Mar. 31st, 2005 09:17 am
Title: Modern Day Legends Part 5/7
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lovely_ambitionTitle: Modern Day Legends Part 5/7
Rating: R
Disclaimer: Borrowing the characters. Just borrowing, I swear!
Pairings: Lancelot/Arthur, Galahad/Gawain, various others
Summary: A modern-day AU of the Knights set in the present day. Everyone is good at something. Arthur and his Knights. They were experts at killing.
Notes: Thanks to a long list of people who supported me throughout this and let me spam them with snippets and squeal on and on about how it was taking over my mind.
23.
Bors was waiting the counter at the pub when five o’clock struck. He’d taken Dagonet’s shifts while he’d flown out to France to do a job that should have been Bors’ in the first place, but a few well-placed words about his kids and the kind of talking the job would require quickly ruled out both Tristan and Bors for the job, giving it to Dagonet by default. He washed down the glass in his hands and checked out the clientele, looking out for anyone who might have overheard anything and leaked the information about the whelp. Though, the way he acted, the entire population of the city should know about him and what he did.
Arthur had been scribbling away at his notebook at the end of the bar for hours now and Bors had made sure to fill up his glass every half hour with his favourite wine. From the glimpses that Bors got, tax forms piled atop the notebook, which had a list of names on it.
Bors was glad to be tending the bar, though. Vanora was getting more than a mite touchy with the new baby on the way and usually Dagonet was around to absorb her harsher blows. With Dagonet out of the country, Bors didn’t want to risk limb and life to appease her when everyone knew just how dangerous that could be.
“Work going well?” Bors leaned on the counter by Arthur when his scan of the room only revealed a regular, a few lonely men, women, and Galahad and Gawain in one of the corner booths, making Bors wish he’d gone blind. He frowned when Arthur didn’t respond, didn’t even look up. Then, Bors realized that Arthur was asleep. “Hey,” he grunted, poking Arthur in the arm.
“Lancelot, not…” Arthur awoke sharply, sitting perfectly straight.
Bors raised an eyebrow, noting that Tristan had slipped into the pub at some point in the last few minutes and was hanging around his regular stool, waiting for his pre-kill drink, presumably. “Thinking ‘bout someone?” Bors smirked, topping off Arthur’s red wine before heading for the Scotch and lingering by Tristan. “How’s the pre-job routine going?”
“Delayed,” Tristan said plainly, cradling the drink that Bors had poured for him with both hands. “With Dagonet out of town, I’m a little…” he looked around and leaned in. “If you tell anyone, I’ll make you wish you’d never been born. I’m a little jittery,” he finished off quietly, knocking back half the drink in one sip. He gave a slight frustrated growl and began to survey the pub. “Slept with her. And him. That one’s depressed. Ah, perfect,” he grinned, sighting Galahad and Gawain and hopping off his stool, heading for the corner.
There was a small, amused noise from Arthur’s end of the bar. “He’ll be rejected.”
Bors turned and watched, idly drying one of the glasses that had just run through the wash. Tristan seemed to be leaning in and getting into the situation as always, but surprisingly, the whelp was paying him little attention, one hand visible on the table and the other nowhere to be seen – though, judging from Gawain’s reactions, Bors could make an educated guess. Moments later, Tristan was back at the bar, a frustrated look on his face and a barely audible growl resonating from his throat.
“Rejected?” Bors scoffed with as much sympathy as he could muster.
“He’s occupied,” Tristan said evenly, eyes cold. “Dagonet is in France and I haven’t seen Issy in weeks.” Bors pressed his lips together and avoided comment on Isolde, Tristan’s intriguing and Irish mistress who glided into their lives and out, only pausing long enough to break Tristan’s spirit and oftentimes his heart. “I’m not,” he gritted his teeth, “sleeping with a pedestrian before a job. I’m not.”
“So just go and do the job and find a whore for after,” Bors offered with a shrug.
Tristan paused and considered, tapping his fingers on the counter in a rhythmic pattern. He seemed to make up his mind quickly because he glided off the stool and went straight for the door. Bors watched him shove the front door open – with a purpose -- before he turned back to find Arthur asleep again. Bors muttered to himself and slammed the glass down hard on the bar beside Arthur’s head, smirking when Arthur shot back up into perfect posture.
“I’m up!” Arthur announced loudly. Gawain and Galahad were looking over curiously, whispering to each other. Bors frowned slightly, trying to recall the last time anyone but Arthur was first into the base and the last time he wasn’t the last out. “Maybe,” he muttered drowsily, resting his head on his arms. Bors wondered where Lancelot was flitting about while leaving their leader in a state of near-narcolepsy. “Wake me up when we have the wrap-up meeting for Tristan’s job,” he muttered into the bar.
“Arthur, maybe you should go home,” Bors suggested gently, prying the paperwork away and studying it. “Half these forms are covered in your spit from drooling,” he whispered, suppressing his smirk. He studied the forms and groaned. “Tax slips. You’ve got to be bloody kidding me. You’re forsaking sleep for this?” He sighed and shook his head. “Go home, get to bed, and let Lancelot take care of you for once, got it?” He scoffed. “Stubborn bastard,” he grunted underneath his breath.
“Lancelot’s…” Arthur stifled his yawn. “He’s doing some errands.”
“I was,” Lancelot announced loudly, arriving from the back door – the kitchen entrance – and carrying assorted bags, suits draped over his arm in clear paper that crinkled with every movement. “Now I’m back. I have hot dinner, your clothes, and all the information you wanted.” He raised a disapproving eyebrow, cocking his head. “Bors, was he falling asleep?”
“Hot dinner?” Arthur asked hopefully, the tiniest light flickering back in his eyes.
Lancelot grinned. “Only if you get your arse into the car and get back to your flat so I can feed you and put you to bed.”
“He’s my live-in nanny,” Arthur explained dryly, shuffling the papers together and sliding off his stool. Bors stifled his laugh and grabbed a Guinness from the bar, sliding the bottle to Arthur and giving him a sympathetic look. Arthur pressed his lips together and took the bottle gratefully, tucking the papers under his arm as he followed Lancelot out the front entrance, feet dragging along the floor. When they were gone, Bors paused, his eyes flickering over Gawain and Galahad in the back and he sighed, grabbing two beers in each hand and navigating the sparse pub to deliver the drinks to the finally separated men.
“Hi,” Galahad greeted him with a peaceful smile, the energy all in his eyes. Gawain smiled as well, casually tugging Galahad into his arms. “Is that alcohol for us?”
“Promise to behave and you can have it,” Bors said evenly, holding the bottles just out of reach. Gawain nodded slowly and Bors took that as their promise and slid the bottles across the table. “Tristan’s on the job, so you lay low. Got it?”
“Got it,” they echoed in tandem, clinking the bottles together and parting completely to lean over the table and have a quiet discussion – the whispers a sign that Bors should depart and leave them to their privacy. Bors nodded, his job with the boys done for the night and heading back for the bar, grabbing one of the stools to sit on and watching the patrons of the bar wander in and out.
He hated the pre-kill time. It gave him a jittery anxiousness to his spine that he hated. He hated being put in a place where he was the one unsure. Bors hated being the victim and he hated relinquishing control.
The sooner Tristan returned from the job, the better.
24.
Tristan’s kill had gone down six hours before.
Arthur paced around the room, tapping his fingers on his chin again and again, turning in perfect turns, always pacing in the same line, in the same pattern. Tristan was late. Tristan was late. Gawain and Galahad were barely paying attention, not even looking up from their stronghold of the couch – Galahad pinned down by Gawain’s body and Gawain distracting him with powerful kisses against his lips. Lancelot sighed, irritated and sneering, keeping his eyes away from Gawain and Galahad. There was a blanket in Lancelot’s hands and Arthur could tell from the look in his eyes that he was contemplating throwing it atop them, just to avoid looking. Dagonet had returned from the airport minutes ago – still in a business suit – and Bors had his head in his hands.
“He’s still not here,” Bors growled, his voice hoarse from an earlier argument with Vanora inside the base before he’d convinced her to go wait at home. “Arthur, call him again!”
“He doesn’t keep his mobile on,” Arthur snapped, pausing in his pacing. “Bloody hell, let’s just…” he gestured vehemently with his hands. “Let’s just relax.”
Lancelot snorted. “That’s rich. Relax,” he mocked. “And pacing helps that?”
“Lancelot,” Arthur gritted his teeth together, glaring, “if you can’t have faith in…”
“Oh, not with the faith again,” Galahad uttered in an exasperated tone from underneath Gawain, his voice convoluted thanks to Gawain’s lips. There was a muffled noise as Galahad pushed Gawain away precious centimetres with one hand. “Tristan is probably fine. Just relax! Arthur, sit down, Lancelot, stop glaring at us. Dagonet, why aren’t you changing, and Bors, can’t you…mpfh!” he gasped aloud, eyes widening as Gawain leaned down and kissed the breath out of him. He shifted slightly and pushed Gawain off. “I wasn’t finished!” he shoved Gawain away, sitting up straight. “Why can’t you lot just realize that something may have gone wrong, but it’ll be okay!”
“Because things aren’t okay when it goes wrong,” Lancelot sniped at Galahad, hand clutching the arm of the chair like he was going to strike Galahad if he let it loose. “When things go wrong, they go badly!” he shouted.
Galahad didn’t reply, merely sat silently, Gawain’s hand heavy on his back. His eyes drifted to the door and something about Lancelot’s words and tone must have unsettled him because he didn’t make the slightest move to return back to his position beneath Gawain. They sat in silence as Arthur began to pace slowly around the room again, one eye always on the clock.
