Apr. 4th, 2005 12:18 pm
Title: Modern Day Legends Part 6/7
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
lovely_ambitionTitle: Modern Day Legends Part 6/7
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.
31.
Gawain stumbled into the hospital behind Bors, sliding to the side to get out of the way of the automatic doors. “Daniel,” Bors rasped. “We got a call saying he’d just come out of surgery. What happened?” The sound of artificial life support echoed around them, burning into Gawain’s hearing. He absolutely hated the bright glare of the hospital, seeping into his skin as though trying to invade him from the outside. Gawain searched for Galahad. He’d been with Dagonet, surely he should be around there someplace.
“It was a bullet to the stomach,” one of the Doctors on duty flipped his chart and smiled wanly. “I’m Dr. Christopher, I was in adjacent surgery, but I supervised. There was an exit wound. It missed the major arteries. He’s going to be fine, though you should thank the young man who brought him in. Mr. Smith may have bled out if he hadn’t been brought in immediately.”
Gawain stepped forward, noting that Tristan was already lurking off to the side, drifting into clusters of people and finding a way to sneak away in order to go find Dagonet. Gawain cleared his throat and tried to quell his rising panic.
“The young man,” Gawain echoed the Doctor’s tone. “Is he in a waiting room or…”
Dr. Christopher pressed his lips together, staying silent.
“What happened?” Bors asked, his voice sounding unsure.
“Your friend Daniel is fine, as I said. Clean exit, no issues. However, the young man…Garrett…there’s the bullet that grazed his side, which is not the issue. The problem of course, was the ricochet from another bullet. We found pieces between his ribs and he’s still bleeding.”
“Still?” Bors and Gawain repeated together.
“He’s in surgery,” Dr. Christopher nodded. Gawain was staggering backwards until the back of his legs hit a chair and he collapsed into it, staring forward, numb. Bors continually checked back, searching Gawain’s face for emotion, but when he found none and determined it a lost cause, turned back to the Doctor. “It should only be another hour or so. He looks like he’ll be fine. Of course, not without a good dose of healing time for it, but he’ll be fine.”
Dr. Christopher nodded once more, pivoted, and walked away in the harsh lights.
Bors turned and studied Gawain carefully, hesitant in his approach. He sat down and gently nudged Gawain in the shoulder, trying to get any kind of reaction. It took about four good, hard nudges before Gawain looked up and had the semblance of any emotion besides shock on his face. Bors raised an eyebrow and adjusted in his seat until they were sitting there shoulder-to-shoulder.
“He’s hurt,” Gawain said evenly.
Bors grunted, not really sure what civil society would say. Then again, he was never civil society. “You gone and fallen for this whelp? You care that much?”
“For once in your life,” Gawain growled, “shut the fuck up. God damn it. I told him that he shouldn’t be out there with Dagonet. That should have been Tristan’s job. Now he’s hurt.”
“We’ve all been hurt in the process. We’ve all got our wounds.”
“Not like this.”
Gawain neglected to move and in the silence, all Bors could do was stare straightforward and hope that Dagonet was going to be all right and that Gawain’s whelp would be okay, but only because Gawain and his own brats seemed to like him well enough.
“Hey,” Bors nudged Gawain again. “He’s a stubborn bastard, right?”
“Right,” Gawain agreed, his voice even and numb.
Bors smirked. “He’ll be on his back under you in no time.”
Strangely, instead of getting hit, Bors only received an appreciative snort of laughter and a genuine smile from Gawain. With a nod, Gawain stood and waited for Bors to join him as he took a deep breath and glanced down the hall. There were fewer people and neither of them could find Tristan at all in the bright lights – though they knew, but would never say, that if Tristan didn’t want to be seen even in the harshest light of day, he would find a way.
“Let’s check on Dag, why don’t we?” Gawain murmured, already one step down the hall.
Bors followed. They followed each other to the depths of hell every day. One trip down the hospital corridors was just another step into the lower circles.
*
Tristan watched through the glass as Dagonet slept peacefully in his hospital bed. He hadn’t moved since the nurses had told him which room Dagonet had been assigned to, just as Tristan was sure that Gawain was by Galahad’s bedside the moment that he had found out which room he’d been appointed to. Hours had passed since they had called Arthur and Lancelot with the message ‘Code Five’. They had yet to show up.
Tristan heard a throat cleared behind him and he turned to find Lancelot standing there, looking tousled and worse for the wear.
“Where’s Arthur?” Tristan frowned.
Lancelot shook his head, clearly irritated. “Errand.” He peered into Dagonet’s hospital room, Lancelot’s posture and his expression vulnerable. “I can’t believe he got shot,” Lancelot murmured quietly. “We were followed,” he explained to Tristan, not taking his eyes off of Dagonet. “Someone was trying to kill us. It looks as though we weren’t the only ones.” He pressed one hand to the glass and shook his head. “I’m surprised. Dagonet is usually careful.”
Tristan turned. “Dagonet’s going to be fine,” he said lightly. “Yes, he was shot, but he’ll heal well. We’re not worried about him.”
“Then why are we worried?” Lancelot frowned, confused.
Tristan blinked, shaking his head. “You haven’t heard? The whelp got shot too. Ricochet one side, grazed wound on the other. They’re far more concerned about him.” He snorted and shook his head. “Dag’s just on too many drugs to be conscious.” He sighed and checked his mobile, frowning when there were no missed calls, no voice mails, and the mobile was clearly on. “My contact was supposed to phone. I have an idea who’s behind this, but I wanted some confirmation. I’m fairly sure a contract was signed in this case.” He smiled thoughtfully. “I wonder what the prices on our heads is.”
“Have you gone to see him?” Lancelot cut in, alarmed. “Galahad! You’ve…why aren’t you standing outside his room, why aren’t you checking to make sure he’s okay!”
Tristan raised an eyebrow. “It’s one visitor only. You really think Gawain has left his bedside?” He pressed his lips together, smugly grinning as a text message flashed on his mobile. “Perfect,” he murmured to himself, walking down the hall. “I’m going to hide in the stairwell and make a call. You can go and check on Galahad if you want. I imagine Gawain will yell at you just as loudly as he did Bors and I.”
Lancelot frowned, watching Tristan walk off. “Are you okay?”
Tristan glanced over his shoulder, briefly shouting, “I will be,” back to Lancelot before pushing into the stairwell and hiding against the wall as he made his phone call.
32.
Arthur parked on the side streets, rosary beads slipping between fingers as he silently prayed for luck, for protection, and for this to be the right lead. He’d checked his mobile to find Lancelot calling him and informing him that Dagonet and Galahad had been shot, Galahad in the more critical condition, but Dagonet unable to stay conscious thanks to Bors’ insistence that they not hesitate with the drugs. He’d put Lancelot in charge of the situation until he arrived and had hung up in the middle of Lancelot’s high-strung tirade. He kept his sunglasses on his face as he leaned against the bus stop and watched people go in and out of the office building, all of them in business suits and striding with a purpose.
He saw the one he wanted walk out fifteen minutes later, clad in business-like attire and heels that didn’t seem to match the rest. She walked like she knew half the world wanted her and she did it with beauty and flair, her hair curled and billowing as she dug her keys out of her purse, one hand on her mobile. Arthur pushed away from the bus stop and crossed the street, deftly dodging slowed and stopped cars as he went, the red light at the intersection allowing him the ease.
He fell into the shadow of her footsteps, always staying four steps behind.
Somewhere along the way, she made an odd turn into an alley, hanging up the mobile and picking up her already brisk pace. He followed her, tucking his sunglasses into his coat pocket and sliding his hands inside his pockets as well, casually slowing down as she turned around to face him.
“You’re not very good at tracking,” she commented evenly. “And what are you here to threaten me about? Another case of love you don’t want me to ruin?” she asked, raising one eyebrow to punctuate her caustic tone.
“I assumed someone had already been to see you,” Arthur began evenly. “No,” he shook his head, giving her a smile, a false sense of security. “Ma’am, I’m not here to threaten you.”
“You followed me into a dark alley,” she accused.
Arthur snorted, bemused. “You led me into a dark alley.” He shook his head, advancing by two steps as she stood her ground, never faltering under his gaze or his casual, yet threatening way of circling her. “You’re a piece of work, I found out. You befriend wanted men, you sleep with them, and then you turn on them the next morning and arrest them. Were you intending to do that with us as well?”
“My mark fell through,” she replied coldly.
Arthur smirked. “You picked Gawain. You’ll likely regret that.”
“Oh, please,” she gave a haughty laugh. “He’s a little boy in love. Do you really think he’s going to be able to hurt me?”
Arthur leaned in, hands on her hips as he gave her a sharp push to the alley wall – a push that she went along with easily, hitting the wall with a ‘thud’ – and she grinned viciously up at him. She dropped the briefcase and let Arthur take each of her wrists in his hands, pinning them above her head. She gave a cocky little smile and pushed her hips a little forward.
“You’re Arthur,” she said knowingly. “I was wondering when you would show up.”
