Apr. 7th, 2005 09:10 am
Title: Modern Day Legends Part 7/7
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lovely_ambitionTitle: Modern Day Legends Part 7/7
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 everyone for reading. I hope you enjoyed it. Feedback is always lovely, but enjoying is always key. Feeding me feedback just keeps me happy. I've got about four interludes planned and a deleted scene, so the 'verse isn't done, but the body of the main story is.
38.
Tristan ran his hand along the cold concrete of the grave, crouching down and placing one small sprig of greenery upon the ground -- he had plucked it off a plant that he’d found on his way. He’d walked. He always preferred to walk, the feel of the Earth beneath his feet more real than any car could provide. The moonlight provided for enough light to guide Tristan’s steps, lighting up the night enough to give it a sense of fake security. The damp ground absorbed his footsteps and he saw a shadow by the graves he was heading towards. By the posture and the hang of the head, there was no doubt as to who it was.
“I’ve been trying to call you,” he didn’t even look up at Tristan, merely kept staring forward. “You aren’t picking up the phone. I know you’ve discovered who’s been hired to kill us, but you shouldn’t be working alone.” He still stared forward.
“Shouldn’t you be off chasing the boys and Bors down?” Tristan commented evenly, glancing at the grave. “Arthur, staring won’t bring him back.”
“And why aren’t you among those I should be ‘chasing down’”? Arthur mimicked Tristan’s tone, barely looking at Tristan before he returned to staring at the grave, eyes slipping shut heavily.
Tristan shrugged. “Their reasons were different from my own. Arthur, I brought this burden on, I’ll be the one to fix it. I’ll be back, but until then, I cannot remain by your side.”
Arthur made a small noise that seemed to die in his throat. Tristan shuffled, leaning against the grave next to Arthur’s fixation and he paused a moment to look at his commander. Arthur looked tired. There were wrinkles about his forehead that hadn’t been there a year ago and there were bags under Arthur’s eyes that were becoming quite permanent from the looks of it. Tristan sighed, shaking his head, wondering just how much of the strain and stress was from the job and how much of that perpetual lethargy came from having to put up with Lancelot.
“He was the first to die,” Arthur remarked quietly.
Tristan craned his neck to look at the grave. “Who, Agravaine?”
Arthur made a grunt of a noise. “He loved that damn name. I think…I think…no, I can’t remember what his name was before, but he took it on and he loved it. He swore he’d live up to that name in both honour and courage.” Arthur smiled wistfully. “He more than proved his worth, and he saved my life countless times. I wouldn’t be where I am if it wasn’t for him.” Arthur sighed, tore his gaze away from the moss-covered grave and looked at Tristan. “I don’t know whether I should blame him or thank him,” Arthur said plainly.
“Why not both?” Tristan passively commented.
Arthur snorted – requisite laughter. “Sometimes I wonder what it would be like if you’d been with us from the start.”
“No doubt less loyal than Lancelot and less subdued than Dagonet,” Tristan shrugged. “It would be just as it is now. I don’t change. Time changes, I watch it go by.” He kicked absently at a pile of dirt in Percival’s grave, remembering his funeral and how it had poured that day, hailing intermittently. “I’m going to kill Cynric and Cerdic,” Tristan commented.
Arthur sighed again, gaze never flickering from Tristan’s face. “I know. I found out it was them.”
“I’m going to kill them,” Tristan said coolly. He relaxed and shifted until he was sitting on the grave, hands in his lap. “I won’t use any of your procedures or protocol. It’s my chance to finally have some fun with the damn killings. They won’t be able to track it to you.” He flexed slightly and tossed Arthur the gun he’d been using on the last job, which Arthur caught swiftly and pocketed without a single fumble.
Arthur gave a weak laugh. “Or maybe they will. I may have threatened the policewoman that used to be on our case.” He rolled his eyes. “Not threatened. Warned…in a severe tone of voice.”
Tristan laughed – warm, actual laughter bubbling from places that he didn’t much turn to anymore, but in times of dire need, they could be found. “With your tone of voice, almost everything could be perceived as a threat,” Tristan said evenly. He checked his watch. “I should be going. I just came by to get Dinidan’s blessing.” He nodded to one of the graves down the way and crossed Arthur on his way.
“You stopped caring when he died,” Arthur’s voice was carried on the wind, though Arthur hadn’t advanced at all. Tristan crouched down, taking fistfuls of dirt in his hands and closing his eyes. “You don’t laugh, you don’t smile, you don’t care.”
“Go back to Lancelot,” Tristan called back. “I’ll be around when the job’s done.”
Arthur didn’t say a word. Tristan only heard the retreating footsteps and the occasional twig breaking in half.
“Dinidan,” he whispered. “I may be joining you. I don’t do it in vain. Watch me this time. Keep one eye out for me.”
39.
Dagonet shuffled along the hallway, gun in his coat pocket and sword concealed in his long coat as always. His stomach wound was giving him slight trouble, but two days of pure rest had allowed him to at least be able to walk. It hadn’t taken him long to find out what was going on. A few well-placed phone calls gave him Cerdic and Cynric’s whereabouts and Dagonet knew what time Tristan liked to work at. He’d kissed Vanora on the forehead as she slept and slipped out when Bors was at the pub and the children were being watched.
Walking down the hallway seemed to last an eternity.
Finally, he came to the ajar door, hearing the sound of pleading inside. Dagonet made sure all his weapons were concealed as he slipped inside, wincing as someone bumped right into him, hand pushing up against the wound. He looked down to find a small man with panicked eyes staring up at him.
“Are you here to help?” he asked, his words clipped. Dagonet looked past him to see Tristan standing over a bigger man, wider in breadth and bleeding profusely from at least five cuts. He was also notably alive and by the cold smile on Tristan’s face, he was enjoying this kill and was likely to drag it out. “Good, oh, good, thank the gods you’re here to help,” he mumbled, his words rushed and grateful.
Dagonet turned, one hand clamped on the thinner man’s arm – Cynric; the son – and closed the door behind him.
“He’s a maniac!” Cynric angrily raged. “Look what he’s done to my father! Thank the gods,” he repeated, “thank the gods you’re here to help. Are you police?”
“It will be okay,” Dagonet commented evenly, getting Tristan’s attention and catching his eye.
He shifted the slightest inch to reach for the knife he kept in the back of his trousers and withdrew it, moving his hand from Cynric’s arm to an easy grip on the back of his neck, holding and choking at the pressure points as he slashed upwards in a diagonal line, blood spilling everywhere and splattering Dagonet’s face as he slashed again the other way, creating a bloody mess of an ‘X’ on Cynric’s throat. Cynric began to choke on his own blood, falling to his knees and clutching at his throat, twitching on the floor as the blood poured out onto the carpet.
Dagonet withdrew his gun and shot Cynric once in the heart, making sure he was dead before stepping over the body and to the chair Tristan had tied Cerdic to. “How long have you been torturing him for?”
“Not long,” Tristan idly commented. “I threatened the son that I’d kill his father if he tried to do anything. Then you came along.”
“I couldn’t just let you do this on your own.”
Tristan cleared his throat and wiped at his bloody knife, studying Cerdic’s body. Cerdic was swaying slightly, face pale from the blood loss. There were strategic cuts all over Cerdic’s arms and two even cuts on his cheeks. “He’s the one who shot you and the whelp. Cynric tried to kill Arthur and Lancelot. He won’t scream for me.”
