comfort to someone like Gawain or Bruenor, but Lancelot would likely spit on you for such words. Lavaine was dead. There was nothing to be said.
Except— Galehaut tentatively touched the wild curls, and, when Lancelot did not shy away, began to stroke Lancelot’s hair. He loved touching Lancelot's hair. After a moment, he let his fingers slide over the soft skin at the back of Lancelot's neck, before he stilled them. He exerted a gentle pressure and said, voice little more than a whisper, "Come here."
Lancelot raised his head and looked at him with dry, glittering eyes. Then his arms unclenched from around his knees and he seemed almost to topple into Galehaut's embrace. Galehaut held him tightly, feeling the thin body vibrate in his arms. His lips found Lancelot's and then Lancelot was clutching at him, frantically, ferociously, as though if he let go, he might fly apart into a thousand deadly, jagged edges. When Galehaut pushed him down into the soft hay, he did not resist, but jerked Galehaut to fall on top of him.
They did not bother to undress, only yanking down Lancelot's breeches and unfastening Galehaut's. Galehaut tried to slow it down, to gentle it, but Lancelot was clawing at him in a frenzy of pain and grief, his own body was screaming at him, and thrusting inside Lancelot was the purest bliss Galehaut had ever known. He bit hard into Lancelot's shoulder, marking him, and tasted blood as he came.
Galehaut opened his eyes and grimaced at the sticky mess that covered his hand. He got up and looked for a towel to clean himself off. Why, even in his dreams, did he only remember desperation and pain? Because that's all there was, a voice whispered to him, and he told it to shut up. Yes, they had had hard lives, but it was not always like that. There had been good times too, hadn't there?
He remembered that warm feeling on the mornings when he would wake up early and find Lancelot unexpectedly tangled with him. Like a cat, the younger boy went where he pleased, and it filled Galehaut with something burning and sweet on those nights when Lancelot had found his way into Galehaut's bunk, not for sex, but for company. And then, of course, Agravaine would wake up and say something snide, and Lancelot would say something worse back, and the day would start as usual. Galehaut found himself smiling at the memory.
The sound of someone knocking at the door had him yanking on some clothes. He jerked open the door to find Meliagaunt. "Agravaine wants to talk to you," the other knight told him.
Galehaut rolled his eyes. It was on the tip of his tongue to say that Agravaine could have bloody well come himself, but he sighed and said only, "Where is he?"
~
Although Gareth, Galahad and Kay were gone, other bleary-looking knights were gathered in the kitchen when Arthur returned. The sole industrious figure among them was Bruenor, who was busily cooking something on the stove while lecturing. "And eggs are full of protein, and protein is a good way to get over a hangover. I was watching Nigella Lawson the other day and she said—"
"Shut up and hand over the food," Uwain muttered, the menace of his voice somewhat offset by he fact that he was holding his head in his hands. Galleron, who seemed to have refrained from drinking much the night before, sniggered.
"Hey, Arthur," Ector called, "you want some eggs?" A few of the other knights hissed at him to keep his voice down.
Arthur had never been able to bring himself to eat Bruenor's cooking. Not since that one night. "Er, no thank you. I think Lancelot and I will stop somewhere on our way to London. Have any of you seen him?"
Receiving no positive responses, Arthur headed up to his bedroom. He uneasily wondered if he was going to have to try to roust a hung over Lancelot out of bed.
Lancelot, thankfully, was awake and standing by the window. Lancelot's hair was still wet from his bath and he was wearing dark green silk pajama pants that Arthur recognized as his own. They were too big for Lancelot, and hung dangerously low on his narrow hips. Arthur's gut tightened as he took in the tall, slim form, his eyes lingering over the leanly muscled back. The jut of a prominent hipbone just above the waist of the pajamas was in profile at the angle Lancelot was standing, and Arthur wanted to run his fingers over it.
Lancelot did not turn around as Arthur shut the door behind him. He opened his mouth to speak, but Lancelot beat him to it.
"You're back earlier than I expected."
Arthur hesitated. It had seemed like a good idea when he drove back here, so he plowed on. "Have you eaten? I thought we might have lunch out before driving to London."
"If you like." The tone was flat. Arthur had thought that Lancelot would be pleased at the prospect, since he was always complaining about being locked up in the house. Arthur told himself that it was just Lancelot being hung over and moody.
He moved closer so he could see out the window. "What are you looking at?"
A faint shrug had Arthur's eyes riveted to flow of muscles in Lancelot's back. "Nothing. I was just wondering—"
"What?"
"What did you do with my swords?"
It was like a dash of cold water. Arthur was too startled to answer immediately, and Lancelot kept speaking. "You said you burned my body. I hope you did not leave my blades to rot in that cemetery. It would rather have defeated the purpose." Lancelot's voice had gone sharp.
"No," Arthur said slowly, a chill going through him. Why was Lancelot asking this now?
"What did you do with them?" Lancelot repeated.
"I kept them." He had in fact left them in the cemetery at first, but had retrieved them after only a few days, unable to bear it. The blades had hung in his workroom. Not behind his desk—the draco banner had hung there to impress visitors—but across from it, so Arthur could look up and see them. Arthur cleared his throat. "After some years, however, there was—a young warrior who was training to fight with two blades." He hesitated. He was not sure how Lancelot would react, and he did not want to have to answer more questions. He did not like talking about this; the very thought made him feel sick. "I gave them to him."
"Was he any good?"
Arthur opened his mouth and then shut it. It was not a response he had been expecting, although it was a completely Lancelot reaction.
"He was alright," he said at last. He had been better than alright. But not as good as Lancelot. No one ever had been.
"Good. That's better than leaving them to rust in the ground." No it had not been, but Arthur did not voice that thought.
Arthur wanted to stop talking about this. "Did you try on your clothes?" he asked abruptly.
Lancelot finally turned around. He was pale and there were telltale shadows beneath his eyes and a faint line between his brows that meant he had a headache, but he seemed not too much the worse for wear considering just how drunk he had been last night.
"You threw up, didn't you?" Arthur asked, trying to lighten the mood.
"I don't throw up," Lancelot said with dignity.
Arthur snorted. "Tell that to my boots."
"One time! You never will forget that will you? That was a dozen years ag—that was when I was fifteen."
