lovely_ambition | The Quest for the Holy Grail 4/8

Title: The Quest for the Holy Grail 4/8
Pairing: Lancelot/Arthur, Galahad/Gawain
Rating: R
Disclaimer: Nope, not mine.
Summary: Years have passed, but circumstances have changed and it's time to bring everyone back for one more heist.
Notes: This is, indeed, a sequel to Modern Day Legends. Thanks to

bwc_baby for the lookover and to

melloniel for the constant support.

13.

There was a lot of talk of keys going on at headquarters. Gareth wouldn’t stop tapping on the keys of the computer as he set up a mock program of the security systems installed at the museum. At the same time, Galahad and Gawain weren’t very far away with a set of keys themselves, the sort that any old security guard might carry around.

“It’s a digital age, you know,” Gareth said, enraptured in his typing. “No guard is going to carry keys like those. It’s all keycards and retina scans.” He held up a blank card. “Like this.”

Galahad rolled his eyes and wandered over to snatch the card from Gareth’s hands, mimicking his ‘like this’ in a high-pitched tone. “Aren’t you supposed to be doing something, like, I don’t know, making sure we don’t get caught?” He passed the blank card to Gawain, who slipped it into the brown leather wallet he kept with him, tucking it into the inside breast pocket of his brown leather coat.

“All right, let’s get back to work,” Gawain implored, the voice of sanity and reason in a room otherwise without it.

Galahad grinned to himself as he wiggled his fingers, circling Gawain and cracking his neck back and forth, a violent sound of bones shifting, but nothing appearing changed on the outside. Gawain just laughed as he stood there with his coat sitting perfectly on his shoulders – he straightened it, maybe he’d start wearing this around town, it looked good on him – and tipped his head to the ceiling.

“We haven’t got all day,” Gawain chastised lightly, smirking at Galahad as the other man rounded him, never stopping.

“I know,” Galahad replied casually with a shrug, collapsing down onto the couch and tossing the wallet back into Gawain’s hands.

Gawain blinked.

“You…” He stared down at the brown leather he was cupping between both hands. Frantically, he checked his pocket to find it empty – for a moment, wondering if maybe Galahad had bought a double, just to impress him. Gawain wouldn’t put it past him. He stormed over and picked up the wallet. “I thought you were ‘just okay’ at this,” he mimicked Galahad from the night before in bed – not just any bed, but their bed at their new townhouse with their car sitting in the drive outside of it.

Oh, God, they were going domestic.

“Yeah, I wanted to surprise you,” Galahad grinned, taking the wallet back and rifling through, giving a scoff when there was no paper money to be found. “Besides, if I said that I was really good, you’d start getting suspicious about all those times you uh, lost your things.”

Gawain narrowed his eyes.

“Oops?” Galahad asked innocently.

Gawain glared sternly. “We’ll have a talk later.” He settled onto the couch and stole the wallet back, idly thumbing through it and all forms of false identification he kept on him. “You know, I was kind of hoping you’d be terrible at this. You know, that way you might wind up groping me a little as you got better.”

“I am trying to work,” Gareth complained with something of a defeated whine.

He resembled Gawain in many ways, but the maturity that graced Gawain (and often kept Galahad in line) had yet to settle into Gareth and he was still rough around the edges, though in many ways he had a leg-up on Gawain, who was never one for book-smarts or technology and far preferred blunt force, whether it be with a weapon or with his charm. They shared the same set to their face, though Gareth kept his hair trimmed and layered while Gawain simply let his exist in a mess of braids and frizz. His hands were calloused, but from typing on too many keypads, whereas Gawain’s hands were worn from swords, knives, and guns.

And they sounded nearly identical, which proved Galahad’s downfall on the phone nearly every week and proved to give Gareth too many heart attacks. He always said that he’d go white before Gawain did, the way they were abusing him.

Galahad glanced over at the desk and idly began to crack each finger loudly.

“Galahad,” Gawain said sharply.

“Yeah,” Gareth retorted, mimicking the same tone so it produced a stereo-like effect. “Galahad.”

“I hate you,” Galahad muttered under his breath and grasped a pillow to cover his ears with, just so he could ignore Gareth completely. As many years as had passed since he had first gotten together with Gawain, he still had yet to learn how to truly behave like an adult.