“Tristan,” Dagonet said quietly. “Kill him.”
“He has to suffer,” Tristan hissed through gritted teeth. He held the knife perilously close to Cerdic’s throat, but no matter how much Tristan hurt Cerdic, the man didn’t beg once. He merely stared up, always challenging, never showing pain. “He’s caused you pain, hurt Galahad, hurt Arthur. He suffers.”
“Tristan,” Dagonet scolded. “Kill him. Finish it.” He kept his gun trained on Cerdic’s heart, ready to shoot any moment.
Tristan simply stood there, knife trailing down Cerdic’s shirt and slitting it open, creating a vertical line of dripping blood, as though he was preparing the man for open heart surgery, all the while Dagonet watched. “He has to suffer,” Tristan repeated quietly.
“Tristan, kill him or I will,” Dagonet threatened, cocking his gun.
Tristan looked up long enough to give Dagonet a terrible sneer, holding Dagonet’s stare until he faltered, tucking his knife away and unsheathing his sword, placing it on Cerdic’s neck, but never taking his eyes off of Dagonet. With one strong swing of the sword, Tristan beheaded Cerdic, stepping back simply to thrust forward and stab him once in the heart. Tristan stepped away, taking out a cloth and polishing his sword, remaining mindful of Dagonet’s presence, neither of them saying a word or moving.
“Let it go,” Dagonet advised.
Tristan sheathed his sword and straightened his coat, heading for the door and stepping over the corpse on the ground. “I’ve got to call my contact on the force. He actually paid me for this job. They were on the top of their wanted list. We’re off of it.”
“Shall I tell Arthur?” Dagonet closed the door behind them as they left and began to walk down the seemingly never-ending hallway again.
Tristan shook his head, a small smile on his face, wrapping one arm around Dagonet’s waist and shouldering some of the burden as Dagonet winced, his gunshot wound giving him shooting pains. “I can do that. After all, if I don’t provide information, then what am I doing on the payroll?”
40.
Galahad winced as he managed to make it into the living room, finding his mobile buried under the cushions. It was nearly two months after his time in the hospital and he was able to walk on his own now without Gawain’s help and he was doing better with the pain, getting down to two painkillers a day and three doctors’ visits a week. Gawain stopped following him everywhere and now only followed him three-quarters of the time.
The night before, Galahad had dreamt that the shot hadn’t grazed him, that he hadn’t been hit by ricochet. Instead, he’d been killed. He shifted stiffly onto the couch, sitting upright as he dialed and waited for someone to pick up. “Mom? Hi. It’s me.”
He looked down at the ground, shuffling his toes into the carpet and clearing his throat in an effort to get the lump out. “I know I haven’t called in a while, I…Mom, I’m sorry. I’m in trouble,” he confessed quickly. “It’s money. I’m in trouble with money,” he quickly clarified as her panicked voice filled the line. The last thing he wanted was to tell her about the wounds, which would only make it a matter of time before Gawain’s mother found out and visited to play nurse. Like mother, like son, Galahad snorted to himself.
He sighed and listened to her begin her lecture. “No, I paid half of it myself,” he explained tiredly, rubbing at his eyes. He heard a door quietly shut and looked up to find Gawain lingering in the foyer. “Mother, no, I am fine. I just…I wanted to call and apologize. I’m sorry I yelled at you and Father. I am,” he whispered, genuinely wanting her forgiveness. Slowly, Gawain was walking towards him, dropping the grocery bags in the kitchen before leaning over and wrapping his arms around Galahad’s chest, resting his chin on Galahad’s curls. “I’m not in danger, no, Mom, I just wanted to tell you I’m sorry. The trouble is over.”
He looked up and shared a brief smile with Gawain. “Yes, I’m still living with Gawain.” He frowned as he listened. “His mother told you what?” he asked, shocked. Gawain raised a curious eyebrow.
“Really?” Galahad gave an amused laugh, bowing his head forward, smiling as Gawain began to lightly massage his shoulders. “No. No, she’s not wrong.” Galahad slipped the phone away from his mouth as he let out a pleased moan at the movements of Gawain’s hands. “I understand,” he brought the phone back, smiling. “Thanks, Mom, it means a lot. From you and Father, it does.”
He smiled softly. “I love you too.”
“What did she have to say?” Gawain asked, taking the phone from Galahad after he’d hung up and placed it neatly on the table crowded with their personal effects. He grabbed a bottle of water, holding it out for Galahad as he unearthed a pill for him to take.
Galahad grinned, looking up at Gawain. “Apparently, your mother knows about us hooking up? Except, she thinks we’re dating in the most conventional sense of the word. By the way, she wants you over for dinner. ‘To meet your new boyfriend’, she said,” Galahad snickered, holding a hand over his mouth as he burst into louder laughter. “What did you tell your mother!”
Gawain slowly sat on the couch so that he was facing Galahad. “I told her that I was in love with you,” he said plainly. “That I love you.”
Galahad’s smirk grew into a more genuine grin as his face lit up. “Well,” he said, his voice sounding punch-drunk with the happiness, “I can certainly begin to understand how that could be misconstrued,” he mocked, laughing. “God, my family wants to meet you,” he wrinkled his nose. “That’s so domestic.”
“Do they shower your boyfriends and girlfriends with gifts?” Gawain asked hopefully.
Galahad stuck out his tongue, slumping into the couch as he took his pill and grabbed a blanket. “My love isn’t gift enough? Greedy bastard.”
“Me? Greedy?” Gawain scoffed. “Sir ‘Oh, I Only Want A Yacht’,” Gawain mocked in his haughtiest tone.
“Shut up,” Galahad ordered between laughs, an indignant look on his face. “It was a combined gift from all my relatives!” He gave Gawain a light shove in the shoulder, sitting up and shoving Gawain a little harder when Gawain wouldn’t stop laughing at him. “Oh my god,” he sneered. “Now I’m not saying it back.”
“Saying what back?” Gawain gasped between laughs.
“I love you,” Galahad replied, not laughing once as he said the words, all indignation and humour removed from his face. He smiled, leaning in and handing Gawain the bottle of water, enjoying watching Gawain’s face as he slowly stopped laughing and reacted to Galahad’s words. “Oh, get that shocked look off your face,” Galahad complained. “You’re acting as if you didn’t know.”
“No touching for years might have led me astray,” Gawain replied dryly.
Galahad shrugged. “You didn’t notice that I wasn’t really bringing girls and guys back here anymore? That I hadn’t had a relationship since I was eighteen? That I never slept with the same person more than three times? I always thought your brother was the stupider of the two of you, but you’re giving him a fair fight here. I gave you loads of signals, but you never ever talked to me. So I assumed you were fine with no touching.”
“I’m the idiot,” Gawain muttered to himself, irony weighting down every word. “Galahad, who…”
“Shut up,” Galahad interrupted lightly. “This is supposed to be a nice moment. Now, go pick out a suit. My mother’s going to act like she’s never seen you before. You’re the ‘boyfriend’ now,” he mocked, holding up his fingers to make quotes. Gawain laughed loudly, ruffling Galahad’s hair violently. “Oh, and don’t think this changes anything,” Galahad said petulantly. “I’m not some woman now who’ll cater to your whims just because I confessed to love.”
“I wouldn’t want it any other way,” Gawain laughed, tugging Galahad’s blanket off him and redistributing it to cover both of them.
41.