Arthur gave a smug smile. He had logic on his side. "But you did throw up." Arthur, newly appointed commander of the Sarmatians, had run into one of his new—and most troublesome—knights wandering the Wall, drunk off his arse. Half appalled at finding someone so young in such a state, and half worried the boy would stagger right off the Wall and break his neck, Arthur had insisted on marching the boy back to the barracks. Lancelot had not been in the least appreciative.
Lancelot rolled his eyes, but then he was the one smirking. "I did that on purpose, you know."
Arthur was skeptical. On matters such as these, Lancelot and truth were barely nodding acquaintances. "You threw up on purpose?"
"Yes. On your boots. If you recall, at the time, I didn't particularly like you." Lancelot seemed to falter then, and then he was the one seizing on the topic of clothes to abruptly change the subject. "Why do I need yet more clothes?"
Arthur was not sure what to make of the sudden shift, but he answered anyway. "These are for tonight."
"I thought I already had clothes—wasn't that the purpose of our last lovely little jaunt to London?"
"These are for very formal occasions. Think of them like a uniform." Lancelot was just being deliberately difficult now, but Arthur was glad of it. It was exasperating and maddening and as familiar and warm as the sun rising in the morning. "Did you try them on?" he repeated.
"Yes, Arthur." Lancelot's voice was mocking in its obedience. He strode over to the bathroom. Arthur admired the play of muscles beneath the clinging silk and rather wished that the loose waist would slip a bit more. He was reminded rather insistently about what he had missed this morning.
Lancelot returned with the tuxedo, which he dumped on the bed. "It all fit, but what is this for?" He held up the bow tie, dangling it between two fingers as though it were something distasteful.
Arthur sighed. "It's a tie."
Lancelot eyed the bit of silk with a look that might have been more suitable for the bloated corpse of a dead rat. "It doesn't look like a tie."
"It's a different sort. That should please you—there's nothing long and hanging for anyone to grab onto."
"It's a ribbon."
"A tie."
Lancelot wrapped the tie around his hands and pulled, testing its strength. "It could still be used to throttle you."
Arthur let out an exasperated breath. Was he going to have buy the man clip-ons? But before he could answer, there was a knock on the door. "What?" Lancelot demanded.
Tristan came in, and tossed Lancelot a pair of dark glasses. "You might want these." His lips were faintly curled in a way that meant he was smirking, but his expression was blank again when he nodded at Arthur.
One hand untangling from the tie, Lancelot caught the glasses easily. He was not distracted, however, from the matter in his other hand. He shook the tie out and demanded of his new audience, "Could you use this to strangle someone?"
Tristan did not look at all surprised by the question. Nor did he hesitate. "Yes."
Lancelot gave Arthur a look through his lashes, eye glittering with triumph. "See?"
Arthur snorted. As though that was any kind of test. As though there was anything out there that Tristan could not use to kill someone. But that look from Lancelot's eyes sent a fresh wave of heat through Arthur, and he was not sure if he wanted to shake the man or tackle him to the floor.
He expected Tristan to leave as abruptly as he had entered, but to his surprise (he ignored the small trickle of impatient annoyance), Tristan lingered for a moment. His unreadable gaze rested on Arthur again before he looked back at Lancelot. Arthur was acutely aware that Lancelot was barely dressed—and those pajama pants were really hanging indecently low—but then he quickly dismissed the thought. He was not jealous of Tristan.
Lancelot quirked an eyebrow at Tristan, as though asking a question, and then, after a moment, nodded. Tristan disappeared out the door without another word.
It was on the tip of Arthur's tongue to ask what that was about, but he had more urgent matters to attend to.
Pulling off his jacket and tie and tossing them onto the bed, he stalked over to Lancelot. He took the bowtie from Lancelot and dropped it on the floor before seizing Lancelot's silk clad hips and jerked them forward. Lancelot was regarding him out of dark, hooded eyes and his gaze burned right through Arthur. In the next instant, Arthur had slammed Lancelot back against the wall and was grinding against him, growling into Lancelot's mouth. The feel of silk sliding against flesh was maddening. He dropped to his knees and began to mouth Lancelot's groin through the cloth.
Lancelot made a wild, breathy sound and then his long fingers were clawing at Arthur's shoulders. Arthur pinned his hips down and continued to suck at him roughly through the silk, uncaring of finesse or technique. Lancelot was moaning and the fabric was soaked through when Arthur finally lifted his head and jerked the cloth down before sitting back on his heels and yanking Lancelot down onto his lap. Lancelot managed to land with his thighs straddling Arthur's, and his hands were immediately busy with Arthur's belt. He was cursing in Sarmatian as Arthur seized his mouth in a devouring kiss.
Lancelot's clever fingers had Arthur free in seconds. Lancelot's head went back, exposing the long line of his throat to Arthur's teeth as Arthur jerked Lancelot's hips down. A cry escaped Arthur at the unbearable fire of it, and then, snarling, he lunged forward and had Lancelot flat on his back so he could thrust as hard and as fast as he wanted, one hand roughly groping for Lancelot's arousal.
The brutal pace he set could not last long for either of them. Collapsing, still shuddering, Arthur lay cradled between Lancelot's thighs, his head on Lancelot's chest, so he could feel the rapid beat of his heart. He breathed in the scent of Lancelot's skin. Lancelot used to always smell of metal and leather, but now, there was only his scent—pure and unadulterated, except by Arthur's own musk.
He did not want to move. It was only when Lancelot's heartbeat had slowed to the quiet rhythm that Arthur felt he would recognize anywhere, that Arthur finally shifted. Lancelot's eyes were closed, but Arthur saw the slight flinch cross Lancelot's face as he pulled out, and felt that familiar sense of hot triumph, quickly followed by the even more familiar guilt. "Alright?" he asked softly, he propped himself up on an elbow and ran his thumb over Lancelot's slightly parted lips. His gaze flickered downward, checking. He was relieved to see no traces of scarlet. Not that Lancelot would care—he never had. In the early days, he had seemed to be as eager for pain as pleasure.
Lancelot's eyes fluttered open and met Arthur's for a long, still moment. Arthur expected a smile, a smirk, a smart-mouthed comment, but he only got silence. Lancelot seemed to be searching his eyes for something. Arthur's palm stroked over his cheek. "Lancelot?"