“Where is he?” Bors asked quietly.
Arthur froze when he heard the front door being unlocked, watched in horror as Tristan staggered in, hair mussed, face bleeding, and clothes rumpled. Gawain rushed from his seat to help Tristan inside, Dagonet a few steps behind as they helped him in, his feet shuffling and cuts everywhere.
“Oh, God,” Arthur stared, frozen and numbed. “Tristan, what…”
Tristan stared up, his thumb to his lower lip. “It didn’t go well.” He leaned on Dagonet for support and looked up to the others, dark circles under his eyes and a doomed expression on his face. He looked sideways and took in the scared look on Gawain’s face, the expectant expressions of the others. He cast his eyes downwards. “We’re in trouble.”
25.
With the help of a bobby pin, a credit card, and a small screwdriver, Gawain could break into any door that didn’t have a professional lock on it. Of course, that had been his teenage years. Since then, he’d had a skeleton key commissioned every year, using his well-earned funds to smooth his way to criminal success, even if it was just petty theft. He’d bought a new skeleton key for this one because Tristan had borrowed the old one and it probably had his prints all over it.
The flat was nice in a womanly sort of way. It had flowers and cushions and potpourri. It was a nice place to lurk in the shadows, waiting until an actual, legitimate key was put in the lock and the lights were flicked on.
“Jesus fucking…” she pressed a hand to her chest, turning to find Gawain sitting there calmly. “You bastard!” Gawain ducked the small purse thrown at him. “What the hell are you doing in my flat!”
Gawain bent down and picked up the purse, leaning against the arm of the couch and giving a terse smile, clutching the purse and idly looking around. “Nice place,” he complimented. “They must pay you well, Guin. I mean, if that is your name. I don’t know if the police ask you to take on a false name to avoid incrimination,” he offered casually, keeping his eyes trained on her as she closed the door slowly, not a single of her moves sudden. She raised her eyebrows calmly, her demeanor immediately shifting into something calmer, much more calculating. “How long have you known who I was?”
“Since day one,” she replied evenly, folding her arms. “Very impassionate plea, by the way, about your man. Congratulations getting him.”
“How’d you know?” Gawain asked, keeping his voice flat.
She shrugged, not moving forward. “Surveillance photos. Witnesses in a few places. How do you think I got his name on the list?” she gave a slightly cocky smile. “Your woes of love got me a promotion. Thanks.”
“I’d watch what you say,” Gawain said mildly. “I’m armed.”
“So am I.”
He gave her a half-smile out of grudging respect as he pushed back his coat and showed the hilt of his sword and the gun he had tucked away. She grinned and reached into the back of her jeans, tugging out a pistol. Gawain rolled his eyes and let his jacket slip back into place, pushing himself off the arm of the couch and slowly walking up to her as she put her gun back, slipping it past the denim and against her skin.
“Now that we’ve pulled the machismo bullshit, what do you want before I call in backup to arrest you?” she asked coldly.
He bared his teeth slightly, a growl caught in his throat. “I’ll be brief.” He began to circle Guinevere slowly, brushing her hair aside and letting her smack his wrist every time. “You put Galahad on the wanted list. You got his sketch. You have put his life in danger and that, Guinevere, that was the stupidest mistake you could have ever made,” Gawain growled. “Because if he gets hurt, the person I’m going to is you. If he hurts, you’re going to pay for it.”
“Ah,” she smirked. “A threat. Like I’ve never heard that one.”
“I don’t mean physically, Mademoiselle,” he mocked. “Your connections will disappear. Your job? Gone. There might be some physical torture, but it won’t be me. It’ll be the one with the tattoos. Tristan always enjoyed law enforcement. They always scream the loudest, he said.”
“You don’t know what you’re doing,” she replied, her voice clipped.
Gawain leaned in from behind, resting his chin on her shoulder and breathing in the smell of her perfume. He rested one hand on the gun in the back of her tight jeans and paused, silent as he let the moment draw out. She didn’t move, she simply just continued breathing evenly – no shake to any part of her body, no panic, and no fear.
“If Galahad gets hurt,” Gawain whispered, “you will regret your part in this.”
He gave her a kiss on the forehead and left without another word.
26.
“Let’s go over it again,” Arthur sighed, erasing the whiteboard and pushing it a little closer to the couches where Tristan, Lancelot, and Bors were sitting. “No more lies, okay? Just the honest truth and where is Gawain?” he shouted to Galahad, who was helping Dagonet at the desk, shaking his head and muttering, “He went to get the chemicals over an hour ago and he’s…”
“He’ll be back!” Galahad snapped, cursing swiftly before turning back to the computer and quietly discussing something with Dagonet.
Arthur took a deep breath and returned to the board, uncapping the marker and pressing it to the top, writing ‘to do’ in his large, swooping cursive. “All right,” Arthur sighed, waving the marker in small circles, and glancing at Tristan, crossing his arms. “Okay, automatically we need to…” he murmured to himself, turning to the board and writing ‘monitor police scanners’ and ‘call in favours’ on the board. “Tristan, go over it again. What were the big mistakes?”
“Hair,” Tristan sighed, “he got a handful when he ripped my toque off. It’s probably scattered.”
“Call in the cleaners,” Lancelot nodded and Arthur wrote it on the board quickly. “They owe us a few for the legwork we did for them.” He glanced at Tristan, relaxing. “You’re going to have to lay low, idiot,” he muttered under his breath. “Blood?
Tristan nodded slowly, rolling his eyes. “Blood.”
Arthur and Lancelot groaned in tandem. “Personal supervision with the cleanup then,” Arthur sighed as he finished writing all the to-do’s on the list. He added a few quick abbreviated notes. “Dagonet, you’re fairly clean. You’re out there tomorrow or as soon as we can arrange this, but you’ll need someone to go with you. Lancelot?”
Lancelot shook his head. “Meeting with past clients,” he pressed his lips together. “Check-up, blackmail, so on and so forth.” He sighed. “Tristan’s out. Bors?”
“Got the kids tomorrow,” Bors scoffed. “Fuck,” he swore under his breath.
“I’ll go!” Galahad spoke up, looking up from the papers he was helping Dagonet sort. He stood up and joined the others, walking along slowly. “I can go!” he announced, eager and eyes wide. “Arthur, please, I can do this,” he swore, vehement with every word. “I’ve done everything else you’ve asked me to do. I can do it!”
“Somehow, I doubt Gawain will like this,” Lancelot muttered under his breath. He sighed slowly and gave an impassive shrug. “Why not?” he scoffed with a single, amused laugh – the laugh of ‘damned if we do, damned if we don’t’. “Send him in with Dagonet while we head over to the hotel. I do my work while you do legwork,” he pointed to Arthur with the neck of his bottle, “and we meet back here after.”
Arthur gave a smile, forgetting the troubles of the moment. “You’re learning,” he said proudly, the words wiping any smugness or pride from Lancelot’s face in a matter of seconds.
“Don’t say that,” Lancelot replied in a low tone. “This isn’t about that.”
“So, I can go?” Galahad asked hopefully.
The door clanged shut and the noise startled the relatively quiet room. Everyone looked over to find Gawain standing there with dinner in his hands and a few plastic bags filled with plain white bottles of chemicals; his face awash with pure confusion. Galahad immediately cleared his throat and preoccupied himself with helping Dagonet file the papers away as no one dared to say a word. Gawain stepped inside, giving everyone equal glares of suspicion, dropping the food on the table.
“Go where?” Gawain asked slowly. He immediately went straight for Galahad the minute he had taken his coat off and disarmed himself – for the better, thought Arthur. “Galahad?”
Galahad steeled himself, standing straight. “I’m going with Dagonet on the clean-up job. We’re going to make sure the cleaners do the job.”
Gawain paled. “No, you’re not,” he immediately blurted out, giving an off-kilter laugh. His face went through two uncomfortable-looking shifts as he grabbed Galahad by the forearm. “No,” he said sternly when Galahad didn’t reply. “You’re not!” He tugged Galahad with him to the training room, shoving him inside and slamming the door behind them. Everyone else could hear their combined voices – loud and muffled by the heavy door and walls – but this time, no one made a single move to run for the small room to watch.
Arthur pressed his lips together, hearing something crash to the ground and Galahad’s bellow reverberating in the room. He tapped the marker against the board and gave a small nod. “Okay,” he nodded, his other hand slipping into his pocket to grasp at his rosary. “Dagonet, you take Galahad with you tomorrow. Lancelot, we’re going to the hotel to rouse up some extra help. Tristan, stay here, the pub, or go to the regular restaurant if you have to eat.” He rubbed his eyes. “Let’s no one get hurt.”
His words were punctuated by the sound of something else breaking inside the training room.
27.
“Get in.”
Galahad had barely made it two steps out of the building and into the parking lot before Gawain was trying to force him into something else. He frowned, clutching his coat as Gawain opened the passenger door for him. He pushed past the car, digging his keys out of his pocket and doing his best to ignore Gawain’s existence. Galahad walked in the shadows, listening to his footsteps and sighing when he heard a car door slam and the fast footfalls of Gawain chasing after him, wrapping one arm around Galahad’s hip to turn him around and stop him from walking. Galahad growled, trying to shove Gawain away. “Don’t,” Galahad warned. “I’m ‘immature and reckless’ and I ‘don’t know what I’m getting into’,” he mocked Gawain’s tone of voice, giving a hard enough shove to send Gawain skittering back a few steps. He stormed off, getting about three steps closer to his car before he was tackled to the ground from behind. “Fuck,” he swore, turning slightly and looking up into Gawain’s eyes. “You bastard, what the hell is wrong with you?”
