undergrounds | PLEASE BE STRONG I KNOW I'M NOT WRONG (Closed to Lancelot)

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faolan,
lancelot

PLEASE BE STRONG I KNOW I'M NOT WRONG (Closed to Lancelot)

Faolan has for the most part stayed out of the politics of the other factions. He has enough to worry about being at the till at Hillingdon. Trying to understand what the faction wants, trying to understand what sort of direction to take it in. He knows that he's going to have to take a step up sooner or later, and he knows that whatever he chooses to do, he cannot under any circumstances disobey the oath he took as Guardian.

The oath that they are hanging over his head as they use him as muscle to force him into peoples' homes, under whatever pretenses they can think of, to upend their lives for dark magical objects. Anyone they are seen to be using dark magic will be arrested, while the rest are written fine after fine for everything unearthed. Faolan doesn't like it, it makes him uncomfortable to be thrust into other people's lives like this, and the objects themselves, the people he's being forced to investigate, are making him uncomfortable in another way that he just can't put his finger on at the moment.

To top it all off, Willard has left, and with him left all the organizing of Hillingdon's paperwork to Faolan himself, or for Faolan to find someone else to delegate it to instead. And no one is exactly jumping at the chance. The combination of it all has left him in worse of a mood than usual, and he has no intention of returning home to his flat to drink himself into something even worse as he sits alone in the sad, empty little place.

Which is why he finds himself ringing Lancelot's bell. Really he should have told the other man that he was coming over. Asked if he was going to be interrupting anything. But one foot had led in front of the other and he had found himself there before he realized where he'd been headed.

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Lancelot exhales slowly as Faolan starts in on his topic, feeling rather as if he might want something stronger than water to last it. He hesitates, sips at it a little regardless.

"You know what they're 'playing at'," he begins quietly, "they're frightened of what Midnight might do if they teamed up with the fae, of how close we were to having them on our doorstep. It's Norrell's pet thing, and I suspect he's behind most of it. After all, I --" Lancelot hesitates again, looking nervous for a moment before pacing away out of the kitchen with his water to sip it again. "I spoke to Sylvia about this when I handed in our report. I advised fairly close to the opposite of this. Giving them a forum, hearing them out even if only for show, making them feel listened to. Yet Norrell's stirring things up, and I suppose she can't ignore that. He does make himself rather difficult to ignore in general."

Faolan grabs his drink and follows the other man out into his living room, more cradling it in his hands than really drinking it just yet. "Norrell's stirring things up," Faolan repeats, using the other man's words to emphasize his point, "and she's letting him do it. She's letting every prejudiced word of his influence the Council's decision, and every decision they make, it all trickles down to us."

Faolan's fingers tighten on the glass in his hand. "We're doing his dirty work, Lancelot. We're little more than Norrell's thugs, and she's letting it happen. She's the President," he says, his words sharp. The uncomfortable feeling he's been feeling all week clawing its way out through his chest, the words tumbling out unbidden. "She's the damn President. She could ignore him if she wanted to. But she made a conscious decision to follow through on his wishes. Maybe she wants this as much as she does. Maybe she was just waiting for the excuse."

He can feel Faolan's anger rising, and it makes him feel tired. Make's Lancelot's headache feel that much worse. He drops himself onto the futon, winces slightly as he rubs his thumb up and down the side of his glas.

"You know it's a council, Faolan," he says softly, "if Norrell was alone in his opinion it would have gone nowhere. He has to have had support from others there aside from her. Besides which, the work is only as dirty as we make it. You know that too. It's easy enough for us to politely make a brief surface search and choose not to notice things."

Faolan makes a face at Lancelot's words, as though he can't believe the other man's words. "Politely?" he says, and it's pretty obvious from his tone that he doesn't believe such a thing possible, not for a second. He takes a sip of his drink swirling it in his glass as he paces the room.

"Yes, let's just politely force our way into their homes. Let's just politely tell them that they're being accused. Let's just politely do a shit job searching their place so that we don't have to arrest them for something that someone else suddenly decided it was wrong for them to possess. But let's not do too shit of a job of it lest we be deemed to be purposely acting against the Night Council and thus be turned to stone."

Edited (typo) 2016-01-10 01:39 (UTC)

Lancelot takes a slow breath, feels his stomach clench as his headache throbs and moves one hand to rub at his forehead.

"Faolan," he prompts, "sit down? Please."

If he could at least stop pacing that would be something. It's grating on Lancelot's nerves, and he can tell it's making Lily uneasy too by the way she's sat silently watching.