Lancelot did not answer. His fingers slid down from Arthur's shoulder to linger over the skin of Arthur's neck. Arthur realized after a moment that he was tracing the bite mark he had left yesterday morning. Arthur was about to say they were even now—he had left a mark of his own at the base of Lancelot's throat—but when he looked into Lancelot's eyes, he was silenced by a glimpse of something dark and bitter in them. But he was not sure. The look seemed to disappear as soon as Lancelot raised his eyes to Arthur's.
Then Lancelot pushed Arthur away, not roughly, but with purpose, and rose fluidly to his feet. If he hurt, he did not show it. Arthur sat up, staring at him.
"I'm hungry," was all Lancelot said. "I'll clean up and then we'll go." Arthur watched him disappear into the bathroom, his eyes fixing on the hint of dampness glistening on Lancelot's thighs. Ignoring for now that his own trousers were unfastened and that his shirt was half torn off and stained, Arthur fell back, wincing as his shoulders hit the floor. Lancelot needed to cut his nails.
He stared up at the ceiling as he heard the water run. It was nothing. Lancelot was just hung over. Lancelot had never in his life kept his mouth shut when he was unhappy about something, or so Arthur told himself.
~
Agravaine was in the back room of the basement, crouched over some rifle cases. Not bothering with anything as civil as a greeting, Agravaine looked up at Galehaut's arrival and demanded, "I need you to do something."
Galehaut nodded to Galleron who was perched on one of the crates stacked around the room. Galleron gave him an uneasy looking smile in return. Galehaut leaned back against the wall and waited.
"Things are beginning to move into place." Agravaine began to close up the cases. The rifles Agravaine was packing away were different from the ones they had been practicing with the other day.
"What things?" Galehaut demanded.
Agravaine shook his head. "Tonight, Arthur is taking Lancelot with him to some fancy party in London. They'll be leaving shortly. I want you to follow them."
"To London?"
"No. They'll stop somewhere to eat first." Galleron nodded. "When they stop, I want you to call this number." Agravaine pulled a card out of his pocket and handed it to Galehaut. "Tell the person who answers where they are."
Galehaut stared hard at Agravaine. "Whose number is it?" What was Agravaine up to? Could he really have involved an outsider in their affairs?
Agravaine glared at him. "Just do as I say. You want Lancelot back don't you?"
"Whose number is it, Agravaine?" Galehaut demanded again.
"What does it matter? I'm telling you that this is what needs to be done, and I don't have time to explain right now."
Agravaine had always been like this. Galehaut narrowed his eyes. "Alright, keep your secrets. But I'm warning you, if you do anything, anything at all, to hurt Lancelot—" He broke off as he heard the sound of approaching footsteps.
Agravaine scowled and, lowering his voice, hissed, "Why would I? He's one of us. It's Castus who we're going to bring down." Agravaine's lips twisted slightly. "Surely you have no objection to that."
Galehaut did not, although he had no chance to respond as Palomides and Lucan walked in. Casting Galehaut and Galleron a curious look, Lucan said, "It's time to go, Agravaine. You got the rifles packed?" Agravaine looked annoyed but nodded curtly. Galehaut left as they were gathering up the weapon cases.
~
Continued here.
Warnings: Slash
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, The Shopping Expedition, Dangerous Games, and this one.
Notes: Huge thanks to two incredible ladies. To
sasha_b for typo slaying beyond the call of duty and for putting up with my neurotic exam-administering tendencies. And to darklyscarlett for her thoughtful and helpful comments (and for being my consultant on all things British). We also have her to thank for once more coming up with some truly awesome names. As always, all feedback will be loved.The battlefield was made of smoke and fire, the hellish sounds of the dying and wounded, the stink of blood and human butchery. The ravens were already feasting.
He felt half blind as he searched through chaos, looking for familiar forms. He spotted the horse first. And then Guinevere, kneeling on the ground, beside—
He was running before he realized it, but in his heart he already knew what he would find. Somewhere, above the sounds of battle, he could hear someone wailing, but he could make no sense of it.
As he dropped to his knees beside the still form, he did not need to check for a pulse to know that Lancelot was dead. For Arthur had never before seen his face so peaceful.
Arthur had thought to offer a sacrifice. He should have known it could never be that simple.
Arthur threw his head back and screamed up to the sky.
Arthur woke, his arms tightening convulsively around the warm body they held. Although he felt like he might choke, he forced himself to take a few deep breaths and to remember where—when—he was, still he levered himself up on an elbow. Just to make sure.
Lancelot did not stir, probably more passed out than asleep. Arthur stared at him in the dim moonlight and willed himself to calm. But his mind flashed back to the dream image—the memory—of the small, private smile on Lancelot's face, and he felt his body tense all over again. He blinked hard against the image and studied Lancelot's expression. Lancelot was not smiling, instead, his lips were tight and there was a slight furrow between his brows. The beginning of a headache, no doubt.
Arthur let his hand stroke over Lancelot's brow, hoping to provide some ease, both for himself and the sleeper. Lancelot did not respond, and, after a few moments, Arthur found his fingers straying down the beardless check and then over to soft lips. He could feel Lancelot's breath against his fingers.
What he really wanted was for the other man to wake, so he could lose himself in warm, living flesh, but Lancelot was dead (he flinched at the phrase) to the world. When Arthur lay down again, one of his arms circled around Lancelot's chest so he could feel the slow, rhythmic rise and fall of his breath. His left hand came to rest on Lancelot's abdomen, splayed there over the taut muscles.
He pressed his face into the juncture of Lancelot's neck and shoulder, rubbing his cheek into the smooth flesh. But as Arthur finally began to drift back toward sleep, the fingers of his right hand came to rest atop the scar over Lancelot's heart.
The house was quiet and still when Gareth wandered into the kitchen in search of breakfast.
Kay was alone in the kitchen. He gave Gareth an inquiring look as he filled the teapot, and Gareth nodded and took a seat.
Gareth propped his elbow on the table and leaned his head on his hand. He had woken up early when his lady had rung him before beginning her workday. After a nice chat, he had been too awake to go back to sleep, but apparently not quite awake enough to sit up straight. "No one else up yet?" he asked, yawning.