“I don’t care whose car we take, but I need to show you something,” Gawain replied evenly, helping Galahad to his feet and giving him a light push towards Gawain’s car, the door still open and the lights all on. “Come on, Galahad. You’re not running away.”
Galahad crossed his arms and gave a sneer as he slid into the passenger seat and let Gawain shut the door for him. Galahad didn’t bother to buckle up as Gawain sat in the driver’s seat and drove them away in silence, every movement seemingly routine. Galahad avoided looking up, instead folding small triangles with the tails of his shirt. Galahad couldn’t even hear the sound of his own breathing over the car’s ventilation and finally, they arrived somewhere. Gawain turned the car off, sacrificing the hum of the engine for the sound of crickets in the black of night.
“Where are we?” Galahad grumbled, giving the door a hard push open.
Gawain came around to the other side of the car and leaned on the hood, staring forward. In the distance were rows upon rows of graves. Galahad took a wary step forward, the ground damp beneath his feet. He swallowed the lump in his throat and turned back to see the darkened look in Gawain’s eyes.
“Is this…” Galahad asked, walking forward slowly, his voice in his throat.
Gawain cleared his throat, wrapping one arm around Galahad’s waist and giving him a small push forward. “The small corner in the back. That’s where we are.” Galahad quieted as Gawain tugged him along. “You’re still new to this, Galahad. I know you’re good at what you do, but you’re new.” Gawain exhaled slowly. “Clean-up missions tend to go badly when the job’s gone bad. People are angry, calls are made, people get hurt, people get killed,” Gawain said evenly. They stopped in front of the graves, scattered flowers and trinkets all over the place, a few swords lying beneath the graves. “That’s how we lost Kay. Percival had a job that went badly and Kay was on the job with Arthur to clean it up.”
Galahad stared at the ground, unable to move.
“We lost Kay,” Gawain said simply, “when he went to do the same thing you’re going to do tomorrow.”
Galahad pressed his lips together, looking at the date on the grave. “That was five years ago,” he said quietly. “You’ve been doing this for that long?” Gawain didn’t reply, but merely gave a simple nod. “I can’t believe you’ve kept this from me,” he muttered to himself. “Look, five years. You’ve perfected the plans. Five years will have smoothed the way, I will be fine,” he insisted.
Gawain turned Galahad to look at him. “Don’t go,” he pleaded quietly.
“I’m going,” Galahad whispered back, a shrug to his shoulders and a ‘why not’ smirk on his lips. He stormed away from Gawain’s grasp and promptly retreated to the car, slamming the door shut and simply waiting. Gawain sighed, staring down at the graves silently paying his respects before he went off to the car, hoping to possibly convince Galahad with logic and reason.
He knew he was doomed to lose this argument.
28.
Galahad sighed and idly tapped his fingers against his thigh as he watched the cleaners go about the work, cleaning up splattered blood and making sure the area was sanitized. “Don’t see why Gawain was so bloody upset about me…” Galahad muttered under his breath. Dagonet was leaning over the phone and trying to figure the last number dialed – a blood mark staining the telephone.
“It looks like he wasn’t dead when Tristan left,” Dagonet commented, snapping Galahad out of his daze. Galahad frowned, stepping over and studying the telephone, listening to it ring and ring, wondering just who a dead man would call before his imminent passing.
Galahad paced around, avoiding the men at work. “Why is everyone so worried about clean-up?”
Dagonet paused, listening to the phone click, the single word ‘speak’ over the line, and the beep of voice mail. He chewed his lip, trying to recall where he’d heard that voice before. With all their contacts and their liaisons with various underworld personalities, there was a wide array of people it could be. He closed his eyes and tried to run through his memory, trying to remember that particular inflection, recalling where he’d heard it last. He pressed his lips together.
“The mark made a phone call,” Dagonet said evenly, making a note in his book. “Not good. That could be anyone.”
“Anyone?” Galahad echoed.
Dagonet shrugged. “Tristan made a mistake. We’ll fix it.” He flipped his notebook shut. “They’re about done, let’s go,” he ordered. He pulled out his mobile and dialed. “Bors? It’s me. The mark made a phone call. He wasn’t dead when Tristan left.” Dagonet paused, listening to Bors swear over the phone. Galahad frowned, mouthing ‘is Gawain there?’ and raising his eyebrows. “Bors, is Gawain there?” Dagonet nodded, handing his mobile to Gawain.
Galahad cradled the phone in his shoulder. “Gawain, hi,” he said evenly. “Listen, I know you slept at the base, but you have to stay there again. We drove by the flat and there are police swarming the place.” He rolled his eyes. “No. It’s fine. Now, shut up and trust me.” He handed the phone back to Dagonet, grabbing his coat.
Dagonet gave a smirk and listened to Gawain bitch over the phone at him. “The pup is safe, don’t worry. Be careful. Tristan left the mark while he was still alive. A phone call was made.” He hung up and watched the cleaners make their way out of the room, snapping gloves off and shedding their coats. It wasn’t more than a few seconds later that Dagonet’s mobile rang again.
“Great,” Galahad muttered. “Probably Gawain to instill more fear into your heart in case I get a scratch.”
“Hello?” Dagonet picked up. “Arthur. We’re just done here.” He frowned. “Profiles? You mean…all right, yes, I understand.” He sighed and hung up, holding up one finger to Galahad and pressing the phone to his other ear. “Gawain, it’s me again. Listen, the police have profiles on each and every one of us. No more vague confirmation. We’re wanted.” He listened. “Some cop that Arthur’s going to check out. Be careful,” he warned, hanging up with a sigh. Galahad lingered in the doorway, waiting for Dagonet and then closing the door after them as they descended the stairwell.
“You’re fine about Tristan having done this?” Galahad asked, dubious.
Dagonet followed him down the stairs, flight after flight. “He made a mistake. We all do.”
Galahad frowned. “But it could be a life-threatening mistake. What if he called the police? What if they’re going to arrest us? What if someone was called who’s getting ready to kill us! He left the guy he was supposed to kill alive! God knows who he phoned!” Galahad’s voice echoed in the stairwell.
“It was a mistake,” Dagonet repeated. “It will work out.”
“I don’t understand you,” Galahad said, twitching as he held the door open for Dagonet. Dagonet glided past him, footsteps echoing in the parking garage. “You’re loyal to a fault, even if it means you die? Even if it means your life is ruined?” Galahad’s voice cracked and resounded in the parking lot. “Christ,” he swore, rubbing his eyes. “How can you be so loyal to him!” Galahad raged. “He’s just Tristan!”
“He’s a fellow Knight,” Dagonet said evenly, clasping the keys in his hand. “Get in, I’m driving.”
“You?” Galahad scoffed. “Give me the keys, I’m the better driver.”
Dagonet stood at his full height and stared down at Galahad. Galahad just stared back up, smirking and letting out a tiny laugh, the laughter growing and bubbling over. Galahad opened his palm and beckoned.
“Come on,” Galahad urged.
Dagonet walked purposefully to the passenger door, holding it open. Galahad remained firm in his place, crossing his arms defiantly and leaning against one of the concrete support beams, challenging Dagonet with a stare. Dagonet rolled his eyes, giving a barely-audible growl and nodding to the car. “Get. In.”
“That’s the passenger seat. I’m driving,” Galahad said stubbornly, accentuating each vowel and consonant.
Dagonet slammed the door shut and took a few steps towards Galahad, already opening his mouth to retort. Galahad narrowed his eyes, uncrossing his arms slowly and standing up straight, eyes focused on something that had run past in the distance. He took a few steps closer, one hand on Dagonet’s elbow.
“Hey,” Galahad said, a cold chill running down his spine. “Hey, let’s get out of here.”
Dagonet stilled. “You see something?”
“I don’t know, I…”
Bullets rained down loudly on them, explosive in the confined space. Galahad swore and felt a slight pang in the side of his stomach, plaster and concrete flying everywhere and blinding him for a second. Galahad cursed constantly under his breath, wiping at his eyes and searching around him for their attacker, drawing his gun. “Fuck,” he swore. “Fuck, fuck,” he whispered, small hisses that barely echoed in the parking lot. He stumbled and dragged a barely-conscious Dagonet behind the car where they had cover. He stared down at Dagonet in horror, eyes stuck on the blossoming red crimson spreading from his stomach as Dagonet’s eyes slowly drifted shut, mouth parted and utterly silent in his suffering. “Oh, fuck,” Galahad whispered in horror, blinking slowly. He fumbled to get his mobile out of his coat, dialing quickly, no more bullets echoing around them. “I’ve got someone wounded. Parking garage beneath the Four Seasons. I need…I need an ambulance, now!”
*
“His name is Daniel Smith,” Galahad spat out, bullet-quick as he rushed alongside the gurney, directing his words to the nurse. “It’s a gunshot wound to the stomach, and he got it about twenty minutes ago in a parking garage. The bastard ran, but left the gun. It’s still there. How is he?”
“How are you?” another Doctor interrupted, grabbing Galahad by the arm and tugging him away from the speeding convoy. Galahad stared in confusion. The Doctor gestured to the side of Galahad’s shirt. “You’ve got what looks like a grazed bullet wound there.”
