Quest for the Holy Grail 6/8

[lovely_ambition]

Title: The Quest for the Holy Grail 6/8
Pairing: Arthur/Lancelot, Tristan/Isolde, Gawain/Galahad
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. Previous parts here.



20.

Each cell came with a small window that shone either daylight or moonlight into the dank cells with their dim lighting and terrible odour. Arthur had been sitting utterly still on his cot, refusing to move or to discuss any matters with his rather large cellmate, who went by the name of ‘Sweetheart’. At first, he had been taunted for it, but Arthur’s unmoving silence and his dark glare had eventually silenced the last whistle and put an end to each and every taunt from the other inmates.

It would be any moment now. Arthur knew his enemy and she would be wanting to speak with him, after all.

None of the Knights had seen Guinevere in some time, not since just after Galahad had been brought into the fold. Gawain had been all-too-happy to keep it that way and brought a picture of ‘that sodding witch’ to darts whenever he could. Arthur had kept his mouth shut about his feelings on the matter. After all, a leader wasn’t supposed to spread around the ill word.

Even if he did agree with the sentiment.

The moonlight spilled into the cell and displayed a silhouette of bars on the floor, leaving Arthur to do nothing but stare forward unflinchingly and think as he had for the previous hours. He’d yet to have a moment to himself that wasn’t plagued by new plans or Lancelot or the other Knights and he hadn’t been able to entertain the quiet worries that assaulted his mind.

The Holy Grail.

He’d always assumed it to be legend, written in the thin pages of a book he held dear to his heart. He knew the importance of such a thing and how it tied into his faith. Now that they were prepared to steal it, Arthur had to admit that he had been sliding his faith away into a neat little corner to avoid thinking on it. It was easier, that way. If he let the trickling and incessant fear out from that corner, then he was in trouble.

“C’mon, you’re bound for interrogation,” one of the younger officers said, clanging at the cell doors with his riot gear.

It made Arthur smile, just barely – an icy shadow of a thing.

He could start a riot, if he wanted. Perhaps, though, he should keep things nice and settled. At least for the moment.

He was led down the halls in shackles and chains and he never stopped staring forward, concocting five different plans in his mind for the moment, wondering just what sort of shape Guinevere would be in after everything. He almost hoped she would be bitter. Perhaps wistful. He didn’t like to leave no mark on the people in his wake. He liked to be the shadow, the darkness, but he also liked to be remembered. He murmured quietly under his breath to God as he was led into a dank room with only a desk and two chairs.

Arthur was shoved unceremoniously into the more uncomfortable of the two. The overhead light swung back and forth and was clearly on its last legs.

He smiled to himself because he knew it was done for effect. Everyone had their own show to put on. His simply came with a whole different set of props and backdrops than the one the police put on. He barely let the minutes affect him as he sat still in the sallow yellow light, studying his fingernails idly and brushing away the last smudge of ink from being fingerprinted on his way in.

Sometime, after enough time had passed and Arthur had still yet to move, the door opened and there stood Guinevere in the doorway with a thick file.

“My Lady,” Arthur greeted her dryly, eyes flicking up to catch her gaze.

She looked angry. Arthur settled in his chair and let the feeling of content wash over him at such a simple thing. She would suspect their actions, of course. She might even be scouting them on her own time, but they had left nothing behind that could put them in prison and Arthur knew it. She knew it. Everyone in the precinct knew it.

“Arthur,” she got out coolly. “Your boys abandoned you.”

“They did what they thought best,” Arthur agreed, watching her as she crossed the room and leaned over the table, slamming the folder down on the surface of the table. “Do I get a story now?”

“Oh, yes,” she agreed bitterly. “Pictures and all.”

“You have nothing in there that can hold me for longer than it takes for my bail to come in,” he replied calmly, tilting his head gracefully to regard the pictures she was laying out of bodies and artifacts, to which Arthur peered blankly up at Guinevere. “I don’t recognize a single person or thing.”

“Please,” she encouraged, a half-whisper that was as much threatening as it was bitter. “Deny it all. When I get the evidence, it will only add to how many years you’re going to spend locked up.”