Kay shook his head. "I've heard some noises now and again, but I've not seen anyone." He fussed about with some bread, shaking his head as he found that someone had left several empty plastic wrappers in the bread bin. Gaheris's tour as kitchen supervisor had ended, and Percival was now in charge. While Percival could be relied upon to keep the shelves stocked, his ideas of a tidy kitchen were less than exacting.
"You didn't have any trouble getting the lads home last night, did you?" Gareth asked as Kay put a plate of toast down on the counter.
"Nothing that was not easily handled." Kay's eyes glinted for a moment, but his tone was mild. "They'll all live—even if they may wish otherwise when they first wake up." Kay paused. "Dag had to carry Dinaden home."
"Dinaden?" Gareth's brows rose in surprise.
Kay nodded.
Gareth scrubbed at his eyes. "What actually is going on with those two?"
Kay did not need to ask whom Gareth was referring to. "Who knows? I tried to speak to Tristan about it a little while ago, and he wouldn't say a word, just gave me one of those looks. And in case I had any doubt—well, let's just say, he made his displeasure at my interference known."
Gareth nearly smiled, but managed not to. The interactions between Tristan and Kay tended to be interesting. "How?"
Kay began to pour out the tea. He managed the task without spilling a drop, but he used a dishtowel to wipe down the countertop nonetheless. "Boots."
It took Gareth a minute to figure that out. "I thought that was Galahad."
Kay only looked back at him.
"Right. Well, no one bears a grudge like Tristan—"
"Except Agravaine," Kay corrected. "Or Lancelot, for that matter."
Gareth could not really disagree with that. "Anyway, even so, you'd think Tristan would be grateful for a second chance."
"I used to think Tristan's issue was that Dinaden died when they were at odds, but clearly that's not the problem. What does Lancelot say?"
"No idea."
Kay handed Gareth a mug and then sat down with his own. After drinking in silence for a while, he asked, "What was that about with Lancelot last night anyway?"
Gareth shrugged as he stirred two heaping spoons of sugar into his mug. He knew the question Kay was really asking. "I don't know. He didn't even get into an argument with Arthur when we got home. I can't remember the last time he drank quite that much."
"I can," Kay said.
Gareth bit his lip. "This was different. Lancelot never lets his guard down like that—"
Kay shook his head. "You're not thinking back far enough."
It took Gareth a moment to understand. "You mean—? That was nothing like this. Besides, that was a long time ago."
It was Kay's turn to shrug. "Everything is a long time ago to us now."
Gareth blew out an exasperated breath. "You know what I mean."
Any response Kay might have made was cut off as they heard the thuds of approaching footsteps. "Like a bear wearing shoes," Kay muttered just before Galahad burst into the kitchen. Galahad, still dressed in the rumpled clothes he had slept in, hair standing on end, mumbled a greeting and headed straight for the cupboards. Gareth watched, bemused, as in short order Galahad gathered a carton of chocolate milk, a carton of juice, a glass, a bowl, a banana, a spoon, and a box of one of those horrid cereals that he insisted on eating. Spreading his prizes out before him on the counter, he gave a blissful smile, and dumped a large quantity of cereal into the bowl (while managing to spill a fair amount of it on the counter) and then splashed milk liberally in the same general direction. Gareth glanced at Kay and restrained a smile at the way Kay was eyeing Galahad's breakfast preparation efforts.
Oblivious, Galahad began to spoon cereal into his mouth, crunching down with evident relish. Gareth restrained a shudder as he noticed that the pink and purple of the cereal was leeching into the chocolate milk and creating quite an unappetizing color.
Galahad finally looked up in order to snag a piece of the toast. He saw the two other knights watching him, and demanded, through a mouthful of cereal, "What?"
When Arthur woke again morning light was streaming through the windows. He automatically pressed against the body he held, and he felt a jolt of fire move up through his belly as his morning arousal made itself known. He mouthed the back of Lancelot's neck and let his hips shift, seeking out the warmth between Lancelot's thighs. He breathed out a slow sigh as, still half asleep, he ground himself against Lancelot.
Lancelot shifted, making a querulous sound. The pleasure of the lean muscles flexing against him was fleeting; a sharp elbow suddenly thrust backward into Arthur's stomach. Arthur let out a surprised oof, and Lancelot rolled away.
"M'sleepin' ge'off." Lancelot mumbled into the pillow. Arthur, jolted out of the pleasant, sleepy haze, stared, wide-eyed and breathless for a moment. But as soon as he could breathe again, Arthur found himself snickering, which only became actual laughter after Lancelot buried his face deeper into the pillow, growling, "Kill you. Shut fuckin'up."
Arthur managed to choke back the laughter and got out of bed after pressing a kiss to tousled curls, a gesture of affection which earned him a wild if violent backward flail of Lancelot's fist. He had a lot to do today—they had a lot to do today—but perhaps it would be wise to let Lancelot sleep awhile longer. Today of all days Arthur did not want to have to go out in public with a black eye. Besides, given where Arthur was going this morning, it was probably better for both of them if Lancelot did not wake up. Lancelot had never been able to keep his snide comments to himself when Arthur went to church.
Kay and Gareth were studiously ignoring Galahad and his fourth bowl of vomit-colored cereal, when Lovel and Mador came chattering into the kitchen.
"No," Mador was saying, "he knew all along what the bad guy was up to—that was the whole reason—"
"Good morning," Gareth interrupted. "We missed you at the tavern last night."
"Yeah, well, we were watching movies," Mador said.
"There were lots of explosions," Lovel supplied, and enthusiastically threw his hands into the air to demonstrate.
"And a lot of pretty girls," Mador added with a grin.
Gareth chuckled. "Well, as long as you had fun."
The two knights began to ransack the kitchen in search of breakfast. Galahad eyed them suspiciously and pulled his cereal box closer.
As with many of the knights who had died early in their service, Gareth had a hard time not thinking of them as children (they were children, really), and he worried about these two and some of the others. It sometimes seemed as if they were isolating themselves too much from the rest of the knights. But in the face of their boyish enthusiasm, he wondered if he was making something out of nothing.