“I-I didn’t feel it,” Galahad responded, his eyes searching down the sterile, too-bright halls for where they’d taken Dagonet. “Is he going to be okay?” The Doctor was already patting his hands up and down Galahad’s chest. Galahad snarled and threw the Doctor’s hands off. “Is he going to be okay?” he repeated, louder and more cross. The Doctor gave Galahad an impatient look.
“I’m Dr. John Christopher, I’m going to need your name and you’re going to tell me what happened,” he replied evenly. “I need to get you treated.”
Galahad glared. “Why?”
Dr. Christopher urged a nurse to approach, a gurney in her hands as she hustled to his side and the both of them pushed Galahad onto it. Galahad felt slightly weakened, slowly starting to feel pain in his lower right stomach. He frowned as he looked up, another sharp bite of pain hitting him higher in his chest, to the left of the other pain.
“What’s going on?” Galahad demanded.
“You’ve got a grazed bullet wound,” the nurse replied, pushing the gurney along as a few Doctors joined.
“There’s also some ricochet,” Dr. Christopher murmured, slipping his stethoscope on. “I need Dr. Ryan in surgery with me and Dr. Thomas and Dr. Michaels with the other one. Now!” He looked down to Galahad, never tripping once as they barreled down the halls. “What’s your name?”
“Garrett,” Galahad choked out, barely able to remember his fake name in the panic.
Dr. Christopher pressed the stethoscope to his chest. “All right, Garrett. Well, you’ve got bleeding and a good chunk taken out of your right side. What’s worrying me more is on the left; you’ve got some bleeding and what looks to be pieces of bullet lodged in there between two of your ribs. Now, we’re going to get you under and get these out, but it’s going to be tricky, so it might take a while. Is there anyone we should contact?”
They pressed a mask over his mouth as Galahad blinked and tried to adjust to the harsh surgery lights. He blinked, and though the first thought was Gawain, the more practical thought swiftly followed.
“Call work. Arthur,” Galahad gasped out, inhaling the anesthetic. “Business card. My jacket.”
And then he slipped under a strong tug that threatened to consume him whole.
29.
Gawain and Bors were both standing with arms crossed in perfectly parallel stances when Tristan walked in the door, carrying a bag of food. He looked up and raised an eyebrow. “You look like you’ve slept here,” he shot at Gawain, throwing the bag of food to Bors, who caught it and gave Tristan a growl. “What’s going on?” Tristan sighed, collapsing into one of the chairs with his legs propped up on a stool.
“I have slept here,” Gawain growled. “The police are outside our place.”
“Our?” Bors took a moment to glance at Gawain.
“My flat. The one I share with Galahad,” Gawain cleared his throat, never taking his eyes off of Tristan. His anger returned to him swiftly and he nearly hurdled past the discomfort and back into his rage. “You fucking got caught. Blood at the crime scene! Hair! And do you know how easy it was for them to identify us, they have our damn profiles now! Even Galahad’s.” He kicked at the couch with all his strength and swore under his breath. “I should’ve known she was a cop. Fuck! I should have known.”
Tristan laughed coolly. “And you’re blaming this on me?”
“You’re the one who left evidence,” Gawain snapped. “Do you know how much trouble this could be? Dagonet and Galahad are out there right now cleaning up your mess!” he shouted.
Bors chuckled. “Always Galahad-this, Galahad-that. Don’t you think for yourself anymore?”
Gawain whirled, turning on him and drawing his sword, swiftly keeping Bors at swordpoint. His hands shook in just the smallest visible way and Bors kept on chuckling under his breath, hoarse and amused. Tristan watched with bemusement, his own sword already withdrawn and in his lap. Bors slowly raised his hands.
“What’s this?” Bors raised an eyebrow.
“Don’t dare act like Galahad is the problem,” Gawain growled through gritted teeth. There was a harsh blow to his stomach that sent him staggering back and he doubled over, looking up and realizing that Tristan had kicked him. In the time, Bors had drawn his sword and had it tracked on Tristan, while Gawain’s was still on Bors and Tristan had his sword out and pointed at Gawain. They stared at each other and Gawain craned his neck to talk to Tristan. “You’re going to get us arrested because you fucked up on the job.”
“I’ve got kids, you bastard,” Bors snapped, edging closer, his sword on the tip of Tristan’s skin. He whipped his head around to Gawain. “And yeah, this all started when you brought in your whelp! So I’ll act like he’s the problem.”
Gawain’s eyes blazed with fury as he dropped his sword and bent over, tackling Bors at the midsection and knocking him to the floor by throwing Bors’ centre of gravity off-kilter. He punched at him, but felt himself being hauled off by Tristan at the waist. Gawain kicked at Bors as he went, struggling to get out of Tristan’s hold and finally accomplishing it by bending over and flipping Tristan with brute strength.
Gawain lunged forward, ready to continue attacking Bors with a punch as the phone rang. Gawain landed a punch on Bors’ jaw and faltered at the sound of ringing long enough for Bors to get him in a headlock while he answered the phone.
“Yeah?” Bors snapped. “Yeah.” He looked down in horror, releasing Gawain who immediately began to circle Tristan – as Tristan did the same – itching to land just one punch. “Yeah.” He covered the mouth of the phone. “Get your hands the hell off each other,” he growled urgently. “Dag’s been hurt, bad.” He removed his hand from the phone. “We’ll be there.”
He snapped off the phone and glared at Gawain – who had Tristan in his grasp, ready to be punched.
“I’ll get the keys,” Bors said, scrambling around.
Gawain looked disdainfully at Tristan, who seemed ready to take any punishment that Gawain had in mind to dole out. Gawain pushed him away, growling angrily and thinking of how much he hated hospitals. He hoped that everything was all right with Dagonet. “You’re not fucking worth it,” Gawain said, spitting beside Tristan’s foot and grabbing his coat, turning and following Bors.
Tristan followed two seconds later.
30.
Arthur met up with Lancelot outside the elevators on the tenth floor, information in their hands and Arthur’s mobile pressed to his ear.
“Galahad and Dagonet are just leaving the room,” Arthur murmured, on his mobile – trying to get a hold of Tristan, but failing. He smiled at the bellman as he pushed into the elevator of their hotel and held the door open for Lancelot. Galahad and Dagonet were across town at the Four Seasons, trying to clean up the crime scene and Arthur was trying his best to find the cop that had been on duty and had called in Tristan’s description. He sighed. “No luck,” he clapped his mobile shut.
“Tristan isn’t picking up?” Lancelot smoothed his hair down.
“Does he ever?” Arthur sighed, pushing the ‘L’ button on the panel. “I think I’ve got all the information about the policewoman except for…”
“Hold on,” Lancelot interrupted, eyebrows crawling towards his brow slowly. “Policewoman?” He snorted. “Go charm her now.”
“Some people would accuse you of sexism,” Arthur replied evenly as the doors glided open.
Lancelot smirked. “Lucky you’re not one of them, sweetcheeks,” he put on an American accent and pinched Arthur’s behind, heading towards the stairs and giving Arthur a shove towards the counter. Lancelot lingered in the doorway, making sure that Arthur was going to be prompt before disappearing. He winked and disappeared into the stairwell with a quick glide.
Arthur wasted no time in picking up his messages at the checkout desk and turning towards the stairs that led into the basement parking garage, no less than thirty seconds behind Lancelot. He descended the stairs with a bit of skip to his step, the thrill of getting information still buzzing in Arthur’s system. The parking garage was cold and his footsteps echoed as he made his way to the new BMW – a ‘company’ purchase to replace the old one because Lancelot had complained that the brakes were squealing. Lancelot threw the keys to him and Arthur caught them above his head, never faltering in his steps.
“Where are we off to now?” Lancelot mused, his back leaning against the driver’s side of the car and smudging the just-finished wax. Arthur frowned and swatted at Lancelot, murmuring under his breath, which only caused Lancelot to roll his eyes. “I’ll get off your precious car,” he muttered, opening the door and leaning against it as Arthur leaned in for a slow kiss. Arthur pulled away slowly, a dazed grin on his face, and soon, he was dazed by the blinding flash of what seemed to be a camera.
He frowned and turned swiftly in a circle, searching the perimetre. His eyes widened in panic when he saw a gun angling around another car.
“Lancelot! In the car!” Arthur snapped.
He shoved him in through the driver’s side and dove in after him, slamming the door shut. The bullet hit the bumper, putting a dent in the new finish. Arthur shoved Lancelot off the gearshift and the tires squealed as Arthur slammed the gas and reversed out of the spot, leaving tire marks as he shifted into forward and sped out of the garage, another car quickly following in close pursuit. Arthur took the first right turn, banking hard; the gravity throwing Lancelot into his lap.
“Stay down,” Arthur hissed, never taking his eyes off the road as Lancelot shifted, his head on Arthur’s thigh and his body pressed away from the shift so that Arthur could still drive. The back window exploded in a shower of glass when a bullet hit and Lancelot swore loudly, all while Arthur continued to steer through moving traffic. “Lancelot, if you could please just keep quiet…” Arthur snapped out, rotating the steering wheel hard at an intersection and pulling a u-turn, speeding the other way. He checked the rear-view mirror compulsively and saw a flood of traffic preventing their tail from doing the same.
Arthur took a few turns down narrow streets, suburbs, until he finally pulled into a field, beside a stream, braking hard and parking parallel to the small trickle of water. He was breathing hard, giddy and relieved laughter slowly overtaking him as he looked down at Lancelot. Lancelot was grinning too widely, the smile of someone who had just encountered too close a call. Together, they laughed with desperate relief, Lancelot prying himself off of Arthur’s lap and sitting upright.