“Push,” Bors encouraged her, whispering the words again and again, yelping in pain as Vanora squeezed his hand a little tighter. “Vanora, love, you want to let up on my poor hand? Dagonet’s sitting right over there!” he scowled, glancing across the bed to Dagonet, who was dressed in the same green hospital wear and rubber white gloves.
“Dagonet’s…healing,” she panted, her other hand grasping the hospital sheets as she let out a loud shriek of pain. Her grip on Bors’ hand grew tighter. “You’re not!”
The baby was there a month early and while Vanora was happy to welcome the bundle of joy ahead of time, Bors had been caught unprepared. It had only been two weeks since Arthur had called them all, leaving a simple message on their machines that simply said, “We’re safe.” Since then, Bors had been taking advantage of going out in public and finding furniture for the new baby, but they had no crib, no baby food, and Dagonet’s doctor still had appointments to give him the all-clear on his wound.
“You’re hurting me!” Bors growled.
Vanora glared, heaving as she inhaled ragged breaths. “I’m hurting more, you bastard.” She let out a louder cry, whimpering slightly as Dagonet lightly massaged at her arm, brushing her sweat-soaked hair out of her eyes. “Thank…thank you,” she gasped.
The nurse smiled sweetly at all three of them. “Just a few more pushes and you’re there,” she said gently.
“Good,” Vanora bowed her head forward as Dagonet held her hair back. She groaned and pushed hard, squeezing her face in concentration. “Oh fuck,” she swore, letting out a broken cry that was soon dominated by the louder cries of a baby in the small room. She let out a gasp and collapsed onto the bed, listless and breathing raggedly. Bors smiled at her lovingly, clasping her hand and patting her. “Is it a girl?” she asked weakly.
“It’s a girl,” the nurse confirmed.
Vanora grinned. “I knew it,” she whispered tiredly. She glanced up at Bors, smiling victoriously. “I told you so,” she softly said, shifting to sit up and taking the baby in her arms – her tiny cries softened now with the sheer effort of crying. “Hey, love,” Vanora whispered, poking at the baby’s nose. “You’re a lucky little girl, you know. Your Daddy’s going to be around, no more danger, no more trouble. Wish I could say the same about your Uncle Dag.”
“She’ll learn to be detached from me,” Dagonet commented evenly.
Vanora smiled, letting out a relieved sigh. “Oh, thank goodness. Less bed rest,” she said wryly.
Bors laughed, clutching Vanora’s hand and brushing aside tiny hairs on the baby’s head, listening to her coo softly and slowly fall asleep, her tiny mouth open and breathing in, her face red. “She looks like mine,” Bors grinned, victorious. “Good.”
“She is yours,” Vanora murmured. “Take her, please. Mommy needs to fall asleep.”
Dagonet smiled and leaned back slowly, letting Bors pick up the baby and slowly pulling away to give Vanora her space. Bors grinned and handed the baby to the nurse, clapping Dagonet on the back and pulling him out into the hall. “How about that, Dag?” Bors grinned happily. “My little girl. C’mon, let’s go buy cigars.”
42.
Lancelot surveyed the movers as they shuffled in from the back door, carrying wrapped parcels and packages of new office furniture. “Dagonet’s going to love it,” Lancelot commented to himself, crossing his arms. He glanced over his shoulder to find Arthur coming in the back way with his briefcase, dodging movers as he went. Lancelot grinned and greeted Arthur with a small grope of his arse, gesturing to the movers. “Like it?”
“What’s going on?” Arthur asked.
Lancelot smiled with smug satisfaction. “I took the liberty of buying Dagonet a welcome back present. New office furniture.” He crossed his arms and escaped Arthur’s grasp, digging out a few bills and tipping the movers. “Thanks.” He closed the steel door behind them and sat in the office chair, reclining and relaxing. He spun in the chair. “What do you think?”
“I think you’ve done an incredibly good thing,” Arthur leaned on the desk. He frowned as he looked over to the couch to find a wrapped gift sitting in the middle. “Is that a gift for Dagonet as well?”
“You, actually,” Lancelot said casually, placing his hands behind his head. “Go ahead. Open it.”
Arthur gave Lancelot a suspicious look. He slowly pushed himself off the desk, taking hesitant steps towards the present, as though it were a bomb. “Have you heard from Gawain or Galahad yet?” he commented over his shoulder as he took the small box off the couch and shook it, immediately being assaulted by the sound of something rattling. He took the opposite leather chair across Lancelot.
“No,” Lancelot shook his head. “I figure it’ll be any day now.”
As Lancelot spoke, Arthur unwrapped the box and opened it, frowning and pulling out a gold Rolex. He frowned. “What is this?” he held it out to study it.
“I know you aren’t blind,” Lancelot commented evenly. “Happy Retirement, Arthur,” Lancelot applauded lightly, sitting upright. “It’s a gold Rolex watch. It’s a typical retirement gift for those shuffling off to greener grasses.”
“I’m not retiring,” Arthur slowly commented.
Lancelot smirked. “Yes, you are. I’m sorry, Arthur, didn’t you hear? The student you were training is taking over. He finally realizes that it’s not a burden you’re forcing on him, but his life. It seems the student realized that you want him to be a part of the job you loved and that you’ve been doing it too long.”
“You’re taking over?”
Lancelot smiled softly, nodding. “I’m taking over.” He smirked. “Oh, don’t act like this is some rite of passage. You’re not actually retiring, you’re just no longer the one in charge. No more falling asleep from paperwork and having to do everything. It’s my turn.” He grinned. “At least until I can convince Dagonet to take over.”
Arthur nodded, slipping the watch onto his wrist. “You’ll be a great leader.”
“I can’t beat the best,” Lancelot shrugged, grabbing his mobile and placing it on the desk. “I think they’ll call within a week.”
“Two days,” Arthur laid out a few bills on the table. “That’s a bet.”
Lancelot scoffed. “I don’t accept bets from part-timers.” He reclined into the chair again, kicking his feet atop the desk and letting out a relaxed sigh. “I could get used to this whole being in power thing. The perks are certainly nice. Lessons from the master himself whenever I bat my pretty little curled eyelashes.”
Arthur snorted. “Don’t push it.”
43.
Dagonet pushed into the club after Gawain’s phone call, asking him to check on Galahad and keep an eye on him while Gawain got ready. Both Galahad and Dagonet had been into the hospital that day for a last check-up and Dagonet had received an ‘all clear’ regarding his health, saying he could resume his old habits and routines. He descended the stairs slowly, looking around the seats for Galahad and where he might be sitting, but it was when he looked to the dance floor that he found him. Galahad caught his eyes and beckoned him onto the floor, grinding with some pretty little brunette in a revealing top and a tiny skirt.
Dagonet shook his head and pushed his way through the crowd, pressing up against Galahad’s back and wrapping his hands around Galahad’s front, his big hands framing Galahad’s hips as he bent down to whisper in his ear. “Gawain doesn’t mind?” Dagonet asked, slowly swaying Galahad’s hips left once and then right, giving them a rhythm to move to. Galahad craned his neck backwards and grinned. “I was given a full bill of health. You?”
“Healed,” Galahad smiled – and there was no smirk to his lips, no smugness to that smile. “He doesn’t mind so long as I don’t take them home.” He winked at a passing blonde in leather trousers, brushing his hand against a tall, lanky man’s arse and giving a good squeeze. “I can flirt all I want.”
“You say that now,” Dagonet scoffed. “We’ll see how you act when he’s here watching you.”