“That ‘little boy in love’?” he mocked her tone, pulling away so that her pushes forward didn’t put their hips in contact at all. “He just had his object of affection shot and put into critical condition. Guinevere, I would start worrying,” Arthur advised, his voice low and threatening. He gave a wry grin. “There are men after us now, more hired hitmen. Who are you going to go after, Guinevere? Us? Them? Well, actually, you’re not going after anyone,” he commented evenly.
“Excuse me?” she asked coolly, her brow furrowed.
“You were just pulled off the case less than fifteen minutes ago when Mr. Laurence Black called in with a report that your life was threatened by various members of the mafia, a phone call was made from a man the mafia members murdered regarding a conspiracy to plot for your life. There are photographs of you being threatened by some of them, actually. Very realistic. It landed on the district chief’s desk with the phone records, scant reports, and a confession from someone who confessed that you were, indeed, on their list of people to kill next and that there are groups still after your life,” Arthur explained evenly, a small and smug smile on his face. Lancelot had pulled through and passed the test with flying colours. He’d be an excellent replacement.
Her eyes widened in fury. “You doctored pictures of me and faked evidence?” she raged, fighting against Arthur’s grip on her, flailing and earning no ground. “You fucking bastard, I ought to castrate you for this, you won’t…”
“Get away with it?” Arthur interrupted, his voice even. “Ma’am, if you’re lucky, Tristan and Gawain won’t hunt you down and kill you for the pleasure of it. You’ve been taken off the case for your protection because I don’t want slightly innocent blood shed over this and no doubt, Gawain will be out for your throat the moment he leaves Galahad’s bedside.”
“I’ll leave, I’ll turn you in,” she threatened.
“With what evidence?” Arthur asked tiredly. “The scene is clean by now, as I’m sure you know. No one’s done anything except get shot. Incidentally, if you do try and come after us, there’s a far more interesting story Mr. Black has set aside for you. It involves the murder of one Mr. Stevenson.”
“You think you can frame me?” she snarled.
Arthur arched an eyebrow. “We’ve done it once. Trust me when I say that you don’t want us as your enemies. I’d offer you a place on our contact roster, but somehow, I doubt you’d enjoy that.”
“You’ll never have the law on your side,” she murmured in disgust, curling her fingers into her palms. Arthur released her and withdrew his gun, taking three steps back and always keeping her at gunpoint in case she made a sudden move. “I won’t let you out of my sights, I won’t let you…”
“I will kill you,” Arthur interrupted, his voice even. “I don’t want to, and I’d rather avoid it, but if you insist on making things so difficult, I will send someone on the job to kill you. Do you value your life, Guin? Do you want to live?”
She stood her ground, glaring.
“All I ask is that you drop our case,” Arthur continued, his gaze intense and his words clipped. “Think about your well-being, ma’am, that’s all I ask. If you leave, if you request a transfer to somewhere else, you will be safe. If not, I can’t make promises that you’ll go unharmed.”
“Your boys would really come after me that viciously?” Guinevere questioned mildly, straightening her jacket as Arthur kept the gun trained on her heart, his hand never faltering once.
“They would have done it already if not for the group’s current status,” Arthur nodded. “Regarding the law. We have three police officers who work with us. Not all the men we kill are virtuous upstanding men, you know. Some members of the police force are more than happy to help us dispose of them and turn a blind eye to the other business deals we help facilitate.” He tilted his head slightly. “You’re a stubborn woman. You think you’re failing if you give up. Guinevere, take my advice and go. Your life is too high a price to pay to pursue this case.”
“And I should trust you?” she scoffed.
He nodded simply. “If we slip up again, by all means, come after us. I know for a fact you will have a very difficult time this time around and the fact that you’ve meddled with Gawain and his affairs puts your own life in danger. Leave. Work on other cases. Pretend you never heard of us.”
He tucked his gun away in its holster inside his coat and studied her for a moment, keeping an eye on the placement of her hands and making sure she wasn’t about to withdraw a concealed weapon. He gave her a small smile and listened to the clock chiming somewhere in the distance, most likely at his cathedral.
“Are you going to listen to me?” he asked evenly.
Her chin was jutting out stubbornly, fury in her eyes. “Yes.”
“Good. You just saved your own life.”
33.
They had moved Galahad out of the ICU and into his room four hours ago and Gawain had yet to move from his bedside. Around twenty minutes ago, a nurse had come in with a bucket of ice chips and a small glass, wearing a tired smile as she told Gawain that Galahad was likely to come out of the anesthetic any minute now and that he might enjoy something cool for his mouth.
Gawain swirled the melting ice chips in the cup, staring down at them and listening to the steady beeping of the heart rate monitor. Gawain intended to be there when he woke up, hopefully with some ice intact so he could do something instead of sitting there uselessly. He sighed, swirling his index finger around the ice chips, getting up to get a new cup – his fourth now in waiting for Galahad to awake. Gawain had no idea where anyone else was and he didn’t care much. He just wanted Galahad to wake up, just so he’d know that there were no complications from the surgery.
“Hey,” the word was barely more than a whisper, but Gawain heard it. He was by the bedside almost immediately, sitting in the chair and draping his arms over the railings. Gawain tried to smile, but his brows knit together in worry and he let out a relieved laugh, brushing one hand through Galahad’s hair. “You look like death,” Galahad whispered, eyes half-open.
Gawain sputtered with more relieved laughter, louder than before. “You scared the living fuck out of me,” Gawain accused Galahad. “Why’d you go and get shot?” he closed his eyes tightly, grasping Galahad’s hand with both of his own and pressing it to his forehead, simply taking inordinate pleasure in feeling Galahad’s pulse healthily beating.
“Didn’t mean to,” Galahad replied in a small voice. “Dagonet okay?”
“He’s fine,” Gawain reassured him. “Are you okay?”
Galahad pressed his lips together. “I hurt,” he said slowly, lips curving upwards in a tremulous smile.
“The Doctor said it was probably shock that was letting you go without pain before,” Gawain commented quietly, shaking his head as he rubbed his thumb over Galahad’s lips and felt the smile. “I hope you realize you’ve just used up every last close call. You’re never allowed to do that to me again.” He clasped Galahad’s hand a little tighter. “Don’t…don’t get hurt on me, Galahad. I didn’t bring you into this to get hurt.”
Galahad’s smile turned wistful. “Things happen,” he whispered, burrowing deeper into the white sheets – everything sanitized as much as it could be – while his eyes began to slip shut. “Lots of things happen and they’re not all you’fault,” he mumbled drowsily. Gawain’s gaze slipped to the IV and he wondered briefly just how many drugs they were pushing into Galahad’s system. “M’going to have to convince you o’that.”
“Take your time,” Gawain insisted softly, sitting back in the chair and allowing Galahad to keep a firm grasp on his hand.
34.
Days passed and while Galahad seemed to be healing faster than anyone expected, Dagonet’s wound was giving him trouble in both standing, walking, and the pain seemed substantially lasting. Bors continued to insist that he be given the strongest drugs, which kept him sleeping the majority of the time. They took turns by Dagonet’s bedside; even Galahad when Gawain would help him there, or a willing nurse would take one look at his face and give him a wheelchair to traverse the hospital with. At first, Arthur had refused to leave, but Lancelot had forcibly dragged him away to rest, and they took turns with Dagonet while he slept, muttering things they never would in the presence of someone else. Dagonet’s dreams were rife with whispered words and confessions.
“I think I love him,” Gawain confessed. He tapped his fingers along the sheets and always glanced out into the hallway where he knew Galahad was sitting. He hung his head and sighed. “If not for me, he wouldn’t be hurt. I’m the one that got him hurt.”
The sun rose.
“I think he loves me,” Galahad whispered, his hands wringing a pillow as he exhaled. “All the money in the world and this is worth far more than anything I’ve got. Well…maybe not the sword…all right, all right, fine, even the sword. I love him, but I don’t want him to be hurt. I don’t want to be hurt anymore. What do I do?”
The sun set.
“Arthur’s training me for this. I don’t want it,” Lancelot hissed as Dagonet slept. The sun warmed the back of Lancelot’s neck and it matched the rising flush in his cheeks at the mere thought of leading. “I-I…Christ, this is hard,” he swore, pacing about the room. “When is he going to understand that I’m not ready!”
Evening set in.
“I’m not ready for death, Dag. I’m not,” Bors rasped, pictures of his children on Dagonet’s bed. “I need to see them grow up. Have their own miserable kids.” He coughed hoarsely. “You need to be there too. We need to get out.”
Midnight came and went.
“Don’t you dare ever do that again,” Tristan threatened. “I’m not ready to see you die.” He carved small symbols into his forearm as he spoke, tiny letters in blood and not once was his voice affected by pain. “I die before you. We swore that in blood. I swore that to the Gods. My death keeps you alive.” The darkest blanket of night was upon them and Tristan carved in the light of the moon. “I die. Everyone lives. That was my promise.”