“Now, who was that?” Lancelot swallowed his worry. “That’s the question.”
tbc
Rating: R
Disclaimer: Borrowing the characters. Just borrowing, I swear!
Pairings: Lancelot/Arthur, Galahad/Gawain, various others
Summary: A modern-day AU of the Knights set in the present day. Everyone is good at something. Arthur and his Knights. They were experts at killing.
Notes: Thanks to a long list of people who supported me throughout this and let me spam them with snippets and squeal on and on about how it was taking over my mind.
23.
Bors was waiting the counter at the pub when five o’clock struck. He’d taken Dagonet’s shifts while he’d flown out to France to do a job that should have been Bors’ in the first place, but a few well-placed words about his kids and the kind of talking the job would require quickly ruled out both Tristan and Bors for the job, giving it to Dagonet by default. He washed down the glass in his hands and checked out the clientele, looking out for anyone who might have overheard anything and leaked the information about the whelp. Though, the way he acted, the entire population of the city should know about him and what he did.
Arthur had been scribbling away at his notebook at the end of the bar for hours now and Bors had made sure to fill up his glass every half hour with his favourite wine. From the glimpses that Bors got, tax forms piled atop the notebook, which had a list of names on it.
Bors was glad to be tending the bar, though. Vanora was getting more than a mite touchy with the new baby on the way and usually Dagonet was around to absorb her harsher blows. With Dagonet out of the country, Bors didn’t want to risk limb and life to appease her when everyone knew just how dangerous that could be.
“Work going well?” Bors leaned on the counter by Arthur when his scan of the room only revealed a regular, a few lonely men, women, and Galahad and Gawain in one of the corner booths, making Bors wish he’d gone blind. He frowned when Arthur didn’t respond, didn’t even look up. Then, Bors realized that Arthur was asleep. “Hey,” he grunted, poking Arthur in the arm.
“Lancelot, not…” Arthur awoke sharply, sitting perfectly straight.
Bors raised an eyebrow, noting that Tristan had slipped into the pub at some point in the last few minutes and was hanging around his regular stool, waiting for his pre-kill drink, presumably. “Thinking ‘bout someone?” Bors smirked, topping off Arthur’s red wine before heading for the Scotch and lingering by Tristan. “How’s the pre-job routine going?”
“Delayed,” Tristan said plainly, cradling the drink that Bors had poured for him with both hands. “With Dagonet out of town, I’m a little…” he looked around and leaned in. “If you tell anyone, I’ll make you wish you’d never been born. I’m a little jittery,” he finished off quietly, knocking back half the drink in one sip. He gave a slight frustrated growl and began to survey the pub. “Slept with her. And him. That one’s depressed. Ah, perfect,” he grinned, sighting Galahad and Gawain and hopping off his stool, heading for the corner.
There was a small, amused noise from Arthur’s end of the bar. “He’ll be rejected.”
Bors turned and watched, idly drying one of the glasses that had just run through the wash. Tristan seemed to be leaning in and getting into the situation as always, but surprisingly, the whelp was paying him little attention, one hand visible on the table and the other nowhere to be seen – though, judging from Gawain’s reactions, Bors could make an educated guess. Moments later, Tristan was back at the bar, a frustrated look on his face and a barely audible growl resonating from his throat.
“Rejected?” Bors scoffed with as much sympathy as he could muster.
“He’s occupied,” Tristan said evenly, eyes cold. “Dagonet is in France and I haven’t seen Issy in weeks.” Bors pressed his lips together and avoided comment on Isolde, Tristan’s intriguing and Irish mistress who glided into their lives and out, only pausing long enough to break Tristan’s spirit and oftentimes his heart. “I’m not,” he gritted his teeth, “sleeping with a pedestrian before a job. I’m not.”
“So just go and do the job and find a whore for after,” Bors offered with a shrug.
Tristan paused and considered, tapping his fingers on the counter in a rhythmic pattern. He seemed to make up his mind quickly because he glided off the stool and went straight for the door. Bors watched him shove the front door open – with a purpose -- before he turned back to find Arthur asleep again. Bors muttered to himself and slammed the glass down hard on the bar beside Arthur’s head, smirking when Arthur shot back up into perfect posture.
“I’m up!” Arthur announced loudly. Gawain and Galahad were looking over curiously, whispering to each other. Bors frowned slightly, trying to recall the last time anyone but Arthur was first into the base and the last time he wasn’t the last out. “Maybe,” he muttered drowsily, resting his head on his arms. Bors wondered where Lancelot was flitting about while leaving their leader in a state of near-narcolepsy. “Wake me up when we have the wrap-up meeting for Tristan’s job,” he muttered into the bar.
“Arthur, maybe you should go home,” Bors suggested gently, prying the paperwork away and studying it. “Half these forms are covered in your spit from drooling,” he whispered, suppressing his smirk. He studied the forms and groaned. “Tax slips. You’ve got to be bloody kidding me. You’re forsaking sleep for this?” He sighed and shook his head. “Go home, get to bed, and let Lancelot take care of you for once, got it?” He scoffed. “Stubborn bastard,” he grunted underneath his breath.
“Lancelot’s…” Arthur stifled his yawn. “He’s doing some errands.”
“I was,” Lancelot announced loudly, arriving from the back door – the kitchen entrance – and carrying assorted bags, suits draped over his arm in clear paper that crinkled with every movement. “Now I’m back. I have hot dinner, your clothes, and all the information you wanted.” He raised a disapproving eyebrow, cocking his head. “Bors, was he falling asleep?”
“Hot dinner?” Arthur asked hopefully, the tiniest light flickering back in his eyes.
Lancelot grinned. “Only if you get your arse into the car and get back to your flat so I can feed you and put you to bed.”
“He’s my live-in nanny,” Arthur explained dryly, shuffling the papers together and sliding off his stool. Bors stifled his laugh and grabbed a Guinness from the bar, sliding the bottle to Arthur and giving him a sympathetic look. Arthur pressed his lips together and took the bottle gratefully, tucking the papers under his arm as he followed Lancelot out the front entrance, feet dragging along the floor. When they were gone, Bors paused, his eyes flickering over Gawain and Galahad in the back and he sighed, grabbing two beers in each hand and navigating the sparse pub to deliver the drinks to the finally separated men.
“Hi,” Galahad greeted him with a peaceful smile, the energy all in his eyes. Gawain smiled as well, casually tugging Galahad into his arms. “Is that alcohol for us?”
“Promise to behave and you can have it,” Bors said evenly, holding the bottles just out of reach. Gawain nodded slowly and Bors took that as their promise and slid the bottles across the table. “Tristan’s on the job, so you lay low. Got it?”
“Got it,” they echoed in tandem, clinking the bottles together and parting completely to lean over the table and have a quiet discussion – the whispers a sign that Bors should depart and leave them to their privacy. Bors nodded, his job with the boys done for the night and heading back for the bar, grabbing one of the stools to sit on and watching the patrons of the bar wander in and out.
He hated the pre-kill time. It gave him a jittery anxiousness to his spine that he hated. He hated being put in a place where he was the one unsure. Bors hated being the victim and he hated relinquishing control.
The sooner Tristan returned from the job, the better.
24.
Tristan’s kill had gone down six hours before.
Arthur paced around the room, tapping his fingers on his chin again and again, turning in perfect turns, always pacing in the same line, in the same pattern. Tristan was late. Tristan was late. Gawain and Galahad were barely paying attention, not even looking up from their stronghold of the couch – Galahad pinned down by Gawain’s body and Gawain distracting him with powerful kisses against his lips. Lancelot sighed, irritated and sneering, keeping his eyes away from Gawain and Galahad. There was a blanket in Lancelot’s hands and Arthur could tell from the look in his eyes that he was contemplating throwing it atop them, just to avoid looking. Dagonet had returned from the airport minutes ago – still in a business suit – and Bors had his head in his hands.
“He’s still not here,” Bors growled, his voice hoarse from an earlier argument with Vanora inside the base before he’d convinced her to go wait at home. “Arthur, call him again!”
“He doesn’t keep his mobile on,” Arthur snapped, pausing in his pacing. “Bloody hell, let’s just…” he gestured vehemently with his hands. “Let’s just relax.”
Lancelot snorted. “That’s rich. Relax,” he mocked. “And pacing helps that?”
“Lancelot,” Arthur gritted his teeth together, glaring, “if you can’t have faith in…”
“Oh, not with the faith again,” Galahad uttered in an exasperated tone from underneath Gawain, his voice convoluted thanks to Gawain’s lips. There was a muffled noise as Galahad pushed Gawain away precious centimetres with one hand. “Tristan is probably fine. Just relax! Arthur, sit down, Lancelot, stop glaring at us. Dagonet, why aren’t you changing, and Bors, can’t you…mpfh!” he gasped aloud, eyes widening as Gawain leaned down and kissed the breath out of him. He shifted slightly and pushed Gawain off. “I wasn’t finished!” he shoved Gawain away, sitting up straight. “Why can’t you lot just realize that something may have gone wrong, but it’ll be okay!”
“Because things aren’t okay when it goes wrong,” Lancelot sniped at Galahad, hand clutching the arm of the chair like he was going to strike Galahad if he let it loose. “When things go wrong, they go badly!” he shouted.
Galahad didn’t reply, merely sat silently, Gawain’s hand heavy on his back. His eyes drifted to the door and something about Lancelot’s words and tone must have unsettled him because he didn’t make the slightest move to return back to his position beneath Gawain. They sat in silence as Arthur began to pace slowly around the room again, one eye always on the clock.