“There,” Gareth announced proudly, while Gawain was leaning over his shoulder to look at the program and Galahad was intent on ignoring him completely. “I’ve run through the program and provided they don’t change anything, the alarms won’t go off. I’ve rerouted the power to other sectors in the neighbourhood from the alarm grid, but you’ll still have light.” The grin on his face was so wide and smug that it looked like it might split his cheeks apart.

Gawain clapped his hand on Gareth’s shoulder. “You, little brother, are a genius,” he announced.

“Rub it in,” Galahad muttered, from behind his pillow.

14.

The agreement that Arthur would no longer take confession came with caveats. After a week of going without his weekly ritual, Arthur had become rather terse and had begun snapping at every last thing, from the breakfast foods to the way his tables were being dusted right down to the way Galahad was tying his shoes.

Before blood could be shed, Lancelot had intervened and had used his usual genius.

“A psychiatrist,” he’d said, smirking broadly. “You already have an appointment and I swear to your God, Arthur, if you waste the down payment, I will be worse than any wife in any marriage when it comes to withholding sex.”

Sometimes, Lancelot thought that the threat was the only reason that Arthur still attended his sessions, because he never seemed happy when he came out of them. Today was session number four and apparently, Arthur and Dr. Gilman (“It’s almost like Kill Man,” Tristan had once commented in that offhand and distant way he had) were discussing his faith issues that Tuesday afternoon from Four to Five PM.

Lancelot enjoyed the waiting room outside of the office with the pretty receptionist who always wore pink and no pants when Lancelot was there. Even if he wasn’t in the market, he hadn’t suddenly gone blind and it wouldn’t hurt to wink and flirt just a little. If nothing else, it kept Arthur at the top of his game. Sometimes, he attempted to hear the conversation from behind the thick walls, as though Arthur would tell the psychiatrist the deep insights that he refused to share with Lancelot. The thoughts were paranoid, but he had learned to expect every unexpected thing in their business because when you stopped expecting, that was when the bullet to the back of your head came.

Arthur emerged from the office at exactly an hour from the minute he’d gone in.

“You’re like clockwork,” Lancelot observed wryly and it wasn’t a compliment. “Well, how was it?” Arthur didn’t even bother to answer him, simply grasped his coat and bristled past Lancelot on his way out.

He took a moment to smile at the receptionist, leaning in on the counter. “I’ll see you next week,” he promised before toddling off after Arthur like a fucking puppy. “Arthur,” he growled. “Slow down.” He had been standing by the elevator in that calm and hidden way, shadowing all his problems by not speaking of them and letting the light banish them. “Well? How did it go?”

“You do realize that by dressing up as a priest and having your way with me, you’ve only compounded years-worth of issues?” Arthur inquired, the words sounding vaguely mocking and slightly echoed, which meant two things. The first was that Arthur had received some psychiatric advice and had opened up during those precise sixty minutes. The second thing it meant was that Arthur was discussing their sex life with a complete stranger. Wanker.

“It was worth it,” Lancelot decided with a smug grin as he corralled Arthur with an arm around his waist, leading him down the stairs. He could feel Arthur tensing up and trying to repress it. “So, that’s multiple sessions, you still hate the man, and it’s doing nothing for you. I think you need a much more personal touch in the therapy department, Arthur.”

The stairway had a resonating effect on their words and each phrase bounced high off the ceiling before reverberating back. “Lancelot, I’m not in the mood…”

“Not sex,” he interrupted, rolling his eyes. “I am capable of other functions, Arthur.”

He gave the door a hard push, tugging Arthur along by the hand and placing the keys to the car within Arthur’s palm, folding them in slowly. It was Lancelot’s favourite car, the black Lamborghini, and he never let anyone else drive it, under the threat of slow, torturous death. But right now, he was giving Arthur the keys.

“Lancelot, are you still you in there?” Arthur asked, tapping on his forehead with his index finger.

“This is my brand of therapy. Come on. I’m sure we can find some side-streets to test out, hm?” he said with that same charming grin as upstairs, but this time, there was a promise to follow-through in his eyes. “And afterwards, I’m taking you to the club where I will ply you with alcohol and we’ll watch as girls fall over themselves to try and win you.”