Night passed.
“God, why have you let harm come to my men?” Arthur pleaded desperately. “Our Father, who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name, thy kingdom…every night I pray to you, every night I pray that I might take the harm that comes to us, that I alone suffer! Thy kingdom come, thy will be done on Earth as it is in Heaven.”
Arthur closed his eyes.
“Give us this day our holy bread and forgive us…” he tripped over the words, his gaze on Dagonet. “Forgive us,” he said with more force. “Forgive us our trespasses, so that we may forgive those who trespass against us. And lead us not into temptation, Lord, but deliver us from evil,” Arthur mumbled.
“Amen.”
Morning came once more.
All eyes were drawn to Dagonet’s hospital bed and the silence was overwhelming, the only sound in the air was the beeping of the machines tracking Dagonet’s heart. Arthur hadn’t left his side, clinging so tightly to the rosary that there were marks on Arthur’s palm. He’d prayed all night, his lips chapped and his voice hoarse. Now, all the Knights were in the room for a summoned meeting. Gawain held close to Galahad, sitting in the chair beside him and his hands never left the boy’s body. If Arthur could describe it at all, it was as though all the lights had gone off in Gawain’s world save for one spotlight on Galahad. Tristan leaned against the closed door, arms crossed, and the smallest hint of his knife showing. Bors was on the opposite side of Dagonet’s bed and Lancelot was behind Arthur – always backing him up.
Arthur inhaled sharply, standing slowly and making his way to the end of Dagonet’s bed. He heard the light tap of skin on skin and Bors murmuring, “Dag, wake up,” and Arthur took that as his signal to begin.
“Knights,” he said evenly. “It’s come to my attention that perhaps I haven’t been thinking about the good of us. That perhaps, I’ve made mistakes.”
Silence.
“And so,” Arthur sighed. “It’s come to this. The door is behind Tristan. Knights, you have served me and you have done it with loyalty, honour, and skill. You are my men, and I am far prouder of you than I could be of any family,” Arthur swore vehemently, “of any relation, but if you see it fit to walk out that door today, I would understand. I would understand if you felt that today was your last day of service to me and to those who pay for us.”
He heard rustling behind him. “Arthur,” Lancelot said quietly.
“You’ve given me your time and your oaths and your blood,” he said, choking on the last word as he looked from Dagonet to Galahad. He closed his eyes tightly and took a deep breath. When he opened his eyes, he found a new world. “And now, I am giving you a choice.”
“Arthur,” Lancelot protested again.
“The door is over there.”
The telltale sounds of shuffling assaulted Arthur’s ears as he watched Gawain aid Galahad in standing, Galahad’s face a portrait of such pain and anguish that Arthur wished they’d never taken the boy aboard. Gawain smiled tersely as he nearly carried Galahad on their way to the door.
“This is far too high a price to pay,” Gawain whispered, his hold on Galahad tightening. The only words from Galahad were silent and expressed in the pain on his face. “Far too high,” he repeated, his voice mumbled. Galahad leaned closer and remained ever silent as Gawain pushed open the door and led him down the hall. Tristan caught Arthur’s gaze and shook his head.
“Not you,” Lancelot hissed.
Tristan gave a calm smile, tucking away his knife. “It’s my mess. I should clean it up. You shouldn’t have me on your shoulders to burden your stride forward,” he said clearly, as though he’d been thinking on it. He turned and slipped away from the room, not even leaving a shadow as he went. Arthur looked down at the ground, closing his eyes tightly. Three men.
And then there was the scraping of a chair.
Arthur looked up sharply, whirling to glare at Bors. “Bors,” he said helplessly, his eyes wild with panic. Bors shrugged apologetically, turning and mouthing ‘sorry’ to Dagonet. He patted Arthur on the shoulder, pressing their foreheads together. “Bors, no,” Arthur pleaded, panic in his voice.
“I’m too old,” his voice was weary and hoarse. “My Vanora’s got another on the way.”
“Bors,” Arthur pleaded as Bors pulled away, clapping Arthur on the back.
Bors paused at the doorway and turned around. “If it’s a boy,” he said, his fingers wrapped around the handle of the door, “he’s going to be named after you.” He cleared his throat. “Lancelot. Dag.” He looked up at Arthur and shook his head. “I’m sorry, Arthur. I’m too old.”
The door slammed as loud as a bullet piercing concrete.
Arthur closed his eyes.
35.
“You can take him home, but don’t dare let him get away with physical activity,” the nurse instructed sternly, handing Gawain a few paper bags. “These are his drugs. He takes three of those a day for the pain, five of the blue ones a day with food, and if he’s in a lot of pain, you can give him some of the stronger pain medication, but use it sparingly.”
“I understand,” Gawain nodded, glancing over his shoulder to check on Galahad. He had insisted on dressing himself, managing to slip into his jeans without trouble, but he was having some trouble with his shirt. Gawain pressed his lips together and excused himself quietly to help Galahad slide into his shirt, earning a glare from Galahad, but Galahad quickly allowed Gawain to let his hands hover lightly over Galahad’s shoulders, straightening his shirt. Gawain made his way back to the nurse. “Anything else?”
“He’ll have to bathe extremely carefully. He’ll likely need help,” the nurse went on sympathetically. “I suppose he has that?”
“He has that,” Gawain confirmed quickly, packing things up in a bag.
“Gawain,” Galahad commented quietly. Gawain turned around and found Galahad holding out his coat with a resigned look on his face. Gawain turned quickly to the nurse and gave her a smile.
“Is that everything?” Gawain asked.
The nurse handed him a booklet. “Call if you have questions. Typically, common sense will do. He’ll need to come in for check-ups every few days so we can be sure he’s healing well. Please be careful,” she insisted.
Gawain watched her leave the room, closing the door gently behind her before he turned back to Galahad and approached, taking the coat out of his hands and standing behind Galahad, making sure it was on properly. Gawain rested his hands on Galahad’s shoulders as he finished everything, nothing left to be done.
“You don’t want to say goodbye?” Galahad murmured quietly.
Gawain made a non-committal noise. “Not particularly. The sooner we get out of this damned group, the sooner you’re safer and I can get you back to health.” He gave an even grunt. “Guinevere disappeared from her flat, just up in the air. I was really looking forward to some just retribution,” he growled, rubbing one hand up and down Galahad’s upper arm.
“We’re actually leaving then?”
“This place and the Knights, yeah,” Gawain confirmed. “You got hurt, and I’m going to help you heal. It means we’re going to leave them for a while.”
“For good?” Galahad turned, staying in Gawain’s grasp. His face looked innocent and vulnerable at the moment and Gawain immediately wished he had never brought Galahad into this. Galahad frowned as Gawain slipped a pill into Galahad’s mouth and held up water for him. “Are you m’nurse?” Galahad mumbled, swallowing the water and the pill. He gave a mischievous grin. “If you are, can we get you one of those little white skirts? Surely it’d show off your figure.”
“No,” Gawain firmly responded, slipping one arm around Galahad’s back and bending to pick up the bag of clothes he’d brought, which was now filled with drugs and assorted possessions. “Let’s get you home.”
“Where you’ll give me a spongebath?” Galahad asked hopefully.
Gawain laughed. “Where I’ll give you a spongebath.”
*
Gawain held the cloth above the bowl of water, pleased that Galahad had been honestly surprised that Gawain hadn’t been just joking around with him about the spongebath. He had stripped Galahad of all his clothes slowly, taking time to undo the bandages around the wounds and leaning in to kiss slowly as he pressed the damp cloth to the wounds to tidy them, giving Galahad something for distraction. Galahad gave a weak whimper of pain into the kiss as he dug his hands into Gawain’s hair and clutched tightly, biting Gawain’s lower lip as Gawain dug a little deeper to clean the ricochet wounds.
Finally, Gawain parted and pulled the cloth away. “There,” he smiled. “Not so bad?”
“No,” Galahad panted. “Fucking terrible.”
Gawain rolled his eyes. “I’m sorry I’ve only had a sword wound puncturing my chest. I can’t compare the experience of pain.”
Galahad looked up in a panic. “When did that happen!” he demanded, his voice high-strung. He sat up and gave a cry of pain, making Gawain glare at him viciously and give him a gentle push back down. “You were hurt? Gawain!” He lay back with great hesitance, only staying with Gawain splayed his fingers over Galahad’s collarbone and leaned in to kiss softly along Galahad’s neck, traversing lower as he bathed Galahad, lightly dabbing with gentle care.
“Two years ago,” Gawain replied quietly.
“You got hurt too,” Galahad commented indignantly. “Why didn’t you leave then?”
“Because you don’t just leave. What happened last week is something that has never happened before,” Gawain continued in a soft tone, lowering him and massaging Galahad’s thighs with the damp cloth, kissing at his hips. “We were lucky, Galahad. We were incredibly lucky. We got a second chance.”
“But what about my debt?” Galahad asked softly.
Gawain paused, hands on Galahad’s knees. “We’ll figure something out.”