“Where is he?” Bors asked quietly.
Arthur froze when he heard the front door being unlocked, watched in horror as Tristan staggered in, hair mussed, face bleeding, and clothes rumpled. Gawain rushed from his seat to help Tristan inside, Dagonet a few steps behind as they helped him in, his feet shuffling and cuts everywhere.
“Oh, God,” Arthur stared, frozen and numbed. “Tristan, what…”
Tristan stared up, his thumb to his lower lip. “It didn’t go well.” He leaned on Dagonet for support and looked up to the others, dark circles under his eyes and a doomed expression on his face. He looked sideways and took in the scared look on Gawain’s face, the expectant expressions of the others. He cast his eyes downwards. “We’re in trouble.”
25.
With the help of a bobby pin, a credit card, and a small screwdriver, Gawain could break into any door that didn’t have a professional lock on it. Of course, that had been his teenage years. Since then, he’d had a skeleton key commissioned every year, using his well-earned funds to smooth his way to criminal success, even if it was just petty theft. He’d bought a new skeleton key for this one because Tristan had borrowed the old one and it probably had his prints all over it.
The flat was nice in a womanly sort of way. It had flowers and cushions and potpourri. It was a nice place to lurk in the shadows, waiting until an actual, legitimate key was put in the lock and the lights were flicked on.
“Jesus fucking…” she pressed a hand to her chest, turning to find Gawain sitting there calmly. “You bastard!” Gawain ducked the small purse thrown at him. “What the hell are you doing in my flat!”
Gawain bent down and picked up the purse, leaning against the arm of the couch and giving a terse smile, clutching the purse and idly looking around. “Nice place,” he complimented. “They must pay you well, Guin. I mean, if that is your name. I don’t know if the police ask you to take on a false name to avoid incrimination,” he offered casually, keeping his eyes trained on her as she closed the door slowly, not a single of her moves sudden. She raised her eyebrows calmly, her demeanor immediately shifting into something calmer, much more calculating. “How long have you known who I was?”
“Since day one,” she replied evenly, folding her arms. “Very impassionate plea, by the way, about your man. Congratulations getting him.”
“How’d you know?” Gawain asked, keeping his voice flat.
She shrugged, not moving forward. “Surveillance photos. Witnesses in a few places. How do you think I got his name on the list?” she gave a slightly cocky smile. “Your woes of love got me a promotion. Thanks.”
“I’d watch what you say,” Gawain said mildly. “I’m armed.”
“So am I.”
He gave her a half-smile out of grudging respect as he pushed back his coat and showed the hilt of his sword and the gun he had tucked away. She grinned and reached into the back of her jeans, tugging out a pistol. Gawain rolled his eyes and let his jacket slip back into place, pushing himself off the arm of the couch and slowly walking up to her as she put her gun back, slipping it past the denim and against her skin.
“Now that we’ve pulled the machismo bullshit, what do you want before I call in backup to arrest you?” she asked coldly.
He bared his teeth slightly, a growl caught in his throat. “I’ll be brief.” He began to circle Guinevere slowly, brushing her hair aside and letting her smack his wrist every time. “You put Galahad on the wanted list. You got his sketch. You have put his life in danger and that, Guinevere, that was the stupidest mistake you could have ever made,” Gawain growled. “Because if he gets hurt, the person I’m going to is you. If he hurts, you’re going to pay for it.”
“Ah,” she smirked. “A threat. Like I’ve never heard that one.”
“I don’t mean physically, Mademoiselle,” he mocked. “Your connections will disappear. Your job? Gone. There might be some physical torture, but it won’t be me. It’ll be the one with the tattoos. Tristan always enjoyed law enforcement. They always scream the loudest, he said.”
“You don’t know what you’re doing,” she replied, her voice clipped.
Gawain leaned in from behind, resting his chin on her shoulder and breathing in the smell of her perfume. He rested one hand on the gun in the back of her tight jeans and paused, silent as he let the moment draw out. She didn’t move, she simply just continued breathing evenly – no shake to any part of her body, no panic, and no fear.
“If Galahad gets hurt,” Gawain whispered, “you will regret your part in this.”
He gave her a kiss on the forehead and left without another word.
26.
“Let’s go over it again,” Arthur sighed, erasing the whiteboard and pushing it a little closer to the couches where Tristan, Lancelot, and Bors were sitting. “No more lies, okay? Just the honest truth and where is Gawain?” he shouted to Galahad, who was helping Dagonet at the desk, shaking his head and muttering, “He went to get the chemicals over an hour ago and he’s…”
“He’ll be back!” Galahad snapped, cursing swiftly before turning back to the computer and quietly discussing something with Dagonet.
Arthur took a deep breath and returned to the board, uncapping the marker and pressing it to the top, writing ‘to do’ in his large, swooping cursive. “All right,” Arthur sighed, waving the marker in small circles, and glancing at Tristan, crossing his arms. “Okay, automatically we need to…” he murmured to himself, turning to the board and writing ‘monitor police scanners’ and ‘call in favours’ on the board. “Tristan, go over it again. What were the big mistakes?”
“Hair,” Tristan sighed, “he got a handful when he ripped my toque off. It’s probably scattered.”
“Call in the cleaners,” Lancelot nodded and Arthur wrote it on the board quickly. “They owe us a few for the legwork we did for them.” He glanced at Tristan, relaxing. “You’re going to have to lay low, idiot,” he muttered under his breath. “Blood?
Tristan nodded slowly, rolling his eyes. “Blood.”
Arthur and Lancelot groaned in tandem. “Personal supervision with the cleanup then,” Arthur sighed as he finished writing all the to-do’s on the list. He added a few quick abbreviated notes. “Dagonet, you’re fairly clean. You’re out there tomorrow or as soon as we can arrange this, but you’ll need someone to go with you. Lancelot?”
Lancelot shook his head. “Meeting with past clients,” he pressed his lips together. “Check-up, blackmail, so on and so forth.” He sighed. “Tristan’s out. Bors?”
“Got the kids tomorrow,” Bors scoffed. “Fuck,” he swore under his breath.
“I’ll go!” Galahad spoke up, looking up from the papers he was helping Dagonet sort. He stood up and joined the others, walking along slowly. “I can go!” he announced, eager and eyes wide. “Arthur, please, I can do this,” he swore, vehement with every word. “I’ve done everything else you’ve asked me to do. I can do it!”
“Somehow, I doubt Gawain will like this,” Lancelot muttered under his breath. He sighed slowly and gave an impassive shrug. “Why not?” he scoffed with a single, amused laugh – the laugh of ‘damned if we do, damned if we don’t’. “Send him in with Dagonet while we head over to the hotel. I do my work while you do legwork,” he pointed to Arthur with the neck of his bottle, “and we meet back here after.”
Arthur gave a smile, forgetting the troubles of the moment. “You’re learning,” he said proudly, the words wiping any smugness or pride from Lancelot’s face in a matter of seconds.
“Don’t say that,” Lancelot replied in a low tone. “This isn’t about that.”
“So, I can go?” Galahad asked hopefully.
The door clanged shut and the noise startled the relatively quiet room. Everyone looked over to find Gawain standing there with dinner in his hands and a few plastic bags filled with plain white bottles of chemicals; his face awash with pure confusion. Galahad immediately cleared his throat and preoccupied himself with helping Dagonet file the papers away as no one dared to say a word. Gawain stepped inside, giving everyone equal glares of suspicion, dropping the food on the table.
“Go where?” Gawain asked slowly. He immediately went straight for Galahad the minute he had taken his coat off and disarmed himself – for the better, thought Arthur. “Galahad?”
Galahad steeled himself, standing straight. “I’m going with Dagonet on the clean-up job. We’re going to make sure the cleaners do the job.”
Gawain paled. “No, you’re not,” he immediately blurted out, giving an off-kilter laugh. His face went through two uncomfortable-looking shifts as he grabbed Galahad by the forearm. “No,” he said sternly when Galahad didn’t reply. “You’re not!” He tugged Galahad with him to the training room, shoving him inside and slamming the door behind them. Everyone else could hear their combined voices – loud and muffled by the heavy door and walls – but this time, no one made a single move to run for the small room to watch.
Arthur pressed his lips together, hearing something crash to the ground and Galahad’s bellow reverberating in the room. He tapped the marker against the board and gave a small nod. “Okay,” he nodded, his other hand slipping into his pocket to grasp at his rosary. “Dagonet, you take Galahad with you tomorrow. Lancelot, we’re going to the hotel to rouse up some extra help. Tristan, stay here, the pub, or go to the regular restaurant if you have to eat.” He rubbed his eyes. “Let’s no one get hurt.”
His words were punctuated by the sound of something else breaking inside the training room.
27.
“Get in.”
Galahad had barely made it two steps out of the building and into the parking lot before Gawain was trying to force him into something else. He frowned, clutching his coat as Gawain opened the passenger door for him. He pushed past the car, digging his keys out of his pocket and doing his best to ignore Gawain’s existence. Galahad walked in the shadows, listening to his footsteps and sighing when he heard a car door slam and the fast footfalls of Gawain chasing after him, wrapping one arm around Galahad’s hip to turn him around and stop him from walking. Galahad growled, trying to shove Gawain away. “Don’t,” Galahad warned. “I’m ‘immature and reckless’ and I ‘don’t know what I’m getting into’,” he mocked Gawain’s tone of voice, giving a hard enough shove to send Gawain skittering back a few steps. He stormed off, getting about three steps closer to his car before he was tackled to the ground from behind. “Fuck,” he swore, turning slightly and looking up into Gawain’s eyes. “You bastard, what the hell is wrong with you?”