“Where is he?” Galahad shouted above the music, grinding back into Dagonet’s jeans a little harder, closing his eyes and moving to the beat. Dagonet leaned over Galahad’s shoulder to check his watch. Ten o’clock. Gawain was due in at any moment. “He promised me a dance if I was healthy,” Galahad muttered. Dagonet shook his head again, fine with keeping Galahad occupied, but he wanted to get back to Bors and Vanora. The baby was giving her a little bit of trouble and Bors never could handle that on his own. The child had a slight case of jaundice, which was completely normal, yet Bors and Vanora were acting as if the child was their first with their worry.
“He’ll be here soon,” Dagonet assured, not really dancing anymore, but keeping his hands on Galahad’s hips, knowing Gawain would probably thank him later if he kept Galahad’s admirers at bay. “Are you boys coming back to the fold now that the trouble has blown over?”
“Gawain seems to want to talk about it, but I…oh…” Galahad trailed off, freezing up on the dance floor as he glanced up to the entrance above the steel stairs. Dagonet frowned, wondering what could have happened to make Galahad seize up like that, and he followed Galahad’s gaze to find Gawain standing at the entrance, clad in a lycra black tank-top and tight leather trousers, his hair tousled and braided again. “Oh,” Galahad exhaled again, the sound strangled.
Galahad slipped away slowly from Dagonet’s grasp, aided by Dagonet’s relinquishing his grasp on him, letting him go. Dagonet nodded when Gawain caught his gaze and made sure that the boys were going to be okay before he slipped out the exit, embracing the cold night and lighting a cigarette as he made his way back home. Vanora hated it in the house and with the new baby just home, he’d be a dead man if he came through the door with a lit cigarette. It was a small price to pay, so he smoked on the streets.
*
Gawain hovered on the edges of the dance floor, letting Galahad come to him, drawn like metal to a magnet. No sooner than Gawain thought about getting them some drinks, but Galahad was attached to him, hands roving under the tight tank top and feeling his muscles, creating fabric-covered outlines of his fingers.
“You look amazing,” Galahad commented in wonder, pulling his hands from under Gawain’s top and straightening it so there were no wrinkles. “Why haven’t you ever worn that before!” he shouted above the music.
Gawain grinned. “It’s new,” he whispered into Galahad’s ear, biting at the lobe. “Bought it for the special occasion. I trust there is a special occasion? You’re healed?” Galahad nodded swiftly, escaping the grasp of Gawain’s lips in the process. “Good. No more guilt when I bed you, thinking I’ll burst a stitch.”
“No more adventure,” Galahad pouted, making Gawain laugh loudly as he tugged Galahad to the bar with him and ordered two shots of tequila. “Dagonet wants to know if we’re going back.”
“Do you need more money?” Gawain raised his eyebrows. “I thought your parents forgave you.” He grinned smugly. “And of course, loved your new, perfect boyfriend.”
Galahad shook his head, taking back the shot and biting down on a lemon. He licked his lips as he leaned into Gawain, holding out the lemon for him and watching as Gawain tipped back his own shot, biting and sucking on the lemon and not stopping there, moving on to suck at each of Galahad’s fingertips. He leaned in, kissing the remnants of tequila off Galahad’s lips before pulling away.
“You want to go back?” Gawain asked incredulously.
Galahad shrugged. “Maybe! I don’t know. C’mon, you owe me a dance!” Galahad grabbed one of Gawain’s hands with his own, leaning in and pressing their chests together to ward off any would-be admirers as Galahad pushed Gawain onto the dance floor, grinning the whole time, his hands wrapped firmly around Gawain’s back, stroking and feeling the muscles there.
“Just one,” Gawain agreed. “Then, we have to go celebrate.”
44.
Lancelot’s first day as the new boss came as the same day that Arthur took the day off for the first time in fifteen years. Lancelot arrived at the brisk hour of nine in the morning, opening the door to find Dagonet sitting there in his new chair, spinning slightly and bouncing to test out the support. Lancelot grinned as he welcomed the morning light pouring in the windows. “Like it?” Lancelot asked. “It’s not cheap. I don’t buy cheap.”
“I love it,” Dagonet murmured his approval. “Don’t know how I’ll fend the others off.”
“Where’s Tristan?” Lancelot dropped his papers on the table.
Dagonet scoffed. “Ireland,” he explained. “Isolde called. Guess who went running.” Dagonet shot off a rubber band casually, hitting Lancelot square in the chest. Dagonet smiled at the victory. “He’ll likely be back within the week, wanting to inflict torture on something after she breaks his heart once more. You know, it used to be so much easier.”
“Hmm?” Lancelot glanced up from the mail. “You mean, when Dinidan was around? The three of them?”
“Tristan was happier, he was,” Dagonet conceded, “but he wasn’t as good a fighter.”
“Sacrifices must be made,” Lancelot shrugged, heading over to the coffee machine, grinning when he found a full pot. He bent down to find a cup and noticed that everything had a distinctly neater look to it, as though someone had spent a good bit of time tidying up the place. “You put the coffee on?” he asked casually, ready to pledge over his gratitude for the caffeine. He leaned over the counter, grabbing another cup when he realized Dagonet had none.
“No,” Dagonet replied evenly.
Lancelot frowned, pouring the second cup. “Who did?”
Dagonet nodded towards the training room, reclining in the chair again and smiling gratefully as Lancelot brought him the cup of coffee, filled to the brim just how he liked it – two milks, one sugar – and heading towards the training room, opening the door to find Gawain and Galahad with a trash bag between the two of them, dusting around the room and in the middle of a subdued conversation – seemingly about mothers, at least to Lancelot’s ears. Lancelot frowned, leaning against the door. “You two have been cleaning up?” Lancelot commented, confused. “What’s going on? Is this some kind of reverse payment for quitting?”
“Quitting?” Galahad commented, his brow furrowed.
Lancelot gestured to the trash bags and their general presence. “What are you two doing here?”
Gawain grinned, glancing at Galahad before turning to Lancelot. He opened his coat to reveal his sword sheathed and his gun in his holster. “We’re in,” Gawain said simply. “Right, Galahad?”
Galahad nodded. “We’re in,” he confirmed, turning back to Gawain. “I don’t care what you say, Gawain, I am not spending Christmas with your mother and your heathen of a brother and I don’t care…”
Lancelot let the door slip shut behind him, thanking Arthur for having thick walls built into the place. He sipped lightly at his coffee to conceal his pleased grin as he made his way to the couch and withdrew his deck of cards, flipping the top card of the deck.
It came up aces.
THE END
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 everyone for reading. I hope you enjoyed it. Feedback is always lovely, but enjoying is always key. Feeding me feedback just keeps me happy. I've got about four interludes planned and a deleted scene, so the 'verse isn't done, but the body of the main story is.
38.
Tristan ran his hand along the cold concrete of the grave, crouching down and placing one small sprig of greenery upon the ground -- he had plucked it off a plant that he’d found on his way. He’d walked. He always preferred to walk, the feel of the Earth beneath his feet more real than any car could provide. The moonlight provided for enough light to guide Tristan’s steps, lighting up the night enough to give it a sense of fake security. The damp ground absorbed his footsteps and he saw a shadow by the graves he was heading towards. By the posture and the hang of the head, there was no doubt as to who it was.
“I’ve been trying to call you,” he didn’t even look up at Tristan, merely kept staring forward. “You aren’t picking up the phone. I know you’ve discovered who’s been hired to kill us, but you shouldn’t be working alone.” He still stared forward.