36.
Lancelot arrived to Arthur’s darkened flat, knocking on the door and receiving no answer. He sighed and rubbed his temples, wondering where Arthur could be. He’d called the pub, Vanora, Gawain, and Tristan – receiving no answer from the last – and had discovered nothing about Arthur’s whereabouts. He knocked a little harder, just in case Arthur was listening to something or watching the television.
Lancelot heard thumping around and he frowned, pounding harder on the door, wondering if Arthur was in trouble. “Arthur?” he called out loudly, banging with his fist. “Arthur, open the door!”
Two minutes later, the door was drawn open. Lancelot stared and gave a sigh as Arthur revealed that the only trouble he was having was with sobriety. Arthur’s breath reeked of whiskey and his hair was tousled, clothes mussed and his eyes had a certain reddened nature to them. Lancelot shook his head, pushing inside and locking the door behind him. “Arthur,” he chided, wrapping one arm around Arthur’s waist as Arthur hiccupped and stumbled back towards the bedroom.
“I…” Arthur murmured, his voice heavily slurred. He crawled onto his bed when they reached the bedroom. Lancelot crouched down to pick up the empty bottle of whiskey and he sighed, knowing that it was a new purchase from yesterday, meaning Arthur had drank the entire thing in one go. Arthur gave a sputter of a laugh, looking at Lancelot’s face. “My friend Jack…he helped me,” he grinned, writhing onto his back and staring up at Lancelot with his head at the foot of the bed.
“Arthur, why didn’t you call me?” Lancelot tilted his head to speak to Arthur.
“You’re upside down,” Arthur commented distractedly, his brow furrowed as he reached out, trying to touch Lancelot. “I wanted to be alone. I was left, I am alone. Alone. M’in this alone.”
“No, you’re not,” Lancelot replied vehemently. “You have Dagonet. And you have me.”
“I do have you,” Arthur said quietly, looking up still, his arm collapsing back onto the sheets as his face took on a more serious expression while he still looked up. A pensive look flickered over Arthur’s features as he reached up and grasped Lancelot’s hand, tugging him to sit down on the bed. “Lancelot…”
“I’m here, Arthur,” Lancelot assured him, looking around the room for a bowl to put cold water into to give Arthur a cold cloth for his head, simultaneously wondering if Arthur kept his drinking glass beside the bed as usual – so he could have something in the middle of the night if he woke up parched. Arthur twisted a little on the black bedding so he could look at Lancelot.
Arthur blinked slowly, looking up as though he were in a daze. “Move in with me?” he asked quietly, as though his words were thickened. There was no doubt, though, that Arthur was completely serious.
Lancelot gave an uncomfortable chuckle. “Are you sure there’s room for me and your God?” He felt slightly surprised, touched, and wholly like this was a passing dream. They’d known each other for nearly fifteen years now and never once had Arthur made any sort of hints that he wanted Lancelot to live with him.
“Move in with me,” Arthur repeated, his voice just as slurred and just as quiet, but it held more firmness. “I need…I need someone. I need something. I need…I need you. Move in with me,” he repeated over and over again, his eyes slipping shut as he grasped Lancelot by the tails of his shirt and tugged himself into an upright sitting position. He didn’t lean in so much as collapse into Lancelot’s arms, lips immediately pressing to Lancelot’s neck – not quite moving, but merely resting there – and breathing in Lancelot’s cologne mixed with the scent of his sweat.
“Arthur, are you going to remember this come morning?” Lancelot quietly asked.
Arthur pulled away, far enough to look Lancelot in the eyes. “Move in with me,” he said once more, his words even and weighted with the severity of the decision.
Lancelot nodded slowly, his voice caught in his throat. “Yes,” he finally whispered, the word sounding strangled and filled with all the emotions he thought he’d lost the ability to experience. He leaned in and kissed Arthur slowly, pushing him down to the bed and covering Arthur’s body with his own, slipping his hands inside Arthur’s button-down and pushing each button out of its hole. “You’re not alone,” he whispered as he undressed Arthur. “You have me. I’ll always be here.”
Arthur took deep, even breaths, his eyes half-lidded as Lancelot pushed his shirt off, unbuttoning the black trousers and pushing them down until Arthur was only wearing his boxers, whispering mumbled and slurred drunken words that Lancelot couldn’t decipher.
Lancelot smiled endearingly, one hand cupping Arthur’s cheek. “It’ll be okay,” he whispered, leaning in and whispering the words again and again as he lightly pressed his lips to Arthur’s jawline, grabbing the blankets and covering Arthur with them, not once prying Arthur’s hands off of him as Arthur clung tightly. “It’ll be okay,” he whispered. “We’ll be okay.”
“Lancelot,” Arthur exhaled heavily. “We’re not out of the woods. Not yet.”
“We will be,” Lancelot replied confidently. “Go to sleep, Arthur. We’ll hunt down our would-be assassins in the morning.”
Arthur mumbled some more before falling asleep, his head nestled in the crook of Lancelot’s neck. Arthur snored lightly and Lancelot stayed awake the whole night, studying each facet of the flat and realizing that he had just agreed to join this part of Arthur’s life – home and hearth.
37.
“Easy!” Bors warned, holding the door open. “Don’t go barreling in,” he threatened Dagonet, standing there and leaning against the wall for support, “and if any of my little bastards,” he shouted inside, “so much as mauls you, they’re going without treats for a week!” When he heard the reply of silence, he gave a satisfied nod and returned to help Dagonet walk. Dagonet hissed every few moments, but for the most part, he had gone quiet.
“Vanora?” Dagonet asked simply.
Bors closed the door behind them. “Resting. Doctor’s orders. Three guesses as to how she reacted to that order,” Bors gave an adoring chuckle. “She’s glad you’re back. She misses talking since I’m never around.” He maneuvered Dagonet past the watching children – wide eyes and silent as the grave. Dagonet slipped out of Bors’ grasp and slowly shuffled the rest of the way, pushing open the bedroom door to find a spare bed moved in.
“Dag,” Vanora greeted him warmly, swathed in blankets and glowing. “I tried to come and visit you…” Dagonet glared at her reprovingly. “Oh, don’t give me that look. It’s a technicality. Ever since the last pregnancy, we’re being more careful.”
Bors gave a small smile. “I’ll close the door. Nora, love, if he does so much as try and help you, a swift kick right in the balls ought to do it. Send him to bed.”
“Can do,” she said, no hint of playing in her eyes. Dagonet shuffled to the bed and sat down lightly, one hand always resting atop his bandaged wound. Bors gave them both one last look before closing the door and tending to the children. Vanora settled into the sheets, her hair framing her head like a fiery halo. “How you feeling, love?”
“As though I were shot,” Dagonet replied plainly, settling in himself and propping his back up with pillows so he could study her face – looking paler than normal. “Are you all right?” he asked quietly, recalling the last pregnancy and the miscarriage that had stolen their last child from them at the end of the first trimester. Vanora had ceased to speak for a week, locking herself in her room, and only coming out after that week, eyes swollen and red from crying, small smile on her face as she had kissed Bors, whispering, ‘We’ll try again.’
She grumbled slightly as she gave the sheets a swift punch. “My arse is sore from all this useless sitting. That bastard husband of mine keeps insisting on doing everything for me,” she commented with wonder. “The birth can’t come quickly enough.”
Dagonet gave her an even smile. “The rest should be good for you.”
“At least now I have company,” she smiled warmly at him. “How’s Galahad? Bors tells me he was worrying you lot.” She mumbled and swore under her breath. “Few more days of this, the doctor says. I can’t wait to be on my feet again.”
“I’m sure Gawain is taking proper care,” Dagonet commented with the slightest note of amusement in his voice. “He wouldn’t let us touch the pup the entire time he was in the hospital. Come to think of it, he barely let the nurses do their job.”
“He’s in love,” Vanora blithely replied.
“Of course he is,” Dagonet swiftly replied, shifting to get comfortable. “Just don’t let him or the boy hear that. They’d likely put a knife to our throats until we took it back.”
Her laugh was musical in the air, loud and happy. “Boys,” she lightly commented, still releasing the last remnants of her laughter, mingled with her voice. “You boys with your silly denial of anything resembling emotion.”
“They’ll be okay,” Dagonet said evenly, his eyes dropping as he fished through his pocket for the pill he was supposed to take. “I’m far more concerned about Arthur.”
Vanora pressed her lips together, giving in to the silence.
“I understand that Bors had to leave, I understand that Gawain and Galahad are too afraid of further damage, and I understand that Tristan feels he needs to remove himself while he works out the problem,” Dagonet murmured evenly. “None of that…none of that is going to make Arthur feel less guilty about what’s happened.”
“A good prayer with God and a good tumble with Lancelot won’t do it this time?” Vanora ventured quietly. She shook her head. “What am I saying, of course it won’t.” She hesitated. “Dagonet…”
“Yes?”
“Are you boys safe?”
Dagonet swallowed the pill without the aid of liquid, looking over at her with his darkened eyes. “Not yet.”