Arthur simply leaned back in his chair and never did he take his eyes off of Guinevere. He wanted to see her flinch, he wanted to make her flinch.

Finally, she broke and twitched, just enough for Arthur to let loose a smug shadow of a smirk.

“Well? Are you going to talk?”

“What about, my lady?” he asked, sarcasm thick in his voice. “Religion is a good topic, but a heated one these days. We could talk about how lovely you look after so many years. I can’t imagine the stress of your department lends itself to youthful vigour. Perhaps we can talk about the weather. I hear that’s always a preferred topic.”

“You won’t get away with this,” she threatened, slamming a flattened palm down on the table. “You won’t. I’m not going to let you, not this time.”

“Get away with what, my lady?” Arthur asked, voice deep and dark and smooth as he trained it to be. “All I had hoped was a good night’s rest. Perhaps a film. That is, when my bail clears in a matter of hours.”

He cocked his gaze upwards to hold hers once more.

“Is that all?” he asked, possessing the hand of control there in that dark and small room between the both of them.

“For now,” she agreed, her tone clipped as she shut the folder and picked it up off of the table, storming out of the room.

They left him there alone in his shackles for another hour to keep the company of the various rust stains within the room and the pungent smell.

Arthur hadn’t expected anything less.

21.

There were less than twenty-four hours before they embarked on what would either give them more money than they had ever seen in one sum or take their lives away from them forever. Each of the Knights had gone off for one last day to themselves. Dagonet and Bors had gone to spend time with the children and with Vanora. Lancelot could only assume that Gawain and Galahad had locked themselves in a room with a bed, nourishment, and a large container of lube.

The thought made him scowl, seeing as they wouldn’t be getting Arthur out of jail until the next morning.

As well, he and Tristan were the only ones about the office, which sent the most uncomfortable of chills down Lancelot’s back and had led him to taking the safety off his guns. Just in case.

Tristan would likely be armed himself because he wasn’t an idiot. None of them were, but Tristan had always been in possession of a shrewd constitution, a lack of trust, if you would. Lancelot thought it was pathetic, that after all these years, Tristan still couldn’t trust them, but he supposed that the death of his nearest and dearest friend had left him somewhat hollowed.

Lancelot didn’t often spare time to think of what would happen to him if he lost Arthur. Arthur was…well, a legend. Imagining him out of their lives was impossible because it felt as if Arthur would never, could never die. He would simply rise from the ashes and continue on somehow. Tristan, though, had probably thought the same of Dinidan before fate had swooped in and had stolen the man from under their very noses. Lancelot’s thoughts mulled over this information again and again while watching Tristan clean his guns.

“If you have something to say, say it,” Tristan encouraged, staring down the barrel of a gun and directly at Lancelot.

The damn thing was probably loaded, too.

Lancelot stopped shuffling invoices and shot Tristan an irritated glance and stepped just inches out of the gun’s range instead of trying to disarm Tristan of the thing. If it wasn’t loaded, then he would look like a massive idiot. He cast an eye downwards on the folders containing every last inch of all their plans and couldn’t help the feeling that even after whatever Dagonet had said and their briefings, that Tristan was still going to abandon them.

“I’m thinking that if you do fuck up, the next contract will be on your head,” Lancelot casually remarked, every inch of those words crawling with the annoyance that had been in him since they had to haul Tristan out of that church. He didn’t even flinch when Tristan corrected his aim and the gun was once again centred right against Lancelot’s forehead. “You wouldn’t.”

“I want to,” Tristan said, deceptively calm. “But I won’t.”

That wasn’t exactly high up on the list of things that set a man at ease. For Tristan, however, it wasn’t low either. That was what kept Lancelot from reaching for his guns.

“We need to work together,” Lancelot pointed out, walking straight toward that aimed gun. “You and me, you and everyone else. So it might be best if we agree not to kill each other until this is all over.”

“A temporary truce,” Tristan echoed, sounding as if he were debating the notion.

If not, well, Lancelot would find a way to work around the madman that Tristan had become. He most definitely wouldn’t like it, but he would do it if it were necessary. This would be simpler, however, to have Tristan agree with Lancelot’s methods, with his plan, with Arthur’s faith in him, with everything they stood for. If not that, then Lancelot would be acting against everything he had believed in.