“Shouldn’t you be off chasing the boys and Bors down?” Tristan commented evenly, glancing at the grave. “Arthur, staring won’t bring him back.”
“And why aren’t you among those I should be ‘chasing down’”? Arthur mimicked Tristan’s tone, barely looking at Tristan before he returned to staring at the grave, eyes slipping shut heavily.
Tristan shrugged. “Their reasons were different from my own. Arthur, I brought this burden on, I’ll be the one to fix it. I’ll be back, but until then, I cannot remain by your side.”
Arthur made a small noise that seemed to die in his throat. Tristan shuffled, leaning against the grave next to Arthur’s fixation and he paused a moment to look at his commander. Arthur looked tired. There were wrinkles about his forehead that hadn’t been there a year ago and there were bags under Arthur’s eyes that were becoming quite permanent from the looks of it. Tristan sighed, shaking his head, wondering just how much of the strain and stress was from the job and how much of that perpetual lethargy came from having to put up with Lancelot.
“He was the first to die,” Arthur remarked quietly.
Tristan craned his neck to look at the grave. “Who, Agravaine?”
Arthur made a grunt of a noise. “He loved that damn name. I think…I think…no, I can’t remember what his name was before, but he took it on and he loved it. He swore he’d live up to that name in both honour and courage.” Arthur smiled wistfully. “He more than proved his worth, and he saved my life countless times. I wouldn’t be where I am if it wasn’t for him.” Arthur sighed, tore his gaze away from the moss-covered grave and looked at Tristan. “I don’t know whether I should blame him or thank him,” Arthur said plainly.
“Why not both?” Tristan passively commented.
Arthur snorted – requisite laughter. “Sometimes I wonder what it would be like if you’d been with us from the start.”
“No doubt less loyal than Lancelot and less subdued than Dagonet,” Tristan shrugged. “It would be just as it is now. I don’t change. Time changes, I watch it go by.” He kicked absently at a pile of dirt in Percival’s grave, remembering his funeral and how it had poured that day, hailing intermittently. “I’m going to kill Cynric and Cerdic,” Tristan commented.
Arthur sighed again, gaze never flickering from Tristan’s face. “I know. I found out it was them.”
“I’m going to kill them,” Tristan said coolly. He relaxed and shifted until he was sitting on the grave, hands in his lap. “I won’t use any of your procedures or protocol. It’s my chance to finally have some fun with the damn killings. They won’t be able to track it to you.” He flexed slightly and tossed Arthur the gun he’d been using on the last job, which Arthur caught swiftly and pocketed without a single fumble.
Arthur gave a weak laugh. “Or maybe they will. I may have threatened the policewoman that used to be on our case.” He rolled his eyes. “Not threatened. Warned…in a severe tone of voice.”
Tristan laughed – warm, actual laughter bubbling from places that he didn’t much turn to anymore, but in times of dire need, they could be found. “With your tone of voice, almost everything could be perceived as a threat,” Tristan said evenly. He checked his watch. “I should be going. I just came by to get Dinidan’s blessing.” He nodded to one of the graves down the way and crossed Arthur on his way.
“You stopped caring when he died,” Arthur’s voice was carried on the wind, though Arthur hadn’t advanced at all. Tristan crouched down, taking fistfuls of dirt in his hands and closing his eyes. “You don’t laugh, you don’t smile, you don’t care.”
“Go back to Lancelot,” Tristan called back. “I’ll be around when the job’s done.”
Arthur didn’t say a word. Tristan only heard the retreating footsteps and the occasional twig breaking in half.
“Dinidan,” he whispered. “I may be joining you. I don’t do it in vain. Watch me this time. Keep one eye out for me.”
39.
Dagonet shuffled along the hallway, gun in his coat pocket and sword concealed in his long coat as always. His stomach wound was giving him slight trouble, but two days of pure rest had allowed him to at least be able to walk. It hadn’t taken him long to find out what was going on. A few well-placed phone calls gave him Cerdic and Cynric’s whereabouts and Dagonet knew what time Tristan liked to work at. He’d kissed Vanora on the forehead as she slept and slipped out when Bors was at the pub and the children were being watched.
Walking down the hallway seemed to last an eternity.
Finally, he came to the ajar door, hearing the sound of pleading inside. Dagonet made sure all his weapons were concealed as he slipped inside, wincing as someone bumped right into him, hand pushing up against the wound. He looked down to find a small man with panicked eyes staring up at him.
“Are you here to help?” he asked, his words clipped. Dagonet looked past him to see Tristan standing over a bigger man, wider in breadth and bleeding profusely from at least five cuts. He was also notably alive and by the cold smile on Tristan’s face, he was enjoying this kill and was likely to drag it out. “Good, oh, good, thank the gods you’re here to help,” he mumbled, his words rushed and grateful.
Dagonet turned, one hand clamped on the thinner man’s arm – Cynric; the son – and closed the door behind him.
“He’s a maniac!” Cynric angrily raged. “Look what he’s done to my father! Thank the gods,” he repeated, “thank the gods you’re here to help. Are you police?”
“It will be okay,” Dagonet commented evenly, getting Tristan’s attention and catching his eye.
He shifted the slightest inch to reach for the knife he kept in the back of his trousers and withdrew it, moving his hand from Cynric’s arm to an easy grip on the back of his neck, holding and choking at the pressure points as he slashed upwards in a diagonal line, blood spilling everywhere and splattering Dagonet’s face as he slashed again the other way, creating a bloody mess of an ‘X’ on Cynric’s throat. Cynric began to choke on his own blood, falling to his knees and clutching at his throat, twitching on the floor as the blood poured out onto the carpet.
Dagonet withdrew his gun and shot Cynric once in the heart, making sure he was dead before stepping over the body and to the chair Tristan had tied Cerdic to. “How long have you been torturing him for?”
“Not long,” Tristan idly commented. “I threatened the son that I’d kill his father if he tried to do anything. Then you came along.”
“I couldn’t just let you do this on your own.”
Tristan cleared his throat and wiped at his bloody knife, studying Cerdic’s body. Cerdic was swaying slightly, face pale from the blood loss. There were strategic cuts all over Cerdic’s arms and two even cuts on his cheeks. “He’s the one who shot you and the whelp. Cynric tried to kill Arthur and Lancelot. He won’t scream for me.”
“Tristan,” Dagonet said quietly. “Kill him.”
“He has to suffer,” Tristan hissed through gritted teeth. He held the knife perilously close to Cerdic’s throat, but no matter how much Tristan hurt Cerdic, the man didn’t beg once. He merely stared up, always challenging, never showing pain. “He’s caused you pain, hurt Galahad, hurt Arthur. He suffers.”
“Tristan,” Dagonet scolded. “Kill him. Finish it.” He kept his gun trained on Cerdic’s heart, ready to shoot any moment.
Tristan simply stood there, knife trailing down Cerdic’s shirt and slitting it open, creating a vertical line of dripping blood, as though he was preparing the man for open heart surgery, all the while Dagonet watched. “He has to suffer,” Tristan repeated quietly.
“Tristan, kill him or I will,” Dagonet threatened, cocking his gun.