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.
31.
Gawain stumbled into the hospital behind Bors, sliding to the side to get out of the way of the automatic doors. “Daniel,” Bors rasped. “We got a call saying he’d just come out of surgery. What happened?” The sound of artificial life support echoed around them, burning into Gawain’s hearing. He absolutely hated the bright glare of the hospital, seeping into his skin as though trying to invade him from the outside. Gawain searched for Galahad. He’d been with Dagonet, surely he should be around there someplace.
“It was a bullet to the stomach,” one of the Doctors on duty flipped his chart and smiled wanly. “I’m Dr. Christopher, I was in adjacent surgery, but I supervised. There was an exit wound. It missed the major arteries. He’s going to be fine, though you should thank the young man who brought him in. Mr. Smith may have bled out if he hadn’t been brought in immediately.”
Gawain stepped forward, noting that Tristan was already lurking off to the side, drifting into clusters of people and finding a way to sneak away in order to go find Dagonet. Gawain cleared his throat and tried to quell his rising panic.
“The young man,” Gawain echoed the Doctor’s tone. “Is he in a waiting room or…”
Dr. Christopher pressed his lips together, staying silent.
“What happened?” Bors asked, his voice sounding unsure.
“Your friend Daniel is fine, as I said. Clean exit, no issues. However, the young man…Garrett…there’s the bullet that grazed his side, which is not the issue. The problem of course, was the ricochet from another bullet. We found pieces between his ribs and he’s still bleeding.”
“Still?” Bors and Gawain repeated together.
“He’s in surgery,” Dr. Christopher nodded. Gawain was staggering backwards until the back of his legs hit a chair and he collapsed into it, staring forward, numb. Bors continually checked back, searching Gawain’s face for emotion, but when he found none and determined it a lost cause, turned back to the Doctor. “It should only be another hour or so. He looks like he’ll be fine. Of course, not without a good dose of healing time for it, but he’ll be fine.”
Dr. Christopher nodded once more, pivoted, and walked away in the harsh lights.
Bors turned and studied Gawain carefully, hesitant in his approach. He sat down and gently nudged Gawain in the shoulder, trying to get any kind of reaction. It took about four good, hard nudges before Gawain looked up and had the semblance of any emotion besides shock on his face. Bors raised an eyebrow and adjusted in his seat until they were sitting there shoulder-to-shoulder.
“He’s hurt,” Gawain said evenly.
Bors grunted, not really sure what civil society would say. Then again, he was never civil society. “You gone and fallen for this whelp? You care that much?”
“For once in your life,” Gawain growled, “shut the fuck up. God damn it. I told him that he shouldn’t be out there with Dagonet. That should have been Tristan’s job. Now he’s hurt.”
“We’ve all been hurt in the process. We’ve all got our wounds.”
“Not like this.”
Gawain neglected to move and in the silence, all Bors could do was stare straightforward and hope that Dagonet was going to be all right and that Gawain’s whelp would be okay, but only because Gawain and his own brats seemed to like him well enough.
“Hey,” Bors nudged Gawain again. “He’s a stubborn bastard, right?”
“Right,” Gawain agreed, his voice even and numb.
Bors smirked. “He’ll be on his back under you in no time.”
Strangely, instead of getting hit, Bors only received an appreciative snort of laughter and a genuine smile from Gawain. With a nod, Gawain stood and waited for Bors to join him as he took a deep breath and glanced down the hall. There were fewer people and neither of them could find Tristan at all in the bright lights – though they knew, but would never say, that if Tristan didn’t want to be seen even in the harshest light of day, he would find a way.
“Let’s check on Dag, why don’t we?” Gawain murmured, already one step down the hall.
Bors followed. They followed each other to the depths of hell every day. One trip down the hospital corridors was just another step into the lower circles.
*
Tristan watched through the glass as Dagonet slept peacefully in his hospital bed. He hadn’t moved since the nurses had told him which room Dagonet had been assigned to, just as Tristan was sure that Gawain was by Galahad’s bedside the moment that he had found out which room he’d been appointed to. Hours had passed since they had called Arthur and Lancelot with the message ‘Code Five’. They had yet to show up.
Tristan heard a throat cleared behind him and he turned to find Lancelot standing there, looking tousled and worse for the wear.
“Where’s Arthur?” Tristan frowned.
Lancelot shook his head, clearly irritated. “Errand.” He peered into Dagonet’s hospital room, Lancelot’s posture and his expression vulnerable. “I can’t believe he got shot,” Lancelot murmured quietly. “We were followed,” he explained to Tristan, not taking his eyes off of Dagonet. “Someone was trying to kill us. It looks as though we weren’t the only ones.” He pressed one hand to the glass and shook his head. “I’m surprised. Dagonet is usually careful.”
Tristan turned. “Dagonet’s going to be fine,” he said lightly. “Yes, he was shot, but he’ll heal well. We’re not worried about him.”
“Then why are we worried?” Lancelot frowned, confused.
Tristan blinked, shaking his head. “You haven’t heard? The whelp got shot too. Ricochet one side, grazed wound on the other. They’re far more concerned about him.” He snorted and shook his head. “Dag’s just on too many drugs to be conscious.” He sighed and checked his mobile, frowning when there were no missed calls, no voice mails, and the mobile was clearly on. “My contact was supposed to phone. I have an idea who’s behind this, but I wanted some confirmation. I’m fairly sure a contract was signed in this case.” He smiled thoughtfully. “I wonder what the prices on our heads is.”
“Have you gone to see him?” Lancelot cut in, alarmed. “Galahad! You’ve…why aren’t you standing outside his room, why aren’t you checking to make sure he’s okay!”
Tristan raised an eyebrow. “It’s one visitor only. You really think Gawain has left his bedside?” He pressed his lips together, smugly grinning as a text message flashed on his mobile. “Perfect,” he murmured to himself, walking down the hall. “I’m going to hide in the stairwell and make a call. You can go and check on Galahad if you want. I imagine Gawain will yell at you just as loudly as he did Bors and I.”
Lancelot frowned, watching Tristan walk off. “Are you okay?”
Tristan glanced over his shoulder, briefly shouting, “I will be,” back to Lancelot before pushing into the stairwell and hiding against the wall as he made his phone call.
32.
Arthur parked on the side streets, rosary beads slipping between fingers as he silently prayed for luck, for protection, and for this to be the right lead. He’d checked his mobile to find Lancelot calling him and informing him that Dagonet and Galahad had been shot, Galahad in the more critical condition, but Dagonet unable to stay conscious thanks to Bors’ insistence that they not hesitate with the drugs. He’d put Lancelot in charge of the situation until he arrived and had hung up in the middle of Lancelot’s high-strung tirade. He kept his sunglasses on his face as he leaned against the bus stop and watched people go in and out of the office building, all of them in business suits and striding with a purpose.
He saw the one he wanted walk out fifteen minutes later, clad in business-like attire and heels that didn’t seem to match the rest. She walked like she knew half the world wanted her and she did it with beauty and flair, her hair curled and billowing as she dug her keys out of her purse, one hand on her mobile. Arthur pushed away from the bus stop and crossed the street, deftly dodging slowed and stopped cars as he went, the red light at the intersection allowing him the ease.
He fell into the shadow of her footsteps, always staying four steps behind.
Somewhere along the way, she made an odd turn into an alley, hanging up the mobile and picking up her already brisk pace. He followed her, tucking his sunglasses into his coat pocket and sliding his hands inside his pockets as well, casually slowing down as she turned around to face him.
“You’re not very good at tracking,” she commented evenly. “And what are you here to threaten me about? Another case of love you don’t want me to ruin?” she asked, raising one eyebrow to punctuate her caustic tone.
“I assumed someone had already been to see you,” Arthur began evenly. “No,” he shook his head, giving her a smile, a false sense of security. “Ma’am, I’m not here to threaten you.”
“You followed me into a dark alley,” she accused.
Arthur snorted, bemused. “You led me into a dark alley.” He shook his head, advancing by two steps as she stood her ground, never faltering under his gaze or his casual, yet threatening way of circling her. “You’re a piece of work, I found out. You befriend wanted men, you sleep with them, and then you turn on them the next morning and arrest them. Were you intending to do that with us as well?”
“My mark fell through,” she replied coldly.
Arthur smirked. “You picked Gawain. You’ll likely regret that.”
“Oh, please,” she gave a haughty laugh. “He’s a little boy in love. Do you really think he’s going to be able to hurt me?”
Arthur leaned in, hands on her hips as he gave her a sharp push to the alley wall – a push that she went along with easily, hitting the wall with a ‘thud’ – and she grinned viciously up at him. She dropped the briefcase and let Arthur take each of her wrists in his hands, pinning them above her head. She gave a cocky little smile and pushed her hips a little forward.
“You’re Arthur,” she said knowingly. “I was wondering when you would show up.”