If there weren't this niggling, uncomfortable feeling eating away at his insides, making him feel hot and cold all at once, if he didn't feel like he were about to crawl out of his skin, then maybe Faolan would have listened. Hell, if that feeling hadn't been there, maybe he wouldn't have been ranting to the other man at all. Maybe he would have noticed how weary he seemed or the fact that he had just been sitting in the quiet of his flat when he had arrived rather than cooking or talking or listening to music, maybe he would have noticed the hunch of his shoulders and the look on his face. But something is wrong inside of him, Faolan can feel that it's wrong, and so he's dealing with it in the only way he knows how. Fighting it.

So he doesn't sit down. He keeps going. Pacing in place, not even skipping a beat despite the other man's plea for him to back off. "She's going to start a war like this. Ironic that. Starting the one thing she wanted to avoid by doing something intended to keep it from happening. The further she pushes, the further they'll be pushed. And pushed, until it all blows up in their face, and what then? Who are they going to send to clean it up then? It's certainly not going to be any of them, you can bet your life on that."

"Faolan," Lancelot snaps, and there's a pulse of... something that accompanies it. A subtle push of magic, not exactly violent but not gentle either. Enough to make the chairs in the breakfast area slide an inch, the coats rustle on their hooks, to shove at Faolan himself and make the television turn slightly on its stand.

Lancelot's head throbs and his stomach rolls a little, both from the pain and from a gross sense of guilt that he seemingly can't control himself.

He carefully sets his glass down on the floor, holds his hands out in placation and tries to force himself to breathe slowly.

"Faolan... please, forgive me, could you -- please, just. Sit down."

Faolan feels it. Lancelot's magic, or whatever it is. Reaching out, shifting around all the chairs, rustling the coats. Pushing at him. Like a hand shoved at his chest, his shoulders. And Faolan, not expecting it, stumbles backwards slightly. It's all he can do to keep a hold of the glass in his hand in his surprise, although he manages to spill it all over himself regardless of that fact. His heart stutters faster in his chest regardless, and the uncomfortable feeling grows.

He takes a step back, on purpose this time, and another, this time nearly tripping over a chair that hadn't been there mere moments earlier. "...I shouldn't be here," he says, after a long moment. He turns, disregarding the drink running its way down his arm and soaking into the fabric of his shirt, to put the glass down on the table behind him. "I shouldn't have come to you with this. I'm. Sorry." He turns back towards the door.

Part of him can't blame Faolan. Why would he want to stay? Yet all the same it hurts, to see him turn away like that.

"No -- I'm sorry," he says again, "I didn't mean to do that. Faolan, please --"

Please don't leave now, not after looking at him like that. Not after this has happened, and Lancelot's guilt is twisting higher. What if he'd hurt him like this? What if he ends up hurting someone like this?

Faolan keeps on towards the door, shaking his head as he goes. It's not that he's trying to run away from Lancelot, not really. But from the moment that he's created between them, from what he's forced Lancelot into. From whatever look might be on Lancelot's face and the fact that he probably put it there. From this hot, twisting sensation inside of him. That's what he'd been trying to do, coming here. Coming here to Lancelot. Barging into his flat. Railing on ideas that Lancelot obviously must believe in, or at least does not feel as strongly against as he does.

"No," he says, barely skipping a beat as he reaches the entryway. "You did. And that's fine. But I should leave. I've already outstayed my welcome. You don't need to hear about my problems." He reaches for the door.

Faolan's stubbornness irritates him for a moment, that he'd turn up to rail at him and then ignore his apologies. He tries to breathe slowly, holding out a hand toward the door. The coats beside it rustle again as Lancelot applies pressure to it, tries to keep Faolan from pulling it open.

"Faolan," he tries again, and there's a hint of exaggerated patience to it -- the tone barely hiding how much it's wearing thin. "Listen to me. Please. Why would I lie to you? I told you I didn't mean to do that and I didn't. Please, will you sit down?"

Faolan has the door barely unlatched when Lancelot presses his magic forward, closing it again. Faolan's hand tightens around the doorknob. Faolan isn't entirely certain that even if he keeps pushing, that the other man is going to let him leave at this point. Another wave of discomfort washes through him, and he wants nothing more than to tear at the door, to try and break free, to fight his way out kicking and screaming like some trapped animal. As that's rather how he feels in that moment.

All that he knows is probably the last thing he wants to do in that moment is sit down and talk it out like no doubt Lancelot is trying to coax him into doing. Not here, not now. Not when all the other man will probably do is sit there and become more exasperated with him and he'll just keep making things worse for himself until Lancelot finally realizes that he's not the friend he wanted after all. No, it's better for everyone if he just leaves. He tries the door again, and this time it stays shut, Lancelot's magic keeping it in place.

"Let me go, Lancelot," Faolan says, trying not to get upset with the other man. Trying not to feel trapped, trying not to let the panic of the memories of times before take over his better judgment in this moment (what little he has left). "Just let me go."