“That sounds like your idea of a good night,” Arthur agreed and disagreed to Lancelot’s suggested ‘therapy’, all in one go, but his clasp on the keys tightened and his smile widened as a mischievous glint settled within his eyes. “Come on, then. I believe I owe you the ride of your life.”

“Now, Arthur, really,” Lancelot sarcastically drawled. “You gave me that last night.”

That was met with a sarcastic look all its own and Arthur pushed a single button so that the doors shut automatically before he buckled up, leaning over to meet Lancelot over the gearshift for a lengthy and possessive kiss. He started the engine with a single push of a button that got it roaring and the car vibrating. Lancelot kept one hand on Arthur’s thigh as they went, brushing his fingers slowly up the inseam of Arthur’s jeans with every hard right, every push to the gas, and every shift in gears. Every so often, it seemed as though his fingers might stray all the way up, but they would cease and leave Arthur wanting.

Arthur parked with abruptness, yanking them about before reaching across the seat, cradling Lancelot’s face with his elbow bent by his chin, the hand of that arm grabbing his hair with a fierce tug, no gentleness left to be exchanged. Lancelot fell into the touch like putty, his hand finally moving past that invisible barrier on Arthur’s leg to grasp his crotch with a wild grab. His leg nearly wrapped around the gearshift as he let the seatbelt fly loose, crawling into Arthur’s lap and setting off the horn when he couldn’t exactly fit and the blare of it gained the profanity of passers-by and a deep laugh from Arthur. “Lancelot, we can wait until we’re inside,” he advised.

“You and your waiting,” he complained, but opened the door and crawled out, sporting a hard-on and not in the least ashamed of it. “One day, you’re going to wait yourself right into an early grave.”

“That’s not how the saying goes.”

“Bite me.”

They easily entered the club with Arthur slipping a note into the bouncer’s palm and giving him a nod that spoke of being grateful for the allowances made for them to enter and have their very own private booth – as they always did. They had an understanding with the owners, after all. Lancelot led the way with a cocksure walk, letting go of Arthur’s hand as he embraced the club’s music and the lights, throwing back his curly hair as though it was rain falling on his face and refreshing him and when Lancelot looked over his shoulder, he found Arthur simply watching him, masking a fond smile as he kept in Lancelot’s path and made sure to not lose him in the throng of patrons.

Lancelot didn’t stop for his usual chatting up the bartender, which might have been a sign that something was amiss, but he was mostly hoping that Arthur would simply be too distracted from therapy to notice. It wasn’t as though he was going to say it aloud, but maybe this night out was as much for him as it was for Arthur and Lancelot needed the release.

When he had taken the job, he had expected it to be stressful. But this was almost too much, this feeling that he might break at any moment into a million shattered pieces that might never be pieced back together, because the world around them would keep hiding the pieces in new corners.

He always wondered how Arthur did it, but was beginning to finally see that Arthur never did have a firm grasp on it and had always been a step away from breaking; he was beginning to understand how genuinely important Lancelot had been in keeping the Company running because of what he provided Arthur. Lancelot still wished for an easy fix, a bandage to plaster on the ever-growing wound of worry that threatened to hollow him inside-out.

He must have looked something horrific because the next thing Lancelot realized, there was a strong and firm and familiar hand clasped around his bicep – Arthur’s gold ring on his right hand gleamed in the spastic lights of the club – and was taking him aside; not to their table, but rather back outdoors.

“What are you doing?” Lancelot asked tersely, shrugging Arthur’s hand off in order to cross his arms across his torso.

When Lancelot breathed out, it formed a mist of fog before them, obscuring his vision, but he could see the sympathy in Arthur’s eyes and he hated the way it made him feel, as though a stupid child who needed placating. “Lancelot,” Arthur spoke in his deep tone, the one that had calmed him at so many times. “It will work if you plan it carefully and have faith in God.”

Lancelot exchanged a rueful look with Arthur. “God,” he echoed sarcastically.

“Yes. That great and everlasting presence that I love so dearly,” Arthur agreed, his voice dry as kindling ready to be burned in a forest fire. “If you cannot have faith in God, then I hope you can at least have faith in me. In the others. Have faith in yourself, Lancelot.”

He placed his hand on Lancelot’s bicep once more, warm fingers squeezing against cool fabric.

This time, Lancelot didn’t push him away, but rather took solace in the touch.

15.