“That ‘little boy in love’?” he mocked her tone, pulling away so that her pushes forward didn’t put their hips in contact at all. “He just had his object of affection shot and put into critical condition. Guinevere, I would start worrying,” Arthur advised, his voice low and threatening. He gave a wry grin. “There are men after us now, more hired hitmen. Who are you going to go after, Guinevere? Us? Them? Well, actually, you’re not going after anyone,” he commented evenly.
“Excuse me?” she asked coolly, her brow furrowed.
“You were just pulled off the case less than fifteen minutes ago when Mr. Laurence Black called in with a report that your life was threatened by various members of the mafia, a phone call was made from a man the mafia members murdered regarding a conspiracy to plot for your life. There are photographs of you being threatened by some of them, actually. Very realistic. It landed on the district chief’s desk with the phone records, scant reports, and a confession from someone who confessed that you were, indeed, on their list of people to kill next and that there are groups still after your life,” Arthur explained evenly, a small and smug smile on his face. Lancelot had pulled through and passed the test with flying colours. He’d be an excellent replacement.
Her eyes widened in fury. “You doctored pictures of me and faked evidence?” she raged, fighting against Arthur’s grip on her, flailing and earning no ground. “You fucking bastard, I ought to castrate you for this, you won’t…”
“Get away with it?” Arthur interrupted, his voice even. “Ma’am, if you’re lucky, Tristan and Gawain won’t hunt you down and kill you for the pleasure of it. You’ve been taken off the case for your protection because I don’t want slightly innocent blood shed over this and no doubt, Gawain will be out for your throat the moment he leaves Galahad’s bedside.”
“I’ll leave, I’ll turn you in,” she threatened.
“With what evidence?” Arthur asked tiredly. “The scene is clean by now, as I’m sure you know. No one’s done anything except get shot. Incidentally, if you do try and come after us, there’s a far more interesting story Mr. Black has set aside for you. It involves the murder of one Mr. Stevenson.”
“You think you can frame me?” she snarled.
Arthur arched an eyebrow. “We’ve done it once. Trust me when I say that you don’t want us as your enemies. I’d offer you a place on our contact roster, but somehow, I doubt you’d enjoy that.”
“You’ll never have the law on your side,” she murmured in disgust, curling her fingers into her palms. Arthur released her and withdrew his gun, taking three steps back and always keeping her at gunpoint in case she made a sudden move. “I won’t let you out of my sights, I won’t let you…”
“I will kill you,” Arthur interrupted, his voice even. “I don’t want to, and I’d rather avoid it, but if you insist on making things so difficult, I will send someone on the job to kill you. Do you value your life, Guin? Do you want to live?”
She stood her ground, glaring.
“All I ask is that you drop our case,” Arthur continued, his gaze intense and his words clipped. “Think about your well-being, ma’am, that’s all I ask. If you leave, if you request a transfer to somewhere else, you will be safe. If not, I can’t make promises that you’ll go unharmed.”
“Your boys would really come after me that viciously?” Guinevere questioned mildly, straightening her jacket as Arthur kept the gun trained on her heart, his hand never faltering once.
“They would have done it already if not for the group’s current status,” Arthur nodded. “Regarding the law. We have three police officers who work with us. Not all the men we kill are virtuous upstanding men, you know. Some members of the police force are more than happy to help us dispose of them and turn a blind eye to the other business deals we help facilitate.” He tilted his head slightly. “You’re a stubborn woman. You think you’re failing if you give up. Guinevere, take my advice and go. Your life is too high a price to pay to pursue this case.”
“And I should trust you?” she scoffed.
He nodded simply. “If we slip up again, by all means, come after us. I know for a fact you will have a very difficult time this time around and the fact that you’ve meddled with Gawain and his affairs puts your own life in danger. Leave. Work on other cases. Pretend you never heard of us.”
He tucked his gun away in its holster inside his coat and studied her for a moment, keeping an eye on the placement of her hands and making sure she wasn’t about to withdraw a concealed weapon. He gave her a small smile and listened to the clock chiming somewhere in the distance, most likely at his cathedral.
“Are you going to listen to me?” he asked evenly.
Her chin was jutting out stubbornly, fury in her eyes. “Yes.”
“Good. You just saved your own life.”
33.
They had moved Galahad out of the ICU and into his room four hours ago and Gawain had yet to move from his bedside. Around twenty minutes ago, a nurse had come in with a bucket of ice chips and a small glass, wearing a tired smile as she told Gawain that Galahad was likely to come out of the anesthetic any minute now and that he might enjoy something cool for his mouth.
Gawain swirled the melting ice chips in the cup, staring down at them and listening to the steady beeping of the heart rate monitor. Gawain intended to be there when he woke up, hopefully with some ice intact so he could do something instead of sitting there uselessly. He sighed, swirling his index finger around the ice chips, getting up to get a new cup – his fourth now in waiting for Galahad to awake. Gawain had no idea where anyone else was and he didn’t care much. He just wanted Galahad to wake up, just so he’d know that there were no complications from the surgery.
“Hey,” the word was barely more than a whisper, but Gawain heard it. He was by the bedside almost immediately, sitting in the chair and draping his arms over the railings. Gawain tried to smile, but his brows knit together in worry and he let out a relieved laugh, brushing one hand through Galahad’s hair. “You look like death,” Galahad whispered, eyes half-open.
Gawain sputtered with more relieved laughter, louder than before. “You scared the living fuck out of me,” Gawain accused Galahad. “Why’d you go and get shot?” he closed his eyes tightly, grasping Galahad’s hand with both of his own and pressing it to his forehead, simply taking inordinate pleasure in feeling Galahad’s pulse healthily beating.
“Didn’t mean to,” Galahad replied in a small voice. “Dagonet okay?”
“He’s fine,” Gawain reassured him. “Are you okay?”
Galahad pressed his lips together. “I hurt,” he said slowly, lips curving upwards in a tremulous smile.
“The Doctor said it was probably shock that was letting you go without pain before,” Gawain commented quietly, shaking his head as he rubbed his thumb over Galahad’s lips and felt the smile. “I hope you realize you’ve just used up every last close call. You’re never allowed to do that to me again.” He clasped Galahad’s hand a little tighter. “Don’t…don’t get hurt on me, Galahad. I didn’t bring you into this to get hurt.”
Galahad’s smile turned wistful. “Things happen,” he whispered, burrowing deeper into the white sheets – everything sanitized as much as it could be – while his eyes began to slip shut. “Lots of things happen and they’re not all you’fault,” he mumbled drowsily. Gawain’s gaze slipped to the IV and he wondered briefly just how many drugs they were pushing into Galahad’s system. “M’going to have to convince you o’that.”
“Take your time,” Gawain insisted softly, sitting back in the chair and allowing Galahad to keep a firm grasp on his hand.
34.
Days passed and while Galahad seemed to be healing faster than anyone expected, Dagonet’s wound was giving him trouble in both standing, walking, and the pain seemed substantially lasting. Bors continued to insist that he be given the strongest drugs, which kept him sleeping the majority of the time. They took turns by Dagonet’s bedside; even Galahad when Gawain would help him there, or a willing nurse would take one look at his face and give him a wheelchair to traverse the hospital with. At first, Arthur had refused to leave, but Lancelot had forcibly dragged him away to rest, and they took turns with Dagonet while he slept, muttering things they never would in the presence of someone else. Dagonet’s dreams were rife with whispered words and confessions.
“I think I love him,” Gawain confessed. He tapped his fingers along the sheets and always glanced out into the hallway where he knew Galahad was sitting. He hung his head and sighed. “If not for me, he wouldn’t be hurt. I’m the one that got him hurt.”
The sun rose.
“I think he loves me,” Galahad whispered, his hands wringing a pillow as he exhaled. “All the money in the world and this is worth far more than anything I’ve got. Well…maybe not the sword…all right, all right, fine, even the sword. I love him, but I don’t want him to be hurt. I don’t want to be hurt anymore. What do I do?”
The sun set.
“Arthur’s training me for this. I don’t want it,” Lancelot hissed as Dagonet slept. The sun warmed the back of Lancelot’s neck and it matched the rising flush in his cheeks at the mere thought of leading. “I-I…Christ, this is hard,” he swore, pacing about the room. “When is he going to understand that I’m not ready!”
Evening set in.
“I’m not ready for death, Dag. I’m not,” Bors rasped, pictures of his children on Dagonet’s bed. “I need to see them grow up. Have their own miserable kids.” He coughed hoarsely. “You need to be there too. We need to get out.”
Midnight came and went.
“Don’t you dare ever do that again,” Tristan threatened. “I’m not ready to see you die.” He carved small symbols into his forearm as he spoke, tiny letters in blood and not once was his voice affected by pain. “I die before you. We swore that in blood. I swore that to the Gods. My death keeps you alive.” The darkest blanket of night was upon them and Tristan carved in the light of the moon. “I die. Everyone lives. That was my promise.”
Night passed.