Mador and Lovel collected their spoils, which mainly consisted of brightly colored bags that made crackling noises and a whole carton of milk (there had been a moment when they had looked interested in the chocolate milk in Galahad's possession, but they evidently decided against making a move for it). "We're going to go watch the telly. Come on, Lovel," Mador said.
As they headed out, Gareth heard them mumble a surprisingly subdued greeting, and wondered what had changed their mood so suddenly. He recognized the responding voice immediately and felt his uneasiness return.
Arthur entered the kitchen, but glanced back over his shoulder, a frown on his face, before greeting Kay, Galahad and Gareth. He gave Galahad's gravity-defying hair a second look, but did not comment.
"There's toast," Kay said, gesturing toward the plate on the table. He poured Arthur some tea without being asked. Arthur nodded in thanks, and sat down with them.
"Lancelot still asleep?" Gareth asked.
"Mostly," Arthur said, his lips twitching in a half smile. He reached for some toast.
Gareth chuckled. "Perhaps that's for the best. He's not going to be sweet tempered when he wakes up."
"He already tried to blacken my eye this morning," Arthur said placidly, and Galahad choked on his cereal. Gareth helpfully pounded him on the back.
"At least nothing will need stitches this time," Kay said wryly, ignoring Galahad's sputtering. "It's always a treat to try to patch up Lancelot and Agravaine when they're hung over."
Arthur looked surprised and then thoughtful. "I had forgotten. So have they outgrown that finally?"
Gareth snorted. "Agravaine wasn't there. He stayed home. He's the one who always picks the fights."
"Of course, Lancelot is usually quite enthusiastic about finishing them," Kay added dryly.
"Why?" Arthur asked. "I know Agravaine and Lancelot have always rubbed each other the wrong way, but with Agravaine it's always been something more."
Surprise kept Gareth silent for a moment, but Kay answered. "Agravaine's always felt competitive toward Lancelot. Lancelot's the only one of us who actually outranks him."
Arthur frowned and he appeared ready to argue.
"Sarmatian, not cavalry, Arthur," Gareth said. Did the man really not know? How could he not? "Lancelot's clan is higher ranked than Agravaine's, which makes Agravaine pissy." Seeing no hint of comprehension in Arthur's eyes, Gareth continued, "Most of the rest us are just plain warrior caste—except lore master Kay here. It rankles for Agravaine." Gareth paused again. Not quite able to keep the disapproval out of his voice, he added, "I thought you knew." It made no difference (expect to Agravaine), but why did Arthur not know? What was it that Arthur and Lancelot spent so many hours over the years talking about then?
"No." Arthur's frown had deepened. Galahad was looking between Gareth and Arthur, forgetting for a moment the cereal growing soggy in his bowl. "I've never heard of this before."
Gareth sighed. How to explain this simply? "Well, Sarmatian clans have castes. The castes originally had a functionary purpose, but they had long ago lost their meanings, although some of the old trapping remained. Agravaine is from a high-ranked clan, but Lancelot's clan is higher ranked."
"The first few months, Agravaine did not even realize which clan Lancelot was from," Kay said. "Lancelot never said anything. I'm afraid I'm the one that let it slip—I recognized Lancelot's name."
"And boy, did that put the little brat into a snit.” Gareth chucked. “All the while Agravaine had been looking down his nose at everyone."
"These castes—what do they mean?"
"Nothing, really, anymore," Kay said. "Or I should say, nothing back then, either. These things had their origins in the ways of the Ancestors." Gareth discreetly nudged at Kay's foot. Kay gave him an irritated look, but cut off the tangent he had been about to launch into and continued. "The old ranking system no longer had any practical meaning by our time. And although Lancelot's clan had still been powerful even just a few generations before, they were barely subsisting when we left Sarmatia." Kay's voice took on that familiar, lecturing tone, and Gareth sighed to himself. Well, at least he had diverted Kay from getting into an explanation of Sarmatian origins and Sarmatian gods. Gareth could picture the patient look on Arthur's face that would have resulted in—one that would not quite hide the faint air of disapproval. Maybe it was not so surprising that Lancelot had never spoken of these things to Arthur. But, then again, provoking Arthur was nothing that Lancelot had ever seemed interested in avoiding.
Kay was still talking. "Lancelot’s clan was nearly wiped out during the uprising against Rome. Only women and children were left, and the clan never recovered from it. But in the elder times, Lancelot's clan's caste was where the shaman and the war leaders came from."
Arthur choked on his tea. "Lancelot's family were priests?" He looked like he might burst out laughing.
Kay was not smiling. "Not exactly. And, as I said, that was long before our time, anyway."
Galahad, looking indignant, opened his mouth to say something, but Gareth jumped in and quickly changed the subject. "Arthur, are you going out?" He kicked Galahad hard in the shin. Galahad glared at Gareth, but clamped his mouth shut.
To Gareth's relief, Arthur was distracted. He glanced at his watch. "Yes. For a little while. I'll be back around noon. If Lancelot wakes up before then, remind him that I'll be back and he needs to try on his clothes for tonight."
"More clothes?" Kay said, belatedly playing along, "I'm sure he'll be thrilled."
Arthur made a face and stood, checking to make sure he had his wallet and keys. Gareth had sudden realization. "Er, Arthur, maybe you should take a different car today."
Arthur did not appear to understand.
"I haven't seen Bors this morning," Gareth said pointedly. Arthur's eyes widened, and he rushed out toward the garage to check on the state of his car.
Lancelot's eyes opened when he heard the door click softly shut behind Arthur. He rolled onto his back and bit back a groan as it felt like his head kept rolling after his body had stilled. If he were lucky—and he never was—the damn thing would roll right off and leave him in peace.
He stared up at the ceiling. Its blinding, pristine whiteness mocked him. He snarled at it, but that only made his head pound, and the ceiling was not cowed. Poxy demons take Arthur, anyway. It was his fault Lancelot had drunk so much last night because—
Anger got him out of bed despite the pain in his head, and although his stomach gave an unfortunate lurch, he ignored it. He had fought whole battles more hung over than this. And there was medicine in the bathroom. This modern age was good for something at least.
After washing down the pills with a great deal of water, Lancelot stumbled back toward the bed. On the way, he caught sight of his clothes heaped on a chair. He had not undressed himself last night. Cursing his stupidity, he snatched up his jeans and began to dig through the pockets. He found the crumpled piece of paper in the left pocket. Lancelot's fingers clenched around the paper. Arthur had not found it.