Tristan looked up long enough to give Dagonet a terrible sneer, holding Dagonet’s stare until he faltered, tucking his knife away and unsheathing his sword, placing it on Cerdic’s neck, but never taking his eyes off of Dagonet. With one strong swing of the sword, Tristan beheaded Cerdic, stepping back simply to thrust forward and stab him once in the heart. Tristan stepped away, taking out a cloth and polishing his sword, remaining mindful of Dagonet’s presence, neither of them saying a word or moving.
“Let it go,” Dagonet advised.
Tristan sheathed his sword and straightened his coat, heading for the door and stepping over the corpse on the ground. “I’ve got to call my contact on the force. He actually paid me for this job. They were on the top of their wanted list. We’re off of it.”
“Shall I tell Arthur?” Dagonet closed the door behind them as they left and began to walk down the seemingly never-ending hallway again.
Tristan shook his head, a small smile on his face, wrapping one arm around Dagonet’s waist and shouldering some of the burden as Dagonet winced, his gunshot wound giving him shooting pains. “I can do that. After all, if I don’t provide information, then what am I doing on the payroll?”
40.
Galahad winced as he managed to make it into the living room, finding his mobile buried under the cushions. It was nearly two months after his time in the hospital and he was able to walk on his own now without Gawain’s help and he was doing better with the pain, getting down to two painkillers a day and three doctors’ visits a week. Gawain stopped following him everywhere and now only followed him three-quarters of the time.
The night before, Galahad had dreamt that the shot hadn’t grazed him, that he hadn’t been hit by ricochet. Instead, he’d been killed. He shifted stiffly onto the couch, sitting upright as he dialed and waited for someone to pick up. “Mom? Hi. It’s me.”
He looked down at the ground, shuffling his toes into the carpet and clearing his throat in an effort to get the lump out. “I know I haven’t called in a while, I…Mom, I’m sorry. I’m in trouble,” he confessed quickly. “It’s money. I’m in trouble with money,” he quickly clarified as her panicked voice filled the line. The last thing he wanted was to tell her about the wounds, which would only make it a matter of time before Gawain’s mother found out and visited to play nurse. Like mother, like son, Galahad snorted to himself.
He sighed and listened to her begin her lecture. “No, I paid half of it myself,” he explained tiredly, rubbing at his eyes. He heard a door quietly shut and looked up to find Gawain lingering in the foyer. “Mother, no, I am fine. I just…I wanted to call and apologize. I’m sorry I yelled at you and Father. I am,” he whispered, genuinely wanting her forgiveness. Slowly, Gawain was walking towards him, dropping the grocery bags in the kitchen before leaning over and wrapping his arms around Galahad’s chest, resting his chin on Galahad’s curls. “I’m not in danger, no, Mom, I just wanted to tell you I’m sorry. The trouble is over.”
He looked up and shared a brief smile with Gawain. “Yes, I’m still living with Gawain.” He frowned as he listened. “His mother told you what?” he asked, shocked. Gawain raised a curious eyebrow.
“Really?” Galahad gave an amused laugh, bowing his head forward, smiling as Gawain began to lightly massage his shoulders. “No. No, she’s not wrong.” Galahad slipped the phone away from his mouth as he let out a pleased moan at the movements of Gawain’s hands. “I understand,” he brought the phone back, smiling. “Thanks, Mom, it means a lot. From you and Father, it does.”
He smiled softly. “I love you too.”
“What did she have to say?” Gawain asked, taking the phone from Galahad after he’d hung up and placed it neatly on the table crowded with their personal effects. He grabbed a bottle of water, holding it out for Galahad as he unearthed a pill for him to take.
Galahad grinned, looking up at Gawain. “Apparently, your mother knows about us hooking up? Except, she thinks we’re dating in the most conventional sense of the word. By the way, she wants you over for dinner. ‘To meet your new boyfriend’, she said,” Galahad snickered, holding a hand over his mouth as he burst into louder laughter. “What did you tell your mother!”
Gawain slowly sat on the couch so that he was facing Galahad. “I told her that I was in love with you,” he said plainly. “That I love you.”
Galahad’s smirk grew into a more genuine grin as his face lit up. “Well,” he said, his voice sounding punch-drunk with the happiness, “I can certainly begin to understand how that could be misconstrued,” he mocked, laughing. “God, my family wants to meet you,” he wrinkled his nose. “That’s so domestic.”
“Do they shower your boyfriends and girlfriends with gifts?” Gawain asked hopefully.
Galahad stuck out his tongue, slumping into the couch as he took his pill and grabbed a blanket. “My love isn’t gift enough? Greedy bastard.”
“Me? Greedy?” Gawain scoffed. “Sir ‘Oh, I Only Want A Yacht’,” Gawain mocked in his haughtiest tone.
“Shut up,” Galahad ordered between laughs, an indignant look on his face. “It was a combined gift from all my relatives!” He gave Gawain a light shove in the shoulder, sitting up and shoving Gawain a little harder when Gawain wouldn’t stop laughing at him. “Oh my god,” he sneered. “Now I’m not saying it back.”
“Saying what back?” Gawain gasped between laughs.
“I love you,” Galahad replied, not laughing once as he said the words, all indignation and humour removed from his face. He smiled, leaning in and handing Gawain the bottle of water, enjoying watching Gawain’s face as he slowly stopped laughing and reacted to Galahad’s words. “Oh, get that shocked look off your face,” Galahad complained. “You’re acting as if you didn’t know.”
“No touching for years might have led me astray,” Gawain replied dryly.
Galahad shrugged. “You didn’t notice that I wasn’t really bringing girls and guys back here anymore? That I hadn’t had a relationship since I was eighteen? That I never slept with the same person more than three times? I always thought your brother was the stupider of the two of you, but you’re giving him a fair fight here. I gave you loads of signals, but you never ever talked to me. So I assumed you were fine with no touching.”
“I’m the idiot,” Gawain muttered to himself, irony weighting down every word. “Galahad, who…”
“Shut up,” Galahad interrupted lightly. “This is supposed to be a nice moment. Now, go pick out a suit. My mother’s going to act like she’s never seen you before. You’re the ‘boyfriend’ now,” he mocked, holding up his fingers to make quotes. Gawain laughed loudly, ruffling Galahad’s hair violently. “Oh, and don’t think this changes anything,” Galahad said petulantly. “I’m not some woman now who’ll cater to your whims just because I confessed to love.”
“I wouldn’t want it any other way,” Gawain laughed, tugging Galahad’s blanket off him and redistributing it to cover both of them.
41.
“Push,” Bors encouraged her, whispering the words again and again, yelping in pain as Vanora squeezed his hand a little tighter. “Vanora, love, you want to let up on my poor hand? Dagonet’s sitting right over there!” he scowled, glancing across the bed to Dagonet, who was dressed in the same green hospital wear and rubber white gloves.
“Dagonet’s…healing,” she panted, her other hand grasping the hospital sheets as she let out a loud shriek of pain. Her grip on Bors’ hand grew tighter. “You’re not!”
The baby was there a month early and while Vanora was happy to welcome the bundle of joy ahead of time, Bors had been caught unprepared. It had only been two weeks since Arthur had called them all, leaving a simple message on their machines that simply said, “We’re safe.” Since then, Bors had been taking advantage of going out in public and finding furniture for the new baby, but they had no crib, no baby food, and Dagonet’s doctor still had appointments to give him the all-clear on his wound.
“You’re hurting me!” Bors growled.
Vanora glared, heaving as she inhaled ragged breaths. “I’m hurting more, you bastard.” She let out a louder cry, whimpering slightly as Dagonet lightly massaged at her arm, brushing her sweat-soaked hair out of her eyes. “Thank…thank you,” she gasped.