“God, why have you let harm come to my men?” Arthur pleaded desperately. “Our Father, who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name, thy kingdom…every night I pray to you, every night I pray that I might take the harm that comes to us, that I alone suffer! Thy kingdom come, thy will be done on Earth as it is in Heaven.”
Arthur closed his eyes.
“Give us this day our holy bread and forgive us…” he tripped over the words, his gaze on Dagonet. “Forgive us,” he said with more force. “Forgive us our trespasses, so that we may forgive those who trespass against us. And lead us not into temptation, Lord, but deliver us from evil,” Arthur mumbled.
“Amen.”
Morning came once more.
All eyes were drawn to Dagonet’s hospital bed and the silence was overwhelming, the only sound in the air was the beeping of the machines tracking Dagonet’s heart. Arthur hadn’t left his side, clinging so tightly to the rosary that there were marks on Arthur’s palm. He’d prayed all night, his lips chapped and his voice hoarse. Now, all the Knights were in the room for a summoned meeting. Gawain held close to Galahad, sitting in the chair beside him and his hands never left the boy’s body. If Arthur could describe it at all, it was as though all the lights had gone off in Gawain’s world save for one spotlight on Galahad. Tristan leaned against the closed door, arms crossed, and the smallest hint of his knife showing. Bors was on the opposite side of Dagonet’s bed and Lancelot was behind Arthur – always backing him up.
Arthur inhaled sharply, standing slowly and making his way to the end of Dagonet’s bed. He heard the light tap of skin on skin and Bors murmuring, “Dag, wake up,” and Arthur took that as his signal to begin.
“Knights,” he said evenly. “It’s come to my attention that perhaps I haven’t been thinking about the good of us. That perhaps, I’ve made mistakes.”
Silence.
“And so,” Arthur sighed. “It’s come to this. The door is behind Tristan. Knights, you have served me and you have done it with loyalty, honour, and skill. You are my men, and I am far prouder of you than I could be of any family,” Arthur swore vehemently, “of any relation, but if you see it fit to walk out that door today, I would understand. I would understand if you felt that today was your last day of service to me and to those who pay for us.”
He heard rustling behind him. “Arthur,” Lancelot said quietly.
“You’ve given me your time and your oaths and your blood,” he said, choking on the last word as he looked from Dagonet to Galahad. He closed his eyes tightly and took a deep breath. When he opened his eyes, he found a new world. “And now, I am giving you a choice.”
“Arthur,” Lancelot protested again.
“The door is over there.”
The telltale sounds of shuffling assaulted Arthur’s ears as he watched Gawain aid Galahad in standing, Galahad’s face a portrait of such pain and anguish that Arthur wished they’d never taken the boy aboard. Gawain smiled tersely as he nearly carried Galahad on their way to the door.
“This is far too high a price to pay,” Gawain whispered, his hold on Galahad tightening. The only words from Galahad were silent and expressed in the pain on his face. “Far too high,” he repeated, his voice mumbled. Galahad leaned closer and remained ever silent as Gawain pushed open the door and led him down the hall. Tristan caught Arthur’s gaze and shook his head.
“Not you,” Lancelot hissed.
Tristan gave a calm smile, tucking away his knife. “It’s my mess. I should clean it up. You shouldn’t have me on your shoulders to burden your stride forward,” he said clearly, as though he’d been thinking on it. He turned and slipped away from the room, not even leaving a shadow as he went. Arthur looked down at the ground, closing his eyes tightly. Three men.
And then there was the scraping of a chair.
Arthur looked up sharply, whirling to glare at Bors. “Bors,” he said helplessly, his eyes wild with panic. Bors shrugged apologetically, turning and mouthing ‘sorry’ to Dagonet. He patted Arthur on the shoulder, pressing their foreheads together. “Bors, no,” Arthur pleaded, panic in his voice.
“I’m too old,” his voice was weary and hoarse. “My Vanora’s got another on the way.”
“Bors,” Arthur pleaded as Bors pulled away, clapping Arthur on the back.
Bors paused at the doorway and turned around. “If it’s a boy,” he said, his fingers wrapped around the handle of the door, “he’s going to be named after you.” He cleared his throat. “Lancelot. Dag.” He looked up at Arthur and shook his head. “I’m sorry, Arthur. I’m too old.”
The door slammed as loud as a bullet piercing concrete.
Arthur closed his eyes.
35.
“You can take him home, but don’t dare let him get away with physical activity,” the nurse instructed sternly, handing Gawain a few paper bags. “These are his drugs. He takes three of those a day for the pain, five of the blue ones a day with food, and if he’s in a lot of pain, you can give him some of the stronger pain medication, but use it sparingly.”
“I understand,” Gawain nodded, glancing over his shoulder to check on Galahad. He had insisted on dressing himself, managing to slip into his jeans without trouble, but he was having some trouble with his shirt. Gawain pressed his lips together and excused himself quietly to help Galahad slide into his shirt, earning a glare from Galahad, but Galahad quickly allowed Gawain to let his hands hover lightly over Galahad’s shoulders, straightening his shirt. Gawain made his way back to the nurse. “Anything else?”
“He’ll have to bathe extremely carefully. He’ll likely need help,” the nurse went on sympathetically. “I suppose he has that?”
“He has that,” Gawain confirmed quickly, packing things up in a bag.
“Gawain,” Galahad commented quietly. Gawain turned around and found Galahad holding out his coat with a resigned look on his face. Gawain turned quickly to the nurse and gave her a smile.
“Is that everything?” Gawain asked.
The nurse handed him a booklet. “Call if you have questions. Typically, common sense will do. He’ll need to come in for check-ups every few days so we can be sure he’s healing well. Please be careful,” she insisted.
Gawain watched her leave the room, closing the door gently behind her before he turned back to Galahad and approached, taking the coat out of his hands and standing behind Galahad, making sure it was on properly. Gawain rested his hands on Galahad’s shoulders as he finished everything, nothing left to be done.
“You don’t want to say goodbye?” Galahad murmured quietly.
Gawain made a non-committal noise. “Not particularly. The sooner we get out of this damned group, the sooner you’re safer and I can get you back to health.” He gave an even grunt. “Guinevere disappeared from her flat, just up in the air. I was really looking forward to some just retribution,” he growled, rubbing one hand up and down Galahad’s upper arm.
“We’re actually leaving then?”
“This place and the Knights, yeah,” Gawain confirmed. “You got hurt, and I’m going to help you heal. It means we’re going to leave them for a while.”
“For good?” Galahad turned, staying in Gawain’s grasp. His face looked innocent and vulnerable at the moment and Gawain immediately wished he had never brought Galahad into this. Galahad frowned as Gawain slipped a pill into Galahad’s mouth and held up water for him. “Are you m’nurse?” Galahad mumbled, swallowing the water and the pill. He gave a mischievous grin. “If you are, can we get you one of those little white skirts? Surely it’d show off your figure.”
“No,” Gawain firmly responded, slipping one arm around Galahad’s back and bending to pick up the bag of clothes he’d brought, which was now filled with drugs and assorted possessions. “Let’s get you home.”
“Where you’ll give me a spongebath?” Galahad asked hopefully.
Gawain laughed. “Where I’ll give you a spongebath.”
*
Gawain held the cloth above the bowl of water, pleased that Galahad had been honestly surprised that Gawain hadn’t been just joking around with him about the spongebath. He had stripped Galahad of all his clothes slowly, taking time to undo the bandages around the wounds and leaning in to kiss slowly as he pressed the damp cloth to the wounds to tidy them, giving Galahad something for distraction. Galahad gave a weak whimper of pain into the kiss as he dug his hands into Gawain’s hair and clutched tightly, biting Gawain’s lower lip as Gawain dug a little deeper to clean the ricochet wounds.
Finally, Gawain parted and pulled the cloth away. “There,” he smiled. “Not so bad?”
“No,” Galahad panted. “Fucking terrible.”
Gawain rolled his eyes. “I’m sorry I’ve only had a sword wound puncturing my chest. I can’t compare the experience of pain.”
Galahad looked up in a panic. “When did that happen!” he demanded, his voice high-strung. He sat up and gave a cry of pain, making Gawain glare at him viciously and give him a gentle push back down. “You were hurt? Gawain!” He lay back with great hesitance, only staying with Gawain splayed his fingers over Galahad’s collarbone and leaned in to kiss softly along Galahad’s neck, traversing lower as he bathed Galahad, lightly dabbing with gentle care.
“Two years ago,” Gawain replied quietly.
“You got hurt too,” Galahad commented indignantly. “Why didn’t you leave then?”
“Because you don’t just leave. What happened last week is something that has never happened before,” Gawain continued in a soft tone, lowering him and massaging Galahad’s thighs with the damp cloth, kissing at his hips. “We were lucky, Galahad. We were incredibly lucky. We got a second chance.”
“But what about my debt?” Galahad asked softly.
Gawain paused, hands on Galahad’s knees. “We’ll figure something out.”
36.