“I don’t care whose car we take, but I need to show you something,” Gawain replied evenly, helping Galahad to his feet and giving him a light push towards Gawain’s car, the door still open and the lights all on. “Come on, Galahad. You’re not running away.”
Galahad crossed his arms and gave a sneer as he slid into the passenger seat and let Gawain shut the door for him. Galahad didn’t bother to buckle up as Gawain sat in the driver’s seat and drove them away in silence, every movement seemingly routine. Galahad avoided looking up, instead folding small triangles with the tails of his shirt. Galahad couldn’t even hear the sound of his own breathing over the car’s ventilation and finally, they arrived somewhere. Gawain turned the car off, sacrificing the hum of the engine for the sound of crickets in the black of night.
“Where are we?” Galahad grumbled, giving the door a hard push open.
Gawain came around to the other side of the car and leaned on the hood, staring forward. In the distance were rows upon rows of graves. Galahad took a wary step forward, the ground damp beneath his feet. He swallowed the lump in his throat and turned back to see the darkened look in Gawain’s eyes.
“Is this…” Galahad asked, walking forward slowly, his voice in his throat.
Gawain cleared his throat, wrapping one arm around Galahad’s waist and giving him a small push forward. “The small corner in the back. That’s where we are.” Galahad quieted as Gawain tugged him along. “You’re still new to this, Galahad. I know you’re good at what you do, but you’re new.” Gawain exhaled slowly. “Clean-up missions tend to go badly when the job’s gone bad. People are angry, calls are made, people get hurt, people get killed,” Gawain said evenly. They stopped in front of the graves, scattered flowers and trinkets all over the place, a few swords lying beneath the graves. “That’s how we lost Kay. Percival had a job that went badly and Kay was on the job with Arthur to clean it up.”
Galahad stared at the ground, unable to move.
“We lost Kay,” Gawain said simply, “when he went to do the same thing you’re going to do tomorrow.”
Galahad pressed his lips together, looking at the date on the grave. “That was five years ago,” he said quietly. “You’ve been doing this for that long?” Gawain didn’t reply, but merely gave a simple nod. “I can’t believe you’ve kept this from me,” he muttered to himself. “Look, five years. You’ve perfected the plans. Five years will have smoothed the way, I will be fine,” he insisted.
Gawain turned Galahad to look at him. “Don’t go,” he pleaded quietly.
“I’m going,” Galahad whispered back, a shrug to his shoulders and a ‘why not’ smirk on his lips. He stormed away from Gawain’s grasp and promptly retreated to the car, slamming the door shut and simply waiting. Gawain sighed, staring down at the graves silently paying his respects before he went off to the car, hoping to possibly convince Galahad with logic and reason.
He knew he was doomed to lose this argument.
28.
Galahad sighed and idly tapped his fingers against his thigh as he watched the cleaners go about the work, cleaning up splattered blood and making sure the area was sanitized. “Don’t see why Gawain was so bloody upset about me…” Galahad muttered under his breath. Dagonet was leaning over the phone and trying to figure the last number dialed – a blood mark staining the telephone.
“It looks like he wasn’t dead when Tristan left,” Dagonet commented, snapping Galahad out of his daze. Galahad frowned, stepping over and studying the telephone, listening to it ring and ring, wondering just who a dead man would call before his imminent passing.
Galahad paced around, avoiding the men at work. “Why is everyone so worried about clean-up?”
Dagonet paused, listening to the phone click, the single word ‘speak’ over the line, and the beep of voice mail. He chewed his lip, trying to recall where he’d heard that voice before. With all their contacts and their liaisons with various underworld personalities, there was a wide array of people it could be. He closed his eyes and tried to run through his memory, trying to remember that particular inflection, recalling where he’d heard it last. He pressed his lips together.
“The mark made a phone call,” Dagonet said evenly, making a note in his book. “Not good. That could be anyone.”
“Anyone?” Galahad echoed.
Dagonet shrugged. “Tristan made a mistake. We’ll fix it.” He flipped his notebook shut. “They’re about done, let’s go,” he ordered. He pulled out his mobile and dialed. “Bors? It’s me. The mark made a phone call. He wasn’t dead when Tristan left.” Dagonet paused, listening to Bors swear over the phone. Galahad frowned, mouthing ‘is Gawain there?’ and raising his eyebrows. “Bors, is Gawain there?” Dagonet nodded, handing his mobile to Gawain.
Galahad cradled the phone in his shoulder. “Gawain, hi,” he said evenly. “Listen, I know you slept at the base, but you have to stay there again. We drove by the flat and there are police swarming the place.” He rolled his eyes. “No. It’s fine. Now, shut up and trust me.” He handed the phone back to Dagonet, grabbing his coat.
Dagonet gave a smirk and listened to Gawain bitch over the phone at him. “The pup is safe, don’t worry. Be careful. Tristan left the mark while he was still alive. A phone call was made.” He hung up and watched the cleaners make their way out of the room, snapping gloves off and shedding their coats. It wasn’t more than a few seconds later that Dagonet’s mobile rang again.
“Great,” Galahad muttered. “Probably Gawain to instill more fear into your heart in case I get a scratch.”
“Hello?” Dagonet picked up. “Arthur. We’re just done here.” He frowned. “Profiles? You mean…all right, yes, I understand.” He sighed and hung up, holding up one finger to Galahad and pressing the phone to his other ear. “Gawain, it’s me again. Listen, the police have profiles on each and every one of us. No more vague confirmation. We’re wanted.” He listened. “Some cop that Arthur’s going to check out. Be careful,” he warned, hanging up with a sigh. Galahad lingered in the doorway, waiting for Dagonet and then closing the door after them as they descended the stairwell.
“You’re fine about Tristan having done this?” Galahad asked, dubious.
Dagonet followed him down the stairs, flight after flight. “He made a mistake. We all do.”
Galahad frowned. “But it could be a life-threatening mistake. What if he called the police? What if they’re going to arrest us? What if someone was called who’s getting ready to kill us! He left the guy he was supposed to kill alive! God knows who he phoned!” Galahad’s voice echoed in the stairwell.
“It was a mistake,” Dagonet repeated. “It will work out.”
“I don’t understand you,” Galahad said, twitching as he held the door open for Dagonet. Dagonet glided past him, footsteps echoing in the parking garage. “You’re loyal to a fault, even if it means you die? Even if it means your life is ruined?” Galahad’s voice cracked and resounded in the parking lot. “Christ,” he swore, rubbing his eyes. “How can you be so loyal to him!” Galahad raged. “He’s just Tristan!”
“He’s a fellow Knight,” Dagonet said evenly, clasping the keys in his hand. “Get in, I’m driving.”
“You?” Galahad scoffed. “Give me the keys, I’m the better driver.”
Dagonet stood at his full height and stared down at Galahad. Galahad just stared back up, smirking and letting out a tiny laugh, the laughter growing and bubbling over. Galahad opened his palm and beckoned.
“Come on,” Galahad urged.
Dagonet walked purposefully to the passenger door, holding it open. Galahad remained firm in his place, crossing his arms defiantly and leaning against one of the concrete support beams, challenging Dagonet with a stare. Dagonet rolled his eyes, giving a barely-audible growl and nodding to the car. “Get. In.”
“That’s the passenger seat. I’m driving,” Galahad said stubbornly, accentuating each vowel and consonant.
Dagonet slammed the door shut and took a few steps towards Galahad, already opening his mouth to retort. Galahad narrowed his eyes, uncrossing his arms slowly and standing up straight, eyes focused on something that had run past in the distance. He took a few steps closer, one hand on Dagonet’s elbow.
“Hey,” Galahad said, a cold chill running down his spine. “Hey, let’s get out of here.”
Dagonet stilled. “You see something?”
“I don’t know, I…”
Bullets rained down loudly on them, explosive in the confined space. Galahad swore and felt a slight pang in the side of his stomach, plaster and concrete flying everywhere and blinding him for a second. Galahad cursed constantly under his breath, wiping at his eyes and searching around him for their attacker, drawing his gun. “Fuck,” he swore. “Fuck, fuck,” he whispered, small hisses that barely echoed in the parking lot. He stumbled and dragged a barely-conscious Dagonet behind the car where they had cover. He stared down at Dagonet in horror, eyes stuck on the blossoming red crimson spreading from his stomach as Dagonet’s eyes slowly drifted shut, mouth parted and utterly silent in his suffering. “Oh, fuck,” Galahad whispered in horror, blinking slowly. He fumbled to get his mobile out of his coat, dialing quickly, no more bullets echoing around them. “I’ve got someone wounded. Parking garage beneath the Four Seasons. I need…I need an ambulance, now!”
*
“His name is Daniel Smith,” Galahad spat out, bullet-quick as he rushed alongside the gurney, directing his words to the nurse. “It’s a gunshot wound to the stomach, and he got it about twenty minutes ago in a parking garage. The bastard ran, but left the gun. It’s still there. How is he?”
“How are you?” another Doctor interrupted, grabbing Galahad by the arm and tugging him away from the speeding convoy. Galahad stared in confusion. The Doctor gestured to the side of Galahad’s shirt. “You’ve got what looks like a grazed bullet wound there.”
“I-I didn’t feel it,” Galahad responded, his eyes searching down the sterile, too-bright halls for where they’d taken Dagonet. “Is he going to be okay?” The Doctor was already patting his hands up and down Galahad’s chest. Galahad snarled and threw the Doctor’s hands off. “Is he going to be okay?” he repeated, louder and more cross. The Doctor gave Galahad an impatient look.