One of the problems that they had run into was a distinct cash flow problem. Dagonet had done iteration after iteration and every time, it came up the same. They were short. Specifically, they needed new weapons, technological equipment, and outfits for the job and they had nothing left in the coffer for it. It was beginning to get desperate and that was the point that Lancelot accepted a last-minute quickie from the mafia. It was a count of three, all drug-dealers of the nastiest sort. The ‘nicest’ of them had five bodies in the ground, two of them being young men that couldn’t afford to keep up with the lifestyle. In the end, Galahad and Gawain were dispatched the task.

That hadn’t been the original intention.

Lancelot had been ready to send Tristan out to do it when Dagonet hooked him by the arm and brought him aside, whispering something into his ear that only Lancelot and Dagonet would ever know. After that, Lancelot returned and sent Tristan to do a pick-up, giving the task brief to Gawain and giving him a serious look. “It’s a two million pound job,” he stressed. “You will not screw this up. And you will not let the pup screw it up either. Understood?”

Gawain snatched the folder with a roll of his eyes. “We are capable,” he said pointedly and tossed a copy of the instructions to Galahad. He could almost time the lighting up of Galahad’s eyes when he read the location and the time.

The three men they were scheduled to take out were planning to attend a strip club that night. That little tidbit of information was clearly wetting Galahad’s appetite, because the smile on his face only grew wider and wider until it evoked frustrated groans from all those around him.

“Galahad, it’s a job,” Gawain sighed, rubbing his eyes. The unspoken words were, ‘and you are supposed to be faithful to me and not sticking notes down a stripper’s thong’. Not that he was possessive or jealous or anything of the like. “We could at least pretend to be consummate professionals.”

“Or we could have fun,” Galahad countered stubbornly. “You never want to have any fun at all,” he chastised.

Gawain rubbed his eyes as a sigh passed his lips and Lancelot exchanged a look with Dagonet. “Oh, just go on,” Gawain muttered. “He won’t stop, so you might as well keep briefing.”

“Be careful,” Lancelot reiterated. “Be careful, a million times, be careful. This is just a bank job, not even the real thing.” He was addressing Galahad for the most part, but the youngest of the group was barely paying attention. “Be…”

“Careful, yes,” Galahad interrupted tersely. “I think we’ve got that now, Lancelot, thanks. Really.”

“Don’t come whining to me when you get arrested and want someone to bail you out,” Lancelot said. “Dagonet, give them their new equipment and let them be off.”

It didn’t take very long for Dagonet to get everything set up, information tucked into pockets and weapons concealed in special casings in case there was an x-ray machine – by some odd, odd chance that things would be additionally difficult for them. Lancelot had been right about one thing, they were going to be extremely careful. The clock was ticking faster and faster and none of them could afford to throw a wrench in the carefully crafted plans, lest they lose their window of opportunity.

Once inside the club, it took exactly nine minutes and forty-two seconds before Galahad did something that could potentially make a bloody mess out of the whole evening; a mistake in the form of three lines of white powder.

“I cannot believe you,” Gawain muttered tersely, his teeth grit as he sat at a table, not-drinking his Scotch and keeping his eye on three men hollering at the women on stage. These men were their marks, each uglier, more of a brute, and louder than the last and sporting scars, beards, and half the English countryside in dirt, from the looks of it. “Sometimes, Galahad, I wonder if you ever grew older than sixteen.”

“Well, clearly I’m old enough to be here legally,” he replied lightly, tapping his fingers on the table faster and faster and faster. “And to do many, many other things,” he added lasciviously. He leaned over the table and did something with his tongue and a cherry that made Gawain grip the table harder.

His grip didn’t happen to be the only thing that was hard about the moment, either.

He turned his head away to ignore Galahad’s gallivanting about and focused on the three men, who were in the process of receiving a lapdance from a woman named Raspberry Jones – really, really not the best stripper name, but then, not everyone listened to the suggestions that Tristan carefully sent in the mail, printed neatly and drafted with the utmost of care. There was a job to be done and if it wasn’t done with the utmost efficiency, then there would be a great issue in that they would not only have the law breathing down their necks, but would also have run out of money.

“Galahad, do you…” he turned back to ask a question, only to discover that Galahad had slipped away to somewhere and by the looks of it, he was headed to the men’s water closet to do Gods only knew what.