With all his soul, he didn’t want to have to do that.

A truce, then.

“Until this is over,” Lancelot said, locking eyes with Tristan and wondering if lies were being employed as weapons now in an effort to somehow make this work. “Until this is all over, we have a pact. We have a truce.”

Hesitantly, he reached one hand out over the table filled with weapons.

His hand sat there untouched for many minutes while Tristan watched Lancelot, ran his eyes over his body like a predatory eyed his prey (and it made Lancelot clench his jaw and bite back an insult or four at Tristan’s expense). Neither of them backed down; Lancelot giving his peace and Tristan analyzing it for what it was worth.

“Until this is over,” Tristan finally agreed and grabbed hold of Lancelot’s hand, yanking him close until their chests were pressed together and Lancelot’s flared and exhaled breath ghosted over Tristan’s cheek, for their proximity. “But do not expect a loyal subject,” he said quietly, no more than a whisper in Lancelot’s ear, “Not when this is done.”

Lancelot felt that same shiver running down his spine, three times as foreboding as it had been before, but he swallowed and tried not to overly sneer as he gave Tristan a nod.

“Fine.”

And it was only Tristan’s word that Lancelot had to go on.

He prayed to Arthur’s God that it was enough and that it was genuine.

22.

It was raining in the morning, nothing more than a light drizzle that covered the world in a thick sheen of sleepiness and grey. Lancelot had been the one to go to the station with the new car, leaning against the Ducati’s waxed, midnight-blue-coloured door while waiting by the front of the precinct. It was difficult to relax, being that the smallest of things could go wrong and then something terrible would happen, like Arthur being kept in jail and their tiny sliver of a window of opportunity would disappear.

Time passed and Lancelot watched both the second hand of his watch and the doors with equal interest, as though he could will Arthur out of that grimy cell with the power of his mind alone.

The rain began to fall harder than before and Lancelot dug out an umbrella at roughly the same time that Arthur made his way out the front door, tugging at the cuffs of his silk shirt, as though nothing was amiss. Lancelot hurried his way to the awning, umbrella hiding his face from inside the precinct and he stood there without a word while nudging Arthur onwards.

They walked quietly, but with purpose toward the car and a quiet look between them assured Lancelot that nothing was amiss and it was all going to plan.

When they got into the car, it was Arthur that spoke first.

“I saw her.”

“Did you say hello for me?”

“I was rather preoccupied with other matters, Lancelot,” Arthur said dourly, leaning over to flick the wipers on as they sat in the car. Lancelot smacked the wrist as it came over and he didn’t dare say anything, not about the tentative truce that they had reached with Tristan or how he worried that it was a thin veneer atop a very deep lie. Really, to trust Tristan at that point was akin to madness and Lancelot, personally, had never enjoyed the notion of madness. It always came off bad when matched with a finely tailored suit.

So instead, Lancelot let Arthur fiddle with the gadgets of the car.

“Are we ready?”

“As ready as we can be, given the situation.”

“Then it’s t-minus ten hours until we’re all very rich or very imprisoned.”

23.

Ten hours passed far quicker than any of them wanted. The panicked last-minute preparations seemed to take too long and there were a dozen close calls when Galahad thought he had lost the keys, when Dagonet nearly applied too much pressure to one of the guards who was due to go into work in hours, when Bors was nearly late due to one of the brats. There were always close calls, but they had never worked a job of this magnitude before.

Standing in the building together, they had stood around Arthur with all their wares and their skills, with Isolde and Gareth standing somewhat outside; the consummate observers who could never get too close.

“Knights,” Arthur had announced as they left. “Remember. We are the lucky ones. And we shall be victorious tonight for those we love.” His gaze swung around to Tristan and rested there, that cold and calculating look piercing the man. “We honour those we fight for. Let us be honourable tonight.”

“To our fellow brothers,” Lancelot announced.

“To our brothers,” the echo was hushed.

It didn’t take long to equip everyone in equipment and head out to the cars. Dagonet was dropping them off in rounds and would stash the decoy vehicle after removing its plates and destroying them, just in case. The last to go were Tristan with Isolde and Gareth (mostly because none of the others could be trusted with Tristan).