“I’m Dr. John Christopher, I’m going to need your name and you’re going to tell me what happened,” he replied evenly. “I need to get you treated.”
Galahad glared. “Why?”
Dr. Christopher urged a nurse to approach, a gurney in her hands as she hustled to his side and the both of them pushed Galahad onto it. Galahad felt slightly weakened, slowly starting to feel pain in his lower right stomach. He frowned as he looked up, another sharp bite of pain hitting him higher in his chest, to the left of the other pain.
“What’s going on?” Galahad demanded.
“You’ve got a grazed bullet wound,” the nurse replied, pushing the gurney along as a few Doctors joined.
“There’s also some ricochet,” Dr. Christopher murmured, slipping his stethoscope on. “I need Dr. Ryan in surgery with me and Dr. Thomas and Dr. Michaels with the other one. Now!” He looked down to Galahad, never tripping once as they barreled down the halls. “What’s your name?”
“Garrett,” Galahad choked out, barely able to remember his fake name in the panic.
Dr. Christopher pressed the stethoscope to his chest. “All right, Garrett. Well, you’ve got bleeding and a good chunk taken out of your right side. What’s worrying me more is on the left; you’ve got some bleeding and what looks to be pieces of bullet lodged in there between two of your ribs. Now, we’re going to get you under and get these out, but it’s going to be tricky, so it might take a while. Is there anyone we should contact?”
They pressed a mask over his mouth as Galahad blinked and tried to adjust to the harsh surgery lights. He blinked, and though the first thought was Gawain, the more practical thought swiftly followed.
“Call work. Arthur,” Galahad gasped out, inhaling the anesthetic. “Business card. My jacket.”
And then he slipped under a strong tug that threatened to consume him whole.
29.
Gawain and Bors were both standing with arms crossed in perfectly parallel stances when Tristan walked in the door, carrying a bag of food. He looked up and raised an eyebrow. “You look like you’ve slept here,” he shot at Gawain, throwing the bag of food to Bors, who caught it and gave Tristan a growl. “What’s going on?” Tristan sighed, collapsing into one of the chairs with his legs propped up on a stool.
“I have slept here,” Gawain growled. “The police are outside our place.”
“Our?” Bors took a moment to glance at Gawain.
“My flat. The one I share with Galahad,” Gawain cleared his throat, never taking his eyes off of Tristan. His anger returned to him swiftly and he nearly hurdled past the discomfort and back into his rage. “You fucking got caught. Blood at the crime scene! Hair! And do you know how easy it was for them to identify us, they have our damn profiles now! Even Galahad’s.” He kicked at the couch with all his strength and swore under his breath. “I should’ve known she was a cop. Fuck! I should have known.”
Tristan laughed coolly. “And you’re blaming this on me?”
“You’re the one who left evidence,” Gawain snapped. “Do you know how much trouble this could be? Dagonet and Galahad are out there right now cleaning up your mess!” he shouted.
Bors chuckled. “Always Galahad-this, Galahad-that. Don’t you think for yourself anymore?”
Gawain whirled, turning on him and drawing his sword, swiftly keeping Bors at swordpoint. His hands shook in just the smallest visible way and Bors kept on chuckling under his breath, hoarse and amused. Tristan watched with bemusement, his own sword already withdrawn and in his lap. Bors slowly raised his hands.
“What’s this?” Bors raised an eyebrow.
“Don’t dare act like Galahad is the problem,” Gawain growled through gritted teeth. There was a harsh blow to his stomach that sent him staggering back and he doubled over, looking up and realizing that Tristan had kicked him. In the time, Bors had drawn his sword and had it tracked on Tristan, while Gawain’s was still on Bors and Tristan had his sword out and pointed at Gawain. They stared at each other and Gawain craned his neck to talk to Tristan. “You’re going to get us arrested because you fucked up on the job.”
“I’ve got kids, you bastard,” Bors snapped, edging closer, his sword on the tip of Tristan’s skin. He whipped his head around to Gawain. “And yeah, this all started when you brought in your whelp! So I’ll act like he’s the problem.”
Gawain’s eyes blazed with fury as he dropped his sword and bent over, tackling Bors at the midsection and knocking him to the floor by throwing Bors’ centre of gravity off-kilter. He punched at him, but felt himself being hauled off by Tristan at the waist. Gawain kicked at Bors as he went, struggling to get out of Tristan’s hold and finally accomplishing it by bending over and flipping Tristan with brute strength.
Gawain lunged forward, ready to continue attacking Bors with a punch as the phone rang. Gawain landed a punch on Bors’ jaw and faltered at the sound of ringing long enough for Bors to get him in a headlock while he answered the phone.
“Yeah?” Bors snapped. “Yeah.” He looked down in horror, releasing Gawain who immediately began to circle Tristan – as Tristan did the same – itching to land just one punch. “Yeah.” He covered the mouth of the phone. “Get your hands the hell off each other,” he growled urgently. “Dag’s been hurt, bad.” He removed his hand from the phone. “We’ll be there.”
He snapped off the phone and glared at Gawain – who had Tristan in his grasp, ready to be punched.
“I’ll get the keys,” Bors said, scrambling around.
Gawain looked disdainfully at Tristan, who seemed ready to take any punishment that Gawain had in mind to dole out. Gawain pushed him away, growling angrily and thinking of how much he hated hospitals. He hoped that everything was all right with Dagonet. “You’re not fucking worth it,” Gawain said, spitting beside Tristan’s foot and grabbing his coat, turning and following Bors.
Tristan followed two seconds later.
30.
Arthur met up with Lancelot outside the elevators on the tenth floor, information in their hands and Arthur’s mobile pressed to his ear.
“Galahad and Dagonet are just leaving the room,” Arthur murmured, on his mobile – trying to get a hold of Tristan, but failing. He smiled at the bellman as he pushed into the elevator of their hotel and held the door open for Lancelot. Galahad and Dagonet were across town at the Four Seasons, trying to clean up the crime scene and Arthur was trying his best to find the cop that had been on duty and had called in Tristan’s description. He sighed. “No luck,” he clapped his mobile shut.
“Tristan isn’t picking up?” Lancelot smoothed his hair down.
“Does he ever?” Arthur sighed, pushing the ‘L’ button on the panel. “I think I’ve got all the information about the policewoman except for…”
“Hold on,” Lancelot interrupted, eyebrows crawling towards his brow slowly. “Policewoman?” He snorted. “Go charm her now.”
“Some people would accuse you of sexism,” Arthur replied evenly as the doors glided open.
Lancelot smirked. “Lucky you’re not one of them, sweetcheeks,” he put on an American accent and pinched Arthur’s behind, heading towards the stairs and giving Arthur a shove towards the counter. Lancelot lingered in the doorway, making sure that Arthur was going to be prompt before disappearing. He winked and disappeared into the stairwell with a quick glide.
Arthur wasted no time in picking up his messages at the checkout desk and turning towards the stairs that led into the basement parking garage, no less than thirty seconds behind Lancelot. He descended the stairs with a bit of skip to his step, the thrill of getting information still buzzing in Arthur’s system. The parking garage was cold and his footsteps echoed as he made his way to the new BMW – a ‘company’ purchase to replace the old one because Lancelot had complained that the brakes were squealing. Lancelot threw the keys to him and Arthur caught them above his head, never faltering in his steps.
“Where are we off to now?” Lancelot mused, his back leaning against the driver’s side of the car and smudging the just-finished wax. Arthur frowned and swatted at Lancelot, murmuring under his breath, which only caused Lancelot to roll his eyes. “I’ll get off your precious car,” he muttered, opening the door and leaning against it as Arthur leaned in for a slow kiss. Arthur pulled away slowly, a dazed grin on his face, and soon, he was dazed by the blinding flash of what seemed to be a camera.
He frowned and turned swiftly in a circle, searching the perimetre. His eyes widened in panic when he saw a gun angling around another car.
“Lancelot! In the car!” Arthur snapped.
He shoved him in through the driver’s side and dove in after him, slamming the door shut. The bullet hit the bumper, putting a dent in the new finish. Arthur shoved Lancelot off the gearshift and the tires squealed as Arthur slammed the gas and reversed out of the spot, leaving tire marks as he shifted into forward and sped out of the garage, another car quickly following in close pursuit. Arthur took the first right turn, banking hard; the gravity throwing Lancelot into his lap.
“Stay down,” Arthur hissed, never taking his eyes off the road as Lancelot shifted, his head on Arthur’s thigh and his body pressed away from the shift so that Arthur could still drive. The back window exploded in a shower of glass when a bullet hit and Lancelot swore loudly, all while Arthur continued to steer through moving traffic. “Lancelot, if you could please just keep quiet…” Arthur snapped out, rotating the steering wheel hard at an intersection and pulling a u-turn, speeding the other way. He checked the rear-view mirror compulsively and saw a flood of traffic preventing their tail from doing the same.
Arthur took a few turns down narrow streets, suburbs, until he finally pulled into a field, beside a stream, braking hard and parking parallel to the small trickle of water. He was breathing hard, giddy and relieved laughter slowly overtaking him as he looked down at Lancelot. Lancelot was grinning too widely, the smile of someone who had just encountered too close a call. Together, they laughed with desperate relief, Lancelot prying himself off of Arthur’s lap and sitting upright.
“Now, who was that?” Lancelot swallowed his worry. “That’s the question.”
tbc
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