Gawain rubbed at his eyes, repeating the various reasons he loved Galahad under his breath. If he kept reiterating the various reasons, maybe then and only then would he not go and pin him up against a tiled wall to reiterate all the reasons he was currently being stupid.

At the thought of the pinning and the tiled wall, Gawain shifted, which a nearby waitress took to mean he wanted a lapdance, descending on him like he was her prey.

“Hello,” he greeted, politely, grasping her hips lightly.

Well, he was still a man.

The woman was a brunette and voluptuous to boot, seemingly very eager to do her job and the curls of her hair reminded him slightly of Galahad, though he far preferred the lean body without the generous breasts. Had he wanted this, he would have all-too-easily had his pick of any woman. But he didn’t want that and he had been more than vocal about it. She had a dark voice, rich and sultry, and she whispered in his ear, her name, along with ‘having fun?’ and Gawain smiled politely and tucked a fiver down her stockings, just to make sure no one thought he was an incredible tosser for showing up to a strip club and then not even enjoying the entertainment. While Galahad might not have believed in the worth of being incognito, Gawain would rather not spend the rest of his days living in a cell, being someone else’s Sweetheart.

Eventually, the woman in his lap, by name of Rocket Jane, eased herself out and gave him a wink as she wandered away and it was barely a second before there was a heavy weight in his lap again; a heavy and familiar weight.

“Galahad,” Gawain snapped, shoving him off and staring sternly in his direction.

“You’re no fun,” Galahad accused grumpily, sliding back into his own seat and with just one look in his direction, Gawain would see the dilated pupils, the fidgeting of his fingers at a pace more rapid than usual, and the flush in his cheeks told him all he needed to know about his body temperature.

There was fun and there was idiocy. This bordered on the idiotic sublime.

“You did cocaine?” Gawain leaned in, grasping Galahad by the shirt to yank him in and hiss, keeping the accusation between them.

“It,” Galahad replied haughtily, “promotes mental alertness.”

You love the man, you love him, you love him and it would be a bloody shame if you had to kill him.

Eventually, the mantra took and Gawain was able to settle himself down and focus on the game plan. He kept his eyes on the girls as a cover for the way his gaze constantly slipped to the table of their ‘friends’, waiting for the right moment. Eventually, they would make their way to the alley for a transaction and Gawain and Galahad would follow, as swift as shadows walked. It would happen, but Gawain didn’t know when it would happen and patience was important. The easiest jobs went south without patience.

Gawain felt a tugging at his sleeve. He craned his neck fluidly to the side to see Galahad giving the signal for ‘go, now’ and he slid from the chair casually, as if he were just making a stop to the little boy’s room. Sure enough, Galahad followed right behind and considering the looks they were getting, they expected them to be doing the one thing that Gawain wished they were there for.

After all, nothing better than the stall in a stripclub to have a little fun.

Gawain led the way, pushing the heavy door to the alley open and pushing his coat back as he grasped his gun and without missing a step, took the safety off and fired two perfect shots, letting Galahad field the third, his back pressed to Gawain’s to protect each other.

It was a symphony in efficiency and practice, dual techniques that had become so entwined with the other that they were more effective together. It hadn’t been like that years ago when Galahad was still too stubborn to be of any use to anyone but himself, but with time he had mellowed out and had learned to work with Gawain and adjust to his fighting style.

Three bodies slumped to the soggy ground in the alley and Gawain holstered his gun back under his jacket. Blood was slowly seeping out of the professional bullet wounds they had given the men, but before Gawain could speak, he found himself being shoved up against the brick wall.

“Galahad,” Gawain exhaled heavily, eyes flitting to the crime scene they were a part of. He shoved the other man off, which seemed to only give him renewed enthusiasm for pushing Gawain against the firm wall and shoving his tongue down Gawain’s throat. Gawain kissed back, tearing at Galahad’s lower lip and shoving him off at the same time, giving him a glare of death. “Not at the scene,” he snapped.

“The car is out front,” Galahad offered in that coy way he had.

“Home,” Gawain pointed out.

He swore to himself that if Galahad wasn’t so absolutely such a good time while he was on the stuff, Gawain might just have to stage an intervention to avoid the blatant displays of stupidity like the one he’d just witnessed. Not to mention, it left Gawain in a very uncomfortable position when it came to sitting.

Home couldn’t come fast enough.

tbc