Lancelot climbed back into bed and pulled the sheets over his bare flesh. Beneath the covers, he smoothed out the paper and stared at it. The passing of a night and the consuming of copious amounts of alcohol had not changed its meaning. Looking at the dates on the page, Lancelot tried to force his brain to work. But his thoughts were a jumble, stymied; a soft voice murmured, This cannot be, but a louder, sneering voice reminded him, You knew all along that this was coming, fool, for how else did you think this would end?
Dinaden woke with a belated awareness that someone was watching him. His hand grasped the knife under his pillow. A second later, he released his grip as he recognizing the presence in his room. He opened his eyes to see Tristan standing at the foot of his bed. Tristan's brilliant eyes were watching him from beneath the sweep of his hair—far tidier than it had once been, but still hanging in his face. Dinaden froze, unable to look away.
"I—" Dinaden began hoarsely, wincing at the way his own voice stabbed into his head. How long had Tristan been standing there, anyway?
"You have twenty minutes to get ready. Or we leave without you." The door slammed shut behind Tristan before Dinaden could manage a response. The noise made him clutch at his head. He groaned as he realized what Tristan was talking about. Sniper training. They had fucking sniper training today.
Dinaden briefly considered the merits of blowing his own head off with the gun in the nightstand, but then quickly disregarded the idea. Too loud. The knife would be better.
It was another minute before he managed to crawl out of bed. He had to get ready. He had little doubt that Tristan's threat was made in earnest. And as much as he would rather curl up on the bed with the covers pulled over his head, he was not about to let Tristan and Agravaine out alone together (much less with firearms). Lucan and Palomides would be no help; those two maniacs would doubtlessly be delighted to egg on any violence. Stifling another moan, Dinaden went in search of clean clothes, a bath and some paracetamol. Lots of paracetamol.
Eighteen minutes later, he was dressed and nearly ready to go. With one minute to spare, he gave up on searching for his sunglasses. He could have sworn he had left them sitting on the dresser near the door, but they were no where in sight. Resigning himself to being tortured by the unforgiving sunlight, Dinaden headed to the garage.
Galehaut found Lancelot huddled in the corner of his horse's stall, a jug of what was most likely cheap wine at his knees. Galehaut sat down beside him and Lancelot did not protest when he lifted the jug away.
Galehaut repressed a sigh at how light it was. He took a drink and grimaced at the taste. Cheap indeed. No doubt the taste was not exactly the point. He cast a careful sidelong glance at Lancelot, and as it always did lately, his gaze lingered. Lancelot had shot up a few inches over this last season, his fifteenth summer, but none them could afford to be awkward with their bodies. For all the coltishness of the long, thin limbs, there was a grace to Lancelot that drew the eye. But right now, Lancelot was sitting with his legs drawn up and his face buried against his knees. Galehaut knew far better than to think that he was crying.
Words of sympathy would invoke nothing but rage. "It's not your fault," might have offered some bare comfort to someone like Gawain or Bruenor, but Lancelot would likely spit on you for such words. Lavaine was dead. There was nothing to be said.
Except— Galehaut tentatively touched the wild curls, and, when Lancelot did not shy away, began to stroke Lancelot’s hair. He loved touching Lancelot's hair. After a moment, he let his fingers slide over the soft skin at the back of Lancelot's neck, before he stilled them. He exerted a gentle pressure and said, voice little more than a whisper, "Come here."
Lancelot raised his head and looked at him with dry, glittering eyes. Then his arms unclenched from around his knees and he seemed almost to topple into Galehaut's embrace. Galehaut held him tightly, feeling the thin body vibrate in his arms. His lips found Lancelot's and then Lancelot was clutching at him, frantically, ferociously, as though if he let go, he might fly apart into a thousand deadly, jagged edges. When Galehaut pushed him down into the soft hay, he did not resist, but jerked Galehaut to fall on top of him.
They did not bother to undress, only yanking down Lancelot's breeches and unfastening Galehaut's. Galehaut tried to slow it down, to gentle it, but Lancelot was clawing at him in a frenzy of pain and grief, his own body was screaming at him, and thrusting inside Lancelot was the purest bliss Galehaut had ever known. He bit hard into Lancelot's shoulder, marking him, and tasted blood as he came.
Galehaut opened his eyes and grimaced at the sticky mess that covered his hand. He got up and looked for a towel to clean himself off. Why, even in his dreams, did he only remember desperation and pain? Because that's all there was, a voice whispered to him, and he told it to shut up. Yes, they had had hard lives, but it was not always like that. There had been good times too, hadn't there?
He remembered that warm feeling on the mornings when he would wake up early and find Lancelot unexpectedly tangled with him. Like a cat, the younger boy went where he pleased, and it filled Galehaut with something burning and sweet on those nights when Lancelot had found his way into Galehaut's bunk, not for sex, but for company. And then, of course, Agravaine would wake up and say something snide, and Lancelot would say something worse back, and the day would start as usual. Galehaut found himself smiling at the memory.
The sound of someone knocking at the door had him yanking on some clothes. He jerked open the door to find Meliagaunt. "Agravaine wants to talk to you," the other knight told him.
Galehaut rolled his eyes. It was on the tip of his tongue to say that Agravaine could have bloody well come himself, but he sighed and said only, "Where is he?"
Although Gareth, Galahad and Kay were gone, other bleary-looking knights were gathered in the kitchen when Arthur returned. The sole industrious figure among them was Bruenor, who was busily cooking something on the stove while lecturing. "And eggs are full of protein, and protein is a good way to get over a hangover. I was watching Nigella Lawson the other day and she said—"
"Shut up and hand over the food," Uwain muttered, the menace of his voice somewhat offset by he fact that he was holding his head in his hands. Galleron, who seemed to have refrained from drinking much the night before, sniggered.
"Hey, Arthur," Ector called, "you want some eggs?" A few of the other knights hissed at him to keep his voice down.
Arthur had never been able to bring himself to eat Bruenor's cooking. Not since that one night. "Er, no thank you. I think Lancelot and I will stop somewhere on our way to London. Have any of you seen him?"