"Faolan," he snaps again, "look at me. Forgive me if my patience is thin but I've headache a headache for a week and -"

Lily takes that opportunity to get up, tail wagging in slow uncertainty as she noses at Lancelot. Normally she'd be a comfort, but he feels hot already and her doggy breath doesn't help the roll of his stomach. He tries to gently push her away and the throb of his headache makes him feel dizzy a moment, actions slowly to compensate and giving Lily an opening to push closer. He sways a fraction, head feeling heavy, and tries to push her back again.

"Lily, please you aren't helping --"

Faolan isn't certain that the other man has ever raised his voice to him like this, and here in the span of a few moments he has done so twice, on top of pushing him around with his magic as he had. Lancelot isn't going to let him out of the flat until he's heard the other man out, at least to the other man's liking, and so for better or worse Faolan does as he's told and turns (although why he should want to keep him there when he could be rid of him then and there Faolan doesn't understand at all).

Of course, the mention of the other man's condition causes him to look at him, really look at him. Swaying slightly in place, pushing Lily out of his face rather than casually accepting her invasion of his presence. A headache for the whole week? He hadn't said anything, at least not that Faolan is aware of. He's torn in the space of a moment between turning to try the door again -- just one more try in this moment of weakness -- but no. He can't just leave now.

"Lancelot, I...?" he says, trailing off, his voice questioning. Not really sure what to say or do in this moment, but at least he's listened to him at last. He's stopped. He's looking at him. What now?

As far as Lily is concerned, she is absolutely helping. She tries to nose at Lancelot again and he pushes her back once more, trying to get to his feet. One hand flails out to brace against the wall and Lily wags her tail more hopefully. He is up, this is good! Up is good! Lancelot's magic isn't holding the door closed any more, partly because he's lost the ability to focus. He rubs at his forehead, hands a little unsteady, then suddenly begins to move off down the hallway. Faolan can probably distantly hear the click of a light coming on and the soft whirr of the bathroom extractor fan, followed by the sound of Lancelot running water in the sink.

Lily glances back at Faolan in confusion, as if to ask him what is going on, before padding curiously down the call after him.

Faolan opens his mouth to address the other man again, and then closes it as the other man suddenly starts down the hall towards the bathroom. Almost without thought, Faolan starts forward down the hallway towards the bathroom after him. Holding out a hand towards Lily to run over her ears and soothe her, but also coax her to stay back.

"Lancelot?" he asks, reaching the bathroom door, knocking on it softly but not waiting for an answer before he pushes it open and lets himself in. "Lancelot?" he asks again, his voice softer this time, concerned. Uncertain what sort of scene is about to greet him, considering the other man's quick get-away. Obviously nothing good.

The door opens easily. He hadn't closed it properly to begin with, more focused on staying upright. Inside Lancelot is leaning over the sink, hands braced against it. The room feels slightly like it's spinning, moving around him -- or else he might still be swaying a little. It's hard for him to tell.

"Thought I might throw up," he admits groggily, and shifts a shaky hand to run under the cold water. Splashes some onto his face to try and cool down. The movement is enough to unsteady him again and he grips out for the sink, tries to breathe slowly.

Edited (English) 2016-01-11 02:02 (UTC)

Faolan steps forward to slip an arm around the other man's waist without further question, reaching out to steady his swaying against the sink as he does. Somehow, in the journey between the living room and the bathroom, the other man has developed a pallor and a cool sweat. He looks awful and Faolan can imagine that he feels worse, and a wave of guilt washes over him, knowing that he's probably pushed him into this.

"Easy, easy," he says gently, frowning at the other man as he presses a hand to his face, but he can't tell whether he's feverish or whether he just feels warm under his hands. "Are you still nauseous?" he asks, concerned. He looks like he should really sit down, but if he needs to stay in the bathroom for a while longer, Faolan doesn't want to lead him away from it.

"It comes in waves. I'm not sure I have anything in me to begin with, but..."

Well, better safe than sorry. He swallows weakly, gropes out a hand for where Faolan's arm is braced around him.

"Forgive me, Faolan, I swear I -- I didn't mean to hurt you. I never would. My head was hurting, and I -- you know it's new to me, and I suppose I struggle to control it more than I thought."

Faolan's frown deepens and he shakes his head at the other man, tightening his arm around his waist as he does. "There's nothing to forgive," he says. "I pushed you. You're allowed to push back. And I'm pretty sure that I just hurt you a lot more than you hurt me." He reaches another hand up to press to the other man's face, this time to his forehead, but he still can't tell if he's too warm or not. Not while Faolan's feeling fairly warm just then himself.

"Come here, come sit down before you fall down," Faolan says gently, slowly moving to direct the other man to sit on the lid of the toilet. The bathroom's so small, if Lancelot really does get sick, he's not sure that he'll get standing and turned around fast enough, but the sink's right there, as is the waste bin. It's as good as they're going to get, for now. Only once he's certain the other man is settled and not about to fall forward on his face does he stand and wet a cloth in the sink, turning off the water before turning back to Lancelot.

