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amari_zIn honor of the one year since it all started, a little interlude set the day after Resurrection. Mainly just recycled jokes. ; )
Arthur was barely listening to what the knights were saying, busy, as he was, staring.
" . . . and they can fly . . ."
" . . . and the shops that sell food have rows and rows. . ."
" . . . and you should have seen their faces when Bors drank the entire . . ."
" . . . and the world, it’s round and actually goes around the the sun . . ."
". . . and then the water came bursting through the ceiling . . ."
". . . but the women at that place, they weren't really . . ."
". . . and then the whole thing blew up . . ."
". . . and they can send some kind of invisible message . . . "
". . . and then she told Galahad it was woman’s underwear. . ."
". . . actually ruled over most of the world . . ."
Besides, even if he were trying to listen, he doubted he could make much sense of the jabbering of voices as they tumbled over each other in an effort to tell Lancelot everything that he had missed over the last six months, and all apparently right now. The subject of Arthur's attention was listening to it all, brows slightly raised in amused inquiry, and Arthur vaguely wondered what he was making of it.
The wildly careening discourse had been going on since Lancelot and Arthur had emerged from Arthur's room this morning. Lancelot had poked at the breakfast that had been placed before him and taken a few gingerly bites before settling back to listen.
Arthur drank his tea (which Lancelot had wrinkled his nose at and said tasted like dirt) and continued to stare. Lancelot was wearing those jeans that someone had found for him yesterday along with a shirt that he had pilfered after rifling through Arthur's closet—but not before playing with the hangers and complaining that Arthur seemed to have developed an unhealthy interest in colors. He had finally found a long-sleeved cotton t-shirt that was black enough to meet his standards. It was too big for him, and, it, along with his bare feet (Arthur's shoes would never fit him), should have made him look rather ridiculously childish, but being Lancelot, he did not.
" . . . and so automobiles. . ."
Arthur was admiring the way Lancelot’s long legs stretched before him and the way he could sprawl into his chair and yet still manage to look graceful about it, but his attention returned to the conversation as Lancelot abruptly straightened. Accusing black eyes fixed on Arthur as Lancelot responded to what Kay was explaining. "What do you mean 'no need for horses'?"
Arthur blinked and cleared his throat and wondered how it was that the industrial revolution had suddenly become his fault.
Arthur was in one of the sitting rooms when Lancelot came back in after having cars demonstrated to him. Arthur had nearly trailed after the knights as they had taken Lancelot outside (after Lavaine had lent him some shoes), but then had decided, despite his reluctance to let Lancelot out of his sight, that he was not sufficiently prepared to watch Lancelot try his hand at driving.
To Arthur's surprise, Lancelot was alone as he came in and sat down on the couch beside Arthur. Arthur briefly wondered how he had managed to get rid of the others, but did not really care.
Arthur put down put the newspaper he had been holding and then found his hand sliding around Lancelot's. He twined their hands together, marveling a little at the length of Lancelot’s fingers. Lancelot gave him a surprised look, but did not pull away.
After a moment, Lancelot said, "So, no wars on British soil for over 50 years."
Arthur opened his mouth to mention Ireland, but then closed it and nodded cautiously. Leave it to Lancelot to have actually paid attention to that part. He expected Lancelot next to demand to know why it was that the knights were needed here then, but Lancelot added, "And the government is elected by the public." Arthur nodded again. "And everyone can just walk around, night and day, unarmed." He sounded both skeptical and disapproving of that last one, but then his mouth quirked. "You must have thought this was your heaven when you woke up here."
"Not quite," Arthur said dryly, his hand tightening around Lancelot's. "This time has its share of problems." In truth, he had not exactly been pleased when he had first woken here. Alive again. At least, not at first. "I suppose it seems very strange to you right now. Like a dream, maybe."
Lancelot made an amused noise. "My dreams don't go like this. It seems real enough to me." He settled easily against Arthur's shoulder.
"Does it? But what is the reality? Don't you wonder if you might wake up and find yourself back in the old life?" Arthur's free hand curled into Lancelot's hair. It had been one of Arthur's own constant fears.
Lancelot shrugged. "I'm here. I'll leave the philosophy of it to you."
They were quite after that, and somehow ended up lying together on the sofa. Arthur held Lancelot to him, listening to the beat of his heart and feeling him breath, pleasantly aware of Lancelot’s legs tangled with his, a lean thigh against his groin. He was feeling a warm thrill of arousal, but it was a banked ember, nothing at all like the violent passion that had burned through him the night before. It was just as well, since Arthur was actually rather sore, and if Arthur was sore, then Lancelot was probably worse off, even if he would never admit it.
There was a nearly painful sweetness in just holding Lancelot in his arms, and he was drowsily content to lie here and let his hand slip beneath Lancelot’s loose shirt to smooth over the skin of Lancelot's back. They had not slept much the night before, and Arthur had not slept at all the two nights before that, waiting to see if—when—Lancelot would wake up.
"Feels strange," Lancelot murmured after a while. "Your hand. No calluses."
"If you say like a girl's, I'll pull your hair," Arthur warned, making Lancelot laugh. "You'll get used to it."
The shadows in the rooms lengthened as the afternoon deepened, but Arthur had no desire to move. A small part of his brain nagged at him about all the work he should be doing, but he ignored it. For now, there was nothing more important than being here. There was plenty of time. This was only just the beginning after all.
He did not notice that Lancelot, his head on Arthur’s shoulder and his fingers twined in Arthur's shirt, was staring off into the middle distance. The slight furrow to his brow suggested that he just might be thinking hard, while the faint gleam in his eyes, if Arthur had seen it, might have caused Arthur both delight and a certain degree of alarm.