The nurse smiled sweetly at all three of them. “Just a few more pushes and you’re there,” she said gently.
“Good,” Vanora bowed her head forward as Dagonet held her hair back. She groaned and pushed hard, squeezing her face in concentration. “Oh fuck,” she swore, letting out a broken cry that was soon dominated by the louder cries of a baby in the small room. She let out a gasp and collapsed onto the bed, listless and breathing raggedly. Bors smiled at her lovingly, clasping her hand and patting her. “Is it a girl?” she asked weakly.
“It’s a girl,” the nurse confirmed.
Vanora grinned. “I knew it,” she whispered tiredly. She glanced up at Bors, smiling victoriously. “I told you so,” she softly said, shifting to sit up and taking the baby in her arms – her tiny cries softened now with the sheer effort of crying. “Hey, love,” Vanora whispered, poking at the baby’s nose. “You’re a lucky little girl, you know. Your Daddy’s going to be around, no more danger, no more trouble. Wish I could say the same about your Uncle Dag.”
“She’ll learn to be detached from me,” Dagonet commented evenly.
Vanora smiled, letting out a relieved sigh. “Oh, thank goodness. Less bed rest,” she said wryly.
Bors laughed, clutching Vanora’s hand and brushing aside tiny hairs on the baby’s head, listening to her coo softly and slowly fall asleep, her tiny mouth open and breathing in, her face red. “She looks like mine,” Bors grinned, victorious. “Good.”
“She is yours,” Vanora murmured. “Take her, please. Mommy needs to fall asleep.”
Dagonet smiled and leaned back slowly, letting Bors pick up the baby and slowly pulling away to give Vanora her space. Bors grinned and handed the baby to the nurse, clapping Dagonet on the back and pulling him out into the hall. “How about that, Dag?” Bors grinned happily. “My little girl. C’mon, let’s go buy cigars.”
42.
Lancelot surveyed the movers as they shuffled in from the back door, carrying wrapped parcels and packages of new office furniture. “Dagonet’s going to love it,” Lancelot commented to himself, crossing his arms. He glanced over his shoulder to find Arthur coming in the back way with his briefcase, dodging movers as he went. Lancelot grinned and greeted Arthur with a small grope of his arse, gesturing to the movers. “Like it?”
“What’s going on?” Arthur asked.
Lancelot smiled with smug satisfaction. “I took the liberty of buying Dagonet a welcome back present. New office furniture.” He crossed his arms and escaped Arthur’s grasp, digging out a few bills and tipping the movers. “Thanks.” He closed the steel door behind them and sat in the office chair, reclining and relaxing. He spun in the chair. “What do you think?”
“I think you’ve done an incredibly good thing,” Arthur leaned on the desk. He frowned as he looked over to the couch to find a wrapped gift sitting in the middle. “Is that a gift for Dagonet as well?”
“You, actually,” Lancelot said casually, placing his hands behind his head. “Go ahead. Open it.”
Arthur gave Lancelot a suspicious look. He slowly pushed himself off the desk, taking hesitant steps towards the present, as though it were a bomb. “Have you heard from Gawain or Galahad yet?” he commented over his shoulder as he took the small box off the couch and shook it, immediately being assaulted by the sound of something rattling. He took the opposite leather chair across Lancelot.
“No,” Lancelot shook his head. “I figure it’ll be any day now.”
As Lancelot spoke, Arthur unwrapped the box and opened it, frowning and pulling out a gold Rolex. He frowned. “What is this?” he held it out to study it.
“I know you aren’t blind,” Lancelot commented evenly. “Happy Retirement, Arthur,” Lancelot applauded lightly, sitting upright. “It’s a gold Rolex watch. It’s a typical retirement gift for those shuffling off to greener grasses.”
“I’m not retiring,” Arthur slowly commented.
Lancelot smirked. “Yes, you are. I’m sorry, Arthur, didn’t you hear? The student you were training is taking over. He finally realizes that it’s not a burden you’re forcing on him, but his life. It seems the student realized that you want him to be a part of the job you loved and that you’ve been doing it too long.”
“You’re taking over?”
Lancelot smiled softly, nodding. “I’m taking over.” He smirked. “Oh, don’t act like this is some rite of passage. You’re not actually retiring, you’re just no longer the one in charge. No more falling asleep from paperwork and having to do everything. It’s my turn.” He grinned. “At least until I can convince Dagonet to take over.”
Arthur nodded, slipping the watch onto his wrist. “You’ll be a great leader.”
“I can’t beat the best,” Lancelot shrugged, grabbing his mobile and placing it on the desk. “I think they’ll call within a week.”
“Two days,” Arthur laid out a few bills on the table. “That’s a bet.”
Lancelot scoffed. “I don’t accept bets from part-timers.” He reclined into the chair again, kicking his feet atop the desk and letting out a relaxed sigh. “I could get used to this whole being in power thing. The perks are certainly nice. Lessons from the master himself whenever I bat my pretty little curled eyelashes.”
Arthur snorted. “Don’t push it.”
43.
Dagonet pushed into the club after Gawain’s phone call, asking him to check on Galahad and keep an eye on him while Gawain got ready. Both Galahad and Dagonet had been into the hospital that day for a last check-up and Dagonet had received an ‘all clear’ regarding his health, saying he could resume his old habits and routines. He descended the stairs slowly, looking around the seats for Galahad and where he might be sitting, but it was when he looked to the dance floor that he found him. Galahad caught his eyes and beckoned him onto the floor, grinding with some pretty little brunette in a revealing top and a tiny skirt.
Dagonet shook his head and pushed his way through the crowd, pressing up against Galahad’s back and wrapping his hands around Galahad’s front, his big hands framing Galahad’s hips as he bent down to whisper in his ear. “Gawain doesn’t mind?” Dagonet asked, slowly swaying Galahad’s hips left once and then right, giving them a rhythm to move to. Galahad craned his neck backwards and grinned. “I was given a full bill of health. You?”
“Healed,” Galahad smiled – and there was no smirk to his lips, no smugness to that smile. “He doesn’t mind so long as I don’t take them home.” He winked at a passing blonde in leather trousers, brushing his hand against a tall, lanky man’s arse and giving a good squeeze. “I can flirt all I want.”
“You say that now,” Dagonet scoffed. “We’ll see how you act when he’s here watching you.”
“Where is he?” Galahad shouted above the music, grinding back into Dagonet’s jeans a little harder, closing his eyes and moving to the beat. Dagonet leaned over Galahad’s shoulder to check his watch. Ten o’clock. Gawain was due in at any moment. “He promised me a dance if I was healthy,” Galahad muttered. Dagonet shook his head again, fine with keeping Galahad occupied, but he wanted to get back to Bors and Vanora. The baby was giving her a little bit of trouble and Bors never could handle that on his own. The child had a slight case of jaundice, which was completely normal, yet Bors and Vanora were acting as if the child was their first with their worry.
“He’ll be here soon,” Dagonet assured, not really dancing anymore, but keeping his hands on Galahad’s hips, knowing Gawain would probably thank him later if he kept Galahad’s admirers at bay. “Are you boys coming back to the fold now that the trouble has blown over?”