Lancelot arrived to Arthur’s darkened flat, knocking on the door and receiving no answer. He sighed and rubbed his temples, wondering where Arthur could be. He’d called the pub, Vanora, Gawain, and Tristan – receiving no answer from the last – and had discovered nothing about Arthur’s whereabouts. He knocked a little harder, just in case Arthur was listening to something or watching the television.
Lancelot heard thumping around and he frowned, pounding harder on the door, wondering if Arthur was in trouble. “Arthur?” he called out loudly, banging with his fist. “Arthur, open the door!”
Two minutes later, the door was drawn open. Lancelot stared and gave a sigh as Arthur revealed that the only trouble he was having was with sobriety. Arthur’s breath reeked of whiskey and his hair was tousled, clothes mussed and his eyes had a certain reddened nature to them. Lancelot shook his head, pushing inside and locking the door behind him. “Arthur,” he chided, wrapping one arm around Arthur’s waist as Arthur hiccupped and stumbled back towards the bedroom.
“I…” Arthur murmured, his voice heavily slurred. He crawled onto his bed when they reached the bedroom. Lancelot crouched down to pick up the empty bottle of whiskey and he sighed, knowing that it was a new purchase from yesterday, meaning Arthur had drank the entire thing in one go. Arthur gave a sputter of a laugh, looking at Lancelot’s face. “My friend Jack…he helped me,” he grinned, writhing onto his back and staring up at Lancelot with his head at the foot of the bed.
“Arthur, why didn’t you call me?” Lancelot tilted his head to speak to Arthur.
“You’re upside down,” Arthur commented distractedly, his brow furrowed as he reached out, trying to touch Lancelot. “I wanted to be alone. I was left, I am alone. Alone. M’in this alone.”
“No, you’re not,” Lancelot replied vehemently. “You have Dagonet. And you have me.”
“I do have you,” Arthur said quietly, looking up still, his arm collapsing back onto the sheets as his face took on a more serious expression while he still looked up. A pensive look flickered over Arthur’s features as he reached up and grasped Lancelot’s hand, tugging him to sit down on the bed. “Lancelot…”
“I’m here, Arthur,” Lancelot assured him, looking around the room for a bowl to put cold water into to give Arthur a cold cloth for his head, simultaneously wondering if Arthur kept his drinking glass beside the bed as usual – so he could have something in the middle of the night if he woke up parched. Arthur twisted a little on the black bedding so he could look at Lancelot.
Arthur blinked slowly, looking up as though he were in a daze. “Move in with me?” he asked quietly, as though his words were thickened. There was no doubt, though, that Arthur was completely serious.
Lancelot gave an uncomfortable chuckle. “Are you sure there’s room for me and your God?” He felt slightly surprised, touched, and wholly like this was a passing dream. They’d known each other for nearly fifteen years now and never once had Arthur made any sort of hints that he wanted Lancelot to live with him.
“Move in with me,” Arthur repeated, his voice just as slurred and just as quiet, but it held more firmness. “I need…I need someone. I need something. I need…I need you. Move in with me,” he repeated over and over again, his eyes slipping shut as he grasped Lancelot by the tails of his shirt and tugged himself into an upright sitting position. He didn’t lean in so much as collapse into Lancelot’s arms, lips immediately pressing to Lancelot’s neck – not quite moving, but merely resting there – and breathing in Lancelot’s cologne mixed with the scent of his sweat.
“Arthur, are you going to remember this come morning?” Lancelot quietly asked.
Arthur pulled away, far enough to look Lancelot in the eyes. “Move in with me,” he said once more, his words even and weighted with the severity of the decision.
Lancelot nodded slowly, his voice caught in his throat. “Yes,” he finally whispered, the word sounding strangled and filled with all the emotions he thought he’d lost the ability to experience. He leaned in and kissed Arthur slowly, pushing him down to the bed and covering Arthur’s body with his own, slipping his hands inside Arthur’s button-down and pushing each button out of its hole. “You’re not alone,” he whispered as he undressed Arthur. “You have me. I’ll always be here.”
Arthur took deep, even breaths, his eyes half-lidded as Lancelot pushed his shirt off, unbuttoning the black trousers and pushing them down until Arthur was only wearing his boxers, whispering mumbled and slurred drunken words that Lancelot couldn’t decipher.
Lancelot smiled endearingly, one hand cupping Arthur’s cheek. “It’ll be okay,” he whispered, leaning in and whispering the words again and again as he lightly pressed his lips to Arthur’s jawline, grabbing the blankets and covering Arthur with them, not once prying Arthur’s hands off of him as Arthur clung tightly. “It’ll be okay,” he whispered. “We’ll be okay.”
“Lancelot,” Arthur exhaled heavily. “We’re not out of the woods. Not yet.”
“We will be,” Lancelot replied confidently. “Go to sleep, Arthur. We’ll hunt down our would-be assassins in the morning.”
Arthur mumbled some more before falling asleep, his head nestled in the crook of Lancelot’s neck. Arthur snored lightly and Lancelot stayed awake the whole night, studying each facet of the flat and realizing that he had just agreed to join this part of Arthur’s life – home and hearth.
37.
“Easy!” Bors warned, holding the door open. “Don’t go barreling in,” he threatened Dagonet, standing there and leaning against the wall for support, “and if any of my little bastards,” he shouted inside, “so much as mauls you, they’re going without treats for a week!” When he heard the reply of silence, he gave a satisfied nod and returned to help Dagonet walk. Dagonet hissed every few moments, but for the most part, he had gone quiet.
“Vanora?” Dagonet asked simply.
Bors closed the door behind them. “Resting. Doctor’s orders. Three guesses as to how she reacted to that order,” Bors gave an adoring chuckle. “She’s glad you’re back. She misses talking since I’m never around.” He maneuvered Dagonet past the watching children – wide eyes and silent as the grave. Dagonet slipped out of Bors’ grasp and slowly shuffled the rest of the way, pushing open the bedroom door to find a spare bed moved in.
“Dag,” Vanora greeted him warmly, swathed in blankets and glowing. “I tried to come and visit you…” Dagonet glared at her reprovingly. “Oh, don’t give me that look. It’s a technicality. Ever since the last pregnancy, we’re being more careful.”
Bors gave a small smile. “I’ll close the door. Nora, love, if he does so much as try and help you, a swift kick right in the balls ought to do it. Send him to bed.”
“Can do,” she said, no hint of playing in her eyes. Dagonet shuffled to the bed and sat down lightly, one hand always resting atop his bandaged wound. Bors gave them both one last look before closing the door and tending to the children. Vanora settled into the sheets, her hair framing her head like a fiery halo. “How you feeling, love?”
“As though I were shot,” Dagonet replied plainly, settling in himself and propping his back up with pillows so he could study her face – looking paler than normal. “Are you all right?” he asked quietly, recalling the last pregnancy and the miscarriage that had stolen their last child from them at the end of the first trimester. Vanora had ceased to speak for a week, locking herself in her room, and only coming out after that week, eyes swollen and red from crying, small smile on her face as she had kissed Bors, whispering, ‘We’ll try again.’
She grumbled slightly as she gave the sheets a swift punch. “My arse is sore from all this useless sitting. That bastard husband of mine keeps insisting on doing everything for me,” she commented with wonder. “The birth can’t come quickly enough.”
Dagonet gave her an even smile. “The rest should be good for you.”
“At least now I have company,” she smiled warmly at him. “How’s Galahad? Bors tells me he was worrying you lot.” She mumbled and swore under her breath. “Few more days of this, the doctor says. I can’t wait to be on my feet again.”
“I’m sure Gawain is taking proper care,” Dagonet commented with the slightest note of amusement in his voice. “He wouldn’t let us touch the pup the entire time he was in the hospital. Come to think of it, he barely let the nurses do their job.”
“He’s in love,” Vanora blithely replied.
“Of course he is,” Dagonet swiftly replied, shifting to get comfortable. “Just don’t let him or the boy hear that. They’d likely put a knife to our throats until we took it back.”
Her laugh was musical in the air, loud and happy. “Boys,” she lightly commented, still releasing the last remnants of her laughter, mingled with her voice. “You boys with your silly denial of anything resembling emotion.”
“They’ll be okay,” Dagonet said evenly, his eyes dropping as he fished through his pocket for the pill he was supposed to take. “I’m far more concerned about Arthur.”
Vanora pressed her lips together, giving in to the silence.
“I understand that Bors had to leave, I understand that Gawain and Galahad are too afraid of further damage, and I understand that Tristan feels he needs to remove himself while he works out the problem,” Dagonet murmured evenly. “None of that…none of that is going to make Arthur feel less guilty about what’s happened.”
“A good prayer with God and a good tumble with Lancelot won’t do it this time?” Vanora ventured quietly. She shook her head. “What am I saying, of course it won’t.” She hesitated. “Dagonet…”
“Yes?”
“Are you boys safe?”
Dagonet swallowed the pill without the aid of liquid, looking over at her with his darkened eyes. “Not yet.”
tbc
Tags:
no subject
And I'm glad you enjoy!