Arthur was barely listening to what the knights were saying, busy, as he was, staring.
" . . . and they can fly . . ."
" . . . and the shops that sell food have rows and rows. . ."
" . . . and you should have seen their faces when Bors drank the entire . . ."
" . . . and the world, it’s round and actually goes around the the sun . . ."
". . . and then the water came bursting through the ceiling . . ."
". . . but the women at that place, they weren't really . . ."
". . . and then the whole thing blew up . . ."
". . . and they can send some kind of invisible message . . . "
". . . and then she told Galahad it was woman’s underwear. . ."
". . . actually ruled over most of the world . . ."
Besides, even if he were trying to listen, he doubted he could make much sense of the jabbering of voices as they tumbled over each other in an effort to tell Lancelot everything that he had missed over the last six months, and all apparently right now. The subject of Arthur's attention was listening to it all, brows slightly raised in amused inquiry, and Arthur vaguely wondered what he was making of it.
The wildly careening discourse had been going on since Lancelot and Arthur had emerged from Arthur's room this morning. Lancelot had poked at the breakfast that had been placed before him and taken a few gingerly bites before settling back to listen.
Arthur drank his tea (which Lancelot had wrinkled his nose at and said tasted like dirt) and continued to stare. Lancelot was wearing those jeans that someone had found for him yesterday along with a shirt that he had pilfered after rifling through Arthur's closet—but not before playing with the hangers and complaining that Arthur seemed to have developed an unhealthy interest in colors. He had finally found a long-sleeved cotton t-shirt that was black enough to meet his standards. It was too big for him, and, it, along with his bare feet (Arthur's shoes would never fit him), should have made him look rather ridiculously childish, but being Lancelot, he did not.
" . . . and so automobiles. . ."
Arthur was admiring the way Lancelot’s long legs stretched before him and the way he could sprawl into his chair and yet still manage to look graceful about it, but his attention returned to the conversation as Lancelot abruptly straightened. Accusing black eyes fixed on Arthur as Lancelot responded to what Kay was explaining. "What do you mean 'no need for horses'?"
Arthur blinked and cleared his throat and wondered how it was that the industrial revolution had suddenly become his fault.
Arthur was in one of the sitting rooms when Lancelot came back in after having cars demonstrated to him. Arthur had nearly trailed after the knights as they had taken Lancelot outside (after Lavaine had lent him some shoes), but then had decided, despite his reluctance to let Lancelot out of his sight, that he was not sufficiently prepared to watch Lancelot try his hand at driving.
To Arthur's surprise, Lancelot was alone as he came in and sat down on the couch beside Arthur. Arthur briefly wondered how he had managed to get rid of the others, but did not really care.
Arthur put down put the newspaper he had been holding and then found his hand sliding around Lancelot's. He twined their hands together, marveling a little at the length of Lancelot’s fingers. Lancelot gave him a surprised look, but did not pull away.
After a moment, Lancelot said, "So, no wars on British soil for over 50 years."
Arthur opened his mouth to mention Ireland, but then closed it and nodded cautiously. Leave it to Lancelot to have actually paid attention to that part. He expected Lancelot next to demand to know why it was that the knights were needed here then, but Lancelot added, "And the government is elected by the public." Arthur nodded again. "And everyone can just walk around, night and day, unarmed." He sounded both skeptical and disapproving of that last one, but then his mouth quirked. "You must have thought this was your heaven when you woke up here."
"Not quite," Arthur said dryly, his hand tightening around Lancelot's. "This time has its share of problems." In truth, he had not exactly been pleased when he had first woken here. Alive again. At least, not at first. "I suppose it seems very strange to you right now. Like a dream, maybe."
Lancelot made an amused noise. "My dreams don't go like this. It seems real enough to me." He settled easily against Arthur's shoulder.
"Does it? But what is the reality? Don't you wonder if you might wake up and find yourself back in the old life?" Arthur's free hand curled into Lancelot's hair. It had been one of Arthur's own constant fears.
Lancelot shrugged. "I'm here. I'll leave the philosophy of it to you."
They were quite after that, and somehow ended up lying together on the sofa. Arthur held Lancelot to him, listening to the beat of his heart and feeling him breath, pleasantly aware of Lancelot’s legs tangled with his, a lean thigh against his groin. He was feeling a warm thrill of arousal, but it was a banked ember, nothing at all like the violent passion that had burned through him the night before. It was just as well, since Arthur was actually rather sore, and if Arthur was sore, then Lancelot was probably worse off, even if he would never admit it.
There was a nearly painful sweetness in just holding Lancelot in his arms, and he was drowsily content to lie here and let his hand slip beneath Lancelot’s loose shirt to smooth over the skin of Lancelot's back. They had not slept much the night before, and Arthur had not slept at all the two nights before that, waiting to see if—when—Lancelot would wake up.
"Feels strange," Lancelot murmured after a while. "Your hand. No calluses."
"If you say like a girl's, I'll pull your hair," Arthur warned, making Lancelot laugh. "You'll get used to it."
The shadows in the rooms lengthened as the afternoon deepened, but Arthur had no desire to move. A small part of his brain nagged at him about all the work he should be doing, but he ignored it. For now, there was nothing more important than being here. There was plenty of time. This was only just the beginning after all.
He did not notice that Lancelot, his head on Arthur’s shoulder and his fingers twined in Arthur's shirt, was staring off into the middle distance. The slight furrow to his brow suggested that he just might be thinking hard, while the faint gleam in his eyes, if Arthur had seen it, might have caused Arthur both delight and a certain degree of alarm.