“Gawain seems to want to talk about it, but I…oh…” Galahad trailed off, freezing up on the dance floor as he glanced up to the entrance above the steel stairs. Dagonet frowned, wondering what could have happened to make Galahad seize up like that, and he followed Galahad’s gaze to find Gawain standing at the entrance, clad in a lycra black tank-top and tight leather trousers, his hair tousled and braided again. “Oh,” Galahad exhaled again, the sound strangled.
Galahad slipped away slowly from Dagonet’s grasp, aided by Dagonet’s relinquishing his grasp on him, letting him go. Dagonet nodded when Gawain caught his gaze and made sure that the boys were going to be okay before he slipped out the exit, embracing the cold night and lighting a cigarette as he made his way back home. Vanora hated it in the house and with the new baby just home, he’d be a dead man if he came through the door with a lit cigarette. It was a small price to pay, so he smoked on the streets.
*
Gawain hovered on the edges of the dance floor, letting Galahad come to him, drawn like metal to a magnet. No sooner than Gawain thought about getting them some drinks, but Galahad was attached to him, hands roving under the tight tank top and feeling his muscles, creating fabric-covered outlines of his fingers.
“You look amazing,” Galahad commented in wonder, pulling his hands from under Gawain’s top and straightening it so there were no wrinkles. “Why haven’t you ever worn that before!” he shouted above the music.
Gawain grinned. “It’s new,” he whispered into Galahad’s ear, biting at the lobe. “Bought it for the special occasion. I trust there is a special occasion? You’re healed?” Galahad nodded swiftly, escaping the grasp of Gawain’s lips in the process. “Good. No more guilt when I bed you, thinking I’ll burst a stitch.”
“No more adventure,” Galahad pouted, making Gawain laugh loudly as he tugged Galahad to the bar with him and ordered two shots of tequila. “Dagonet wants to know if we’re going back.”
“Do you need more money?” Gawain raised his eyebrows. “I thought your parents forgave you.” He grinned smugly. “And of course, loved your new, perfect boyfriend.”
Galahad shook his head, taking back the shot and biting down on a lemon. He licked his lips as he leaned into Gawain, holding out the lemon for him and watching as Gawain tipped back his own shot, biting and sucking on the lemon and not stopping there, moving on to suck at each of Galahad’s fingertips. He leaned in, kissing the remnants of tequila off Galahad’s lips before pulling away.
“You want to go back?” Gawain asked incredulously.
Galahad shrugged. “Maybe! I don’t know. C’mon, you owe me a dance!” Galahad grabbed one of Gawain’s hands with his own, leaning in and pressing their chests together to ward off any would-be admirers as Galahad pushed Gawain onto the dance floor, grinning the whole time, his hands wrapped firmly around Gawain’s back, stroking and feeling the muscles there.
“Just one,” Gawain agreed. “Then, we have to go celebrate.”
44.
Lancelot’s first day as the new boss came as the same day that Arthur took the day off for the first time in fifteen years. Lancelot arrived at the brisk hour of nine in the morning, opening the door to find Dagonet sitting there in his new chair, spinning slightly and bouncing to test out the support. Lancelot grinned as he welcomed the morning light pouring in the windows. “Like it?” Lancelot asked. “It’s not cheap. I don’t buy cheap.”
“I love it,” Dagonet murmured his approval. “Don’t know how I’ll fend the others off.”
“Where’s Tristan?” Lancelot dropped his papers on the table.
Dagonet scoffed. “Ireland,” he explained. “Isolde called. Guess who went running.” Dagonet shot off a rubber band casually, hitting Lancelot square in the chest. Dagonet smiled at the victory. “He’ll likely be back within the week, wanting to inflict torture on something after she breaks his heart once more. You know, it used to be so much easier.”
“Hmm?” Lancelot glanced up from the mail. “You mean, when Dinidan was around? The three of them?”
“Tristan was happier, he was,” Dagonet conceded, “but he wasn’t as good a fighter.”
“Sacrifices must be made,” Lancelot shrugged, heading over to the coffee machine, grinning when he found a full pot. He bent down to find a cup and noticed that everything had a distinctly neater look to it, as though someone had spent a good bit of time tidying up the place. “You put the coffee on?” he asked casually, ready to pledge over his gratitude for the caffeine. He leaned over the counter, grabbing another cup when he realized Dagonet had none.
“No,” Dagonet replied evenly.
Lancelot frowned, pouring the second cup. “Who did?”
Dagonet nodded towards the training room, reclining in the chair again and smiling gratefully as Lancelot brought him the cup of coffee, filled to the brim just how he liked it – two milks, one sugar – and heading towards the training room, opening the door to find Gawain and Galahad with a trash bag between the two of them, dusting around the room and in the middle of a subdued conversation – seemingly about mothers, at least to Lancelot’s ears. Lancelot frowned, leaning against the door. “You two have been cleaning up?” Lancelot commented, confused. “What’s going on? Is this some kind of reverse payment for quitting?”
“Quitting?” Galahad commented, his brow furrowed.
Lancelot gestured to the trash bags and their general presence. “What are you two doing here?”
Gawain grinned, glancing at Galahad before turning to Lancelot. He opened his coat to reveal his sword sheathed and his gun in his holster. “We’re in,” Gawain said simply. “Right, Galahad?”
Galahad nodded. “We’re in,” he confirmed, turning back to Gawain. “I don’t care what you say, Gawain, I am not spending Christmas with your mother and your heathen of a brother and I don’t care…”
Lancelot let the door slip shut behind him, thanking Arthur for having thick walls built into the place. He sipped lightly at his coffee to conceal his pleased grin as he made his way to the couch and withdrew his deck of cards, flipping the top card of the deck.
It came up aces.
THE END
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Loved all the parts to this. You have an incredible gift of making them real (sorry, I'm not very good at expressing myself), what I mean is that when I'm reading your work, I can actually visualize in my head exactly what they're doing and their expressions. (lol...is this making any sense?)
Anyway, thank you for taking the time to write. :))
Dee
Oh, btw, what did Bors and Vanora call their daughter?? :)
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(heh, I avoided the naming issue, if only that they don't do it in the movie.)
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I wonder if Lancelot will taking over, once the burdens of leadership land on him full-force? but it's sure nice for Arthur that he did.
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Thanks for reading!
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You did an amazing job with all of these stories you should be very proud. I look forward to reading much more from you in the future.
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So much to choose from!
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I love your style of writing and the vivid characterisations. Am waiting blissfully for the interludes!
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“Sir ‘Oh, I Only Want A Yacht’,” ..."My mother’s going to act like she’s never seen you before. You’re the ‘boyfriend’ now,” -Very cute.
“I could get used to this whole being in power thing. The perks are certainly nice. Lessons from the master himself whenever I bat my pretty little curled eyelashes.” *snickers* The ass!
“Isolde called. Guess who went running.” -Weird, considering the psycho we'd been introduced to at the start... She must got him really tightly wound around her little finger.
Love the last line.
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You're not the only one. I felt that way too, but after writing a few scenes, it really, really dragged, so I condensed full scenes into sentence exposition just to keep it more concise, because while it does feel semi-rushed, I'd still pick that over the dragging.
Gawain/Galahad totally needed the happy. I had to prolong it, damn it. I have a deleted scene that gives them happy waaaaay back in like, part two.
And Isolde, heh, I have an interlude planned. I know I only mention it once or twice, but in my head, I adore the dynamics of Dinidan/Tristan/Isolde, and oh, but Isolde is just...you don't want to mess with her.
Thanks for reading!
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this was an amazing piece of work, hun. thank you. <34
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