"Here," he says, again his voice unusually soft and low, for Faolan's standards, as he moves to press the cool cloth against the back of Lancelot's neck for a moment, before flipping it to hold against his forehead. "Tell me if that feels better. Or if you start to feel worse. ...you should have told me you were ill," he says, moving to crouch in front of the other man, so that he has a better angle to hold the cloth in place. Frowning harder as he does.

"You haven't hurt me, Faolan, I--"

He lets himself be moved, wincing slightly as the room spins and closing his eyes for a second. Sitting down isn't entirely helping, truth be told, but he supposes it does mean there isn't as far to fall. Lancelot lets out a slow breath, letting Faolan fuss for a moment before trying again.

"I thought it would go away, truth be told, and then I suppose -- well, I tried to tell you just now."

His lips flick into a wry smile and he drops a hand to Lily as she barges her way forward, tail wagging a little slower in concern as she joins in the fussing. What is going on? She doesn't know! Should she help?

"I've been getting them on and off since... early December, I suppose? They went away before, I thought I was just dehydrating myself overworking but -- well, I don't think it's that."

Sitting down may not help a lot, but at least it frees up Faolan's hands and keeps him from worrying about dropping Lancelot if he moves wrong. And Lancelot is looking anything but steady on his feet should he leave him to his own devices. And as Faolan listens to the other man's explanation, his frown deepens. Since early December?

"You didn't say anything," he says. They've seen each other off and on since then -- hell, Faolan had stayed over for part of the month. And he hadn't noticed anything was off. Maybe that was one of the times he'd been feeling better? Faolan hopes so. He hopes that he hadn't been that unobservant this whole time. He hopes that Lancelot hadn't been deliberately hiding it.

He wonders if that's what the other man was trying to get at, when he'd kept telling him to sit down. Trying to explain himself. His condition. He'd just assumed he was trying to placate his temper. It makes him feel even more guilty than before, and he shifts the hand on the other man's forehead, sitting forward and closer so that he can get a better look at his face.

"Lancelot, are you okay?" he asks softly, the concern in his voice rising. If it's not dehydration, not overwork, what else could it be? Has he seen a doctor? Is it something terrible?

He's definitely overly warm to touch, focus a little fuzzy as he flits his eyes up and then away again. Faolan's hand feels pleasantly cool in contrast, and he closes his eyes for a second before rallying to try and answer the question.

"I'm not sure," he admits after a moment, "I don't..."

And here he hesitates again, a little cagey as he tries to work out how to word his theory.

"I am no expert, but I think this might not be a... natural headache. Not one my GP could help with, at least."

He winces a little, feeling considerably awkward about admitting a weakness to Faolan, wets at his lips nervously before trying to cover.

"It may go away -- perhaps it is tied to... well, the new talent the Night Council granted me. If I grow used to it then it may well go away?"

Although Lancelot doesn't think so, and he's a terrible liar truth be told. He has suspicions, no doubt his lack of real belief in what he says shows in his face.

Faolan frowns up at the other man, not believing his words for a moment. Grow used to it? He'd obviously just been letting the headaches run their course and instead of 'growing used to it' as Lancelot had suggested that he might do, he'd only gotten worse. He looks dubious about the other man's reasoning.

"Whatever my opinion might be of Sylvia," Faolan says, "she wouldn't have awarded you a power that would also debilitate you besides." He shifts his hand on the other man's forehead again, adjusting the cloth, wondering if he might be able to swallow any paracetamol or whether the attempt might be a poor decision instead.

"Tell me what happened," he requests, gently. "Did I make this worse? Was it using your ability like that? Is that why you think that they're connected?" He searches Lancelot's face as he kneels in front of him, fussing slightly. Maybe it is Lancelot's power. Maybe it isn't. The last thing Faolan wants to do is assume that it will go away and then the other man's condition worsen, only to find out that he could have done something to stop it.

"Faolan, you have not made it worse -- I swear it. It is as I said, I didn't even mean to use my ability that way. I suppose it just --"

Lancelot hesitates again, awkwardly trying to think of a way to word it that doesn't sound... volatile, or that will not make Faolan yet more guilty.

"I was already feel unsteady before you arrived. I was thinking of laying down a while, honestly. I suppose it just... reacted defensively, perhaps, forgive me I --"

He sighs, realising he's going in circles a little, and lifts a hand to rest on Faolan's arm.

"Whatever you may think, Faolan, I could never hurt you. You've taught me a great deal, been patient with me. You are one of my dearest friends." Lancelot twitches a small smile, a little weaker than he'd like but something at least. "I only hope I'm not a few minutes away from throwing up on you and embarrassing myself entirely."

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