Receiving no positive responses, Arthur headed up to his bedroom. He uneasily wondered if he was going to have to try to roust a hung over Lancelot out of bed.
Lancelot, thankfully, was awake and standing by the window. Lancelot's hair was still wet from his bath and he was wearing dark green silk pajama pants that Arthur recognized as his own. They were too big for Lancelot, and hung dangerously low on his narrow hips. Arthur's gut tightened as he took in the tall, slim form, his eyes lingering over the leanly muscled back. The jut of a prominent hipbone just above the waist of the pajamas was in profile at the angle Lancelot was standing, and Arthur wanted to run his fingers over it.
Lancelot did not turn around as Arthur shut the door behind him. He opened his mouth to speak, but Lancelot beat him to it.
"You're back earlier than I expected."
Arthur hesitated. It had seemed like a good idea when he drove back here, so he plowed on. "Have you eaten? I thought we might have lunch out before driving to London."
"If you like." The tone was flat. Arthur had thought that Lancelot would be pleased at the prospect, since he was always complaining about being locked up in the house. Arthur told himself that it was just Lancelot being hung over and moody.
He moved closer so he could see out the window. "What are you looking at?"
A faint shrug had Arthur's eyes riveted to flow of muscles in Lancelot's back. "Nothing. I was just wondering—"
"What?"
"What did you do with my swords?"
It was like a dash of cold water. Arthur was too startled to answer immediately, and Lancelot kept speaking. "You said you burned my body. I hope you did not leave my blades to rot in that cemetery. It would rather have defeated the purpose." Lancelot's voice had gone sharp.
"No," Arthur said slowly, a chill going through him. Why was Lancelot asking this now?
"What did you do with them?" Lancelot repeated.
"I kept them." He had in fact left them in the cemetery at first, but had retrieved them after only a few days, unable to bear it. The blades had hung in his workroom. Not behind his desk—the draco banner had hung there to impress visitors—but across from it, so Arthur could look up and see them. Arthur cleared his throat. "After some years, however, there was—a young warrior who was training to fight with two blades." He hesitated. He was not sure how Lancelot would react, and he did not want to have to answer more questions. He did not like talking about this; the very thought made him feel sick. "I gave them to him."
"Was he any good?"
Arthur opened his mouth and then shut it. It was not a response he had been expecting, although it was a completely Lancelot reaction.
"He was alright," he said at last. He had been better than alright. But not as good as Lancelot. No one ever had been.
"Good. That's better than leaving them to rust in the ground." No it had not been, but Arthur did not voice that thought.
Arthur wanted to stop talking about this. "Did you try on your clothes?" he asked abruptly.
Lancelot finally turned around. He was pale and there were telltale shadows beneath his eyes and a faint line between his brows that meant he had a headache, but he seemed not too much the worse for wear considering just how drunk he had been last night.
"You threw up, didn't you?" Arthur asked, trying to lighten the mood.
"I don't throw up," Lancelot said with dignity.
Arthur snorted. "Tell that to my boots."
"One time! You never will forget that will you? That was a dozen years ag—that was when I was fifteen."
Arthur gave a smug smile. He had logic on his side. "But you did throw up." Arthur, newly appointed commander of the Sarmatians, had run into one of his new—and most troublesome—knights wandering the Wall, drunk off his arse. Half appalled at finding someone so young in such a state, and half worried the boy would stagger right off the Wall and break his neck, Arthur had insisted on marching the boy back to the barracks. Lancelot had not been in the least appreciative.
Lancelot rolled his eyes, but then he was the one smirking. "I did that on purpose, you know."
Arthur was skeptical. On matters such as these, Lancelot and truth were barely nodding acquaintances. "You threw up on purpose?"
"Yes. On your boots. If you recall, at the time, I didn't particularly like you." Lancelot seemed to falter then, and then he was the one seizing on the topic of clothes to abruptly change the subject. "Why do I need yet more clothes?"
Arthur was not sure what to make of the sudden shift, but he answered anyway. "These are for tonight."
"I thought I already had clothes—wasn't that the purpose of our last lovely little jaunt to London?"
"These are for very formal occasions. Think of them like a uniform." Lancelot was just being deliberately difficult now, but Arthur was glad of it. It was exasperating and maddening and as familiar and warm as the sun rising in the morning. "Did you try them on?" he repeated.
"Yes, Arthur." Lancelot's voice was mocking in its obedience. He strode over to the bathroom. Arthur admired the play of muscles beneath the clinging silk and rather wished that the loose waist would slip a bit more. He was reminded rather insistently about what he had missed this morning.
Lancelot returned with the tuxedo, which he dumped on the bed. "It all fit, but what is this for?" He held up the bow tie, dangling it between two fingers as though it were something distasteful.
Arthur sighed. "It's a tie."
Lancelot eyed the bit of silk with a look that might have been more suitable for the bloated corpse of a dead rat. "It doesn't look like a tie."
"It's a different sort. That should please you—there's nothing long and hanging for anyone to grab onto."
"It's a ribbon."
"A tie."
Lancelot wrapped the tie around his hands and pulled, testing its strength. "It could still be used to throttle you."
Arthur let out an exasperated breath. Was he going to have buy the man clip-ons? But before he could answer, there was a knock on the door. "What?" Lancelot demanded.
Tristan came in, and tossed Lancelot a pair of dark glasses. "You might want these." His lips were faintly curled in a way that meant he was smirking, but his expression was blank again when he nodded at Arthur.
One hand untangling from the tie, Lancelot caught the glasses easily. He was not distracted, however, from the matter in his other hand. He shook the tie out and demanded of his new audience, "Could you use this to strangle someone?"
Tristan did not look at all surprised by the question. Nor did he hesitate. "Yes."
Lancelot gave Arthur a look through his lashes, eye glittering with triumph. "See?"
Arthur snorted. As though that was any kind of test. As though there was anything out there that Tristan could not use to kill someone. But that look from Lancelot's eyes sent a fresh wave of heat through Arthur, and he was not sure if he wanted to shake the man or tackle him to the floor.
He expected Tristan to leave as abruptly as he had entered, but to his surprise (he ignored the small trickle of impatient annoyance), Tristan lingered for a moment. His unreadable gaze rested on Arthur again before he looked back at Lancelot. Arthur was acutely aware that Lancelot was barely dressed—and those pajama pants were really hanging indecently low—but then he quickly dismissed the thought. He was not jealous of Tristan.