But then, it might not have been the smartest idea to put Tristan with his on-again, off-again ex and Gawain’s finicky brother.

“You’re a disgrace,” Isolde cursed, Irish accent strong as ever. Dagonet and Gareth sat in the front and in the cramped back of the car, Isolde had begun to let loose with the accusations and the open hostility and criticism within seconds of the drive. “Horrible, absolutely worth nothin’ at all.” And on and on it went, but Tristan’s face never shifted and when they pulled up to the side entrance, it was Isolde who got out first.

She was dressed in a slim little red dress that showed off a great deal of thigh and was low-cut to give a glimpse of her figure. Lancelot had done the reconnaissance work that proved that the particular guard on duty had a taste for redheads who had a taste for showing some skin.

And so entered Isolde into the picture.

Her eyes were rimmed in dark eyeliner, giving them a smoky look and she glided on air, despite her heels rising five inches above the ground in little more than a spike. When she exited the car, all attention was on her and she made her way to the guard’s station with the world’s spotlight on her back while the others hid in the shadows and waited for the time to strike.

Galahad and Gawain were waiting by the back entrance for the security system to be disabled. Arthur and Lancelot were at the side. Bors had the perimetre to guard until Dagonet joined him. As soon as Tristan was done gagging and drugging the guard, he would slip in the front door and everyone would be in place to make things go off without a hitch.

“Dear,” Isolde was purring to the guard and Tristan rolled his eyes in the shadows.

“She doesn’t have to act like this,” Tristan muttered, only audible to Dagonet, who was close enough to hear the other man’s distaste. It was a small comfort to Dagonet, a hint of relief that Tristan wasn’t completely lost to them if he could still hold so much of a care as to how Isolde was acting with men who weren’t him.

They kept hushed in the shadows and Tristan was ready to move silently, as if he were never even there.

“I’m afraid I’m lost. My driver’s just left to find directions, but I told him that a handsome man like you would have all the answers for me,” she said, trailing one perfectly manicured nail up his cheek. “I’m trying to get back to town, to the Babylon Hotel.” Leaning in, she even went so far as to bat her eyelashes and had completely ensnared the guard’s attention by now. Tristan had begun to find his way out, syringe in gloved-hands.

Just a little pressure against the neck and the guard wouldn’t utter a single peep to the world until the sun was back in the sky.

Isolde kept murmuring her little compliments, letting her accent roll over the words between entertained giggles and ‘oh, really, stop’s to each compliment that came right back her way.

She smiled wider when Tristan entered behind the guard and leaned in to kiss his cheek, ruby red lips pressed against his ear. “Goodnight, darling.”

And then came just a little prick of a needle.

“Wh…” was all the guard could muster before he slumped over in his seat. Tristan was already signaling Gareth to the booth and Dagonet was already leaving in the car. Radios were affixed to everyone’s belt-loops and the plan was now officially in motion. Tristan smoothly exited just as Gareth was entering and he paused in the doorway, looking Isolde up and down.

“Did you mean what you said?” he asked, staring her up and down. “In the car?”

“Every fucking word,” she agreed, tying the guard up with harsh ropes with the kind of effectiveness that spoke of her having done something like that before in her life. “You need anything, kid?” she asked of Gareth, who shook his head and started to interface with the system, typing away rapidly and bringing up screen after screen of code that didn’t look familiar to anyone.

“Front door unlocked,” Gareth narrated, even as he was typing.

Tristan had left, shedding the syringe by combining a second chemical with the tranquilizer which effectively neutralized it and made it seem as though there was never anything but H20 in that plunger. With that done, he was ready to play his part in the plan.

Gareth was still working furiously while Isolde finished with the guard and unhooked his radio for him, setting it up by the station. “Back doors…side doors…systems set on a fake looped tape…lasers,” he announced and gave the go ahead.

Isolde plucked the radio into her small hands. “All systems go, boys,” she announced.

“And now we just sit tight?” Gareth asked hopefully.

“You keep your eyes on that grid,” she warned, knowing all too well that jobs could too easily go off the rails.

tbc