Lancelot quirked an eyebrow at Tristan, as though asking a question, and then, after a moment, nodded. Tristan disappeared out the door without another word.
It was on the tip of Arthur's tongue to ask what that was about, but he had more urgent matters to attend to.
Pulling off his jacket and tie and tossing them onto the bed, he stalked over to Lancelot. He took the bowtie from Lancelot and dropped it on the floor before seizing Lancelot's silk clad hips and jerked them forward. Lancelot was regarding him out of dark, hooded eyes and his gaze burned right through Arthur. In the next instant, Arthur had slammed Lancelot back against the wall and was grinding against him, growling into Lancelot's mouth. The feel of silk sliding against flesh was maddening. He dropped to his knees and began to mouth Lancelot's groin through the cloth.
Lancelot made a wild, breathy sound and then his long fingers were clawing at Arthur's shoulders. Arthur pinned his hips down and continued to suck at him roughly through the silk, uncaring of finesse or technique. Lancelot was moaning and the fabric was soaked through when Arthur finally lifted his head and jerked the cloth down before sitting back on his heels and yanking Lancelot down onto his lap. Lancelot managed to land with his thighs straddling Arthur's, and his hands were immediately busy with Arthur's belt. He was cursing in Sarmatian as Arthur seized his mouth in a devouring kiss.
Lancelot's clever fingers had Arthur free in seconds. Lancelot's head went back, exposing the long line of his throat to Arthur's teeth as Arthur jerked Lancelot's hips down. A cry escaped Arthur at the unbearable fire of it, and then, snarling, he lunged forward and had Lancelot flat on his back so he could thrust as hard and as fast as he wanted, one hand roughly groping for Lancelot's arousal.
The brutal pace he set could not last long for either of them. Collapsing, still shuddering, Arthur lay cradled between Lancelot's thighs, his head on Lancelot's chest, so he could feel the rapid beat of his heart. He breathed in the scent of Lancelot's skin. Lancelot used to always smell of metal and leather, but now, there was only his scent—pure and unadulterated, except by Arthur's own musk.
He did not want to move. It was only when Lancelot's heartbeat had slowed to the quiet rhythm that Arthur felt he would recognize anywhere, that Arthur finally shifted. Lancelot's eyes were closed, but Arthur saw the slight flinch cross Lancelot's face as he pulled out, and felt that familiar sense of hot triumph, quickly followed by the even more familiar guilt. "Alright?" he asked softly, he propped himself up on an elbow and ran his thumb over Lancelot's slightly parted lips. His gaze flickered downward, checking. He was relieved to see no traces of scarlet. Not that Lancelot would care—he never had. In the early days, he had seemed to be as eager for pain as pleasure.
Lancelot's eyes fluttered open and met Arthur's for a long, still moment. Arthur expected a smile, a smirk, a smart-mouthed comment, but he only got silence. Lancelot seemed to be searching his eyes for something. Arthur's palm stroked over his cheek. "Lancelot?"
Lancelot did not answer. His fingers slid down from Arthur's shoulder to linger over the skin of Arthur's neck. Arthur realized after a moment that he was tracing the bite mark he had left yesterday morning. Arthur was about to say they were even now—he had left a mark of his own at the base of Lancelot's throat—but when he looked into Lancelot's eyes, he was silenced by a glimpse of something dark and bitter in them. But he was not sure. The look seemed to disappear as soon as Lancelot raised his eyes to Arthur's.
Then Lancelot pushed Arthur away, not roughly, but with purpose, and rose fluidly to his feet. If he hurt, he did not show it. Arthur sat up, staring at him.
"I'm hungry," was all Lancelot said. "I'll clean up and then we'll go." Arthur watched him disappear into the bathroom, his eyes fixing on the hint of dampness glistening on Lancelot's thighs. Ignoring for now that his own trousers were unfastened and that his shirt was half torn off and stained, Arthur fell back, wincing as his shoulders hit the floor. Lancelot needed to cut his nails.
He stared up at the ceiling as he heard the water run. It was nothing. Lancelot was just hung over. Lancelot had never in his life kept his mouth shut when he was unhappy about something, or so Arthur told himself.
Agravaine was in the back room of the basement, crouched over some rifle cases. Not bothering with anything as civil as a greeting, Agravaine looked up at Galehaut's arrival and demanded, "I need you to do something."
Galehaut nodded to Galleron who was perched on one of the crates stacked around the room. Galleron gave him an uneasy looking smile in return. Galehaut leaned back against the wall and waited.
"Things are beginning to move into place." Agravaine began to close up the cases. The rifles Agravaine was packing away were different from the ones they had been practicing with the other day.
"What things?" Galehaut demanded.
Agravaine shook his head. "Tonight, Arthur is taking Lancelot with him to some fancy party in London. They'll be leaving shortly. I want you to follow them."
"To London?"
"No. They'll stop somewhere to eat first." Galleron nodded. "When they stop, I want you to call this number." Agravaine pulled a card out of his pocket and handed it to Galehaut. "Tell the person who answers where they are."
Galehaut stared hard at Agravaine. "Whose number is it?" What was Agravaine up to? Could he really have involved an outsider in their affairs?
Agravaine glared at him. "Just do as I say. You want Lancelot back don't you?"
"Whose number is it, Agravaine?" Galehaut demanded again.
"What does it matter? I'm telling you that this is what needs to be done, and I don't have time to explain right now."
Agravaine had always been like this. Galehaut narrowed his eyes. "Alright, keep your secrets. But I'm warning you, if you do anything, anything at all, to hurt Lancelot—" He broke off as he heard the sound of approaching footsteps.
Agravaine scowled and, lowering his voice, hissed, "Why would I? He's one of us. It's Castus who we're going to bring down." Agravaine's lips twisted slightly. "Surely you have no objection to that."
Galehaut did not, although he had no chance to respond as Palomides and Lucan walked in. Casting Galehaut and Galleron a curious look, Lucan said, "It's time to go, Agravaine. You got the rifles packed?" Agravaine looked annoyed but nodded curtly. Galehaut left as they were gathering up the weapon cases.
Continued here.
