undergrounds | [ Active / Closed ] Caught in the crossfire

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[ Active / Closed ] Caught in the crossfire

It's been a complicated few months for Lancelot.

As a Guardian, it isn't terribly great to know one of the Night Council has 'vanished' under mysterious circumstances. Gilbert Norrell may not have been a personal favourite of his, but he was still someone the Guardians were there to protect. Moreover, the investigation is going slowly.

Which is also not brilliant, considering he'd just been promoted.

As both a Police Officer and a Guardian both, there's little Lancelot likes less than the feeling of a dead end.

Then, of course, there's the vampire problem.

Lancelot thinks he can be forgiven for feeling a touch bitter over that.

Richmond -- Early August, Closed to Natasha

Lancelot is starting to feel more than uneasy about what is happening with Islington.

Especially since he has unwittingly helped create the current situation.

He dislikes feeling used, and even if he has managed to fend them off once from taking back the territory he took the loss of trust is something that stings.

Jean-Claude makes him feel uneasy. He'd liked him at first, the man had even saved him. Yet everything that came after makes Lancelot wonder if he has trusted too easily. What the vampire has told him is true -- in comparison surely he is far from the worst one, but then again perhaps that is only because Lancelot has not seen him at his worse. Perhaps he is being fooled all over again.

What he needs is someone who better understands vampires than he does, which is honestly not difficult. Yet... equally, there is someone he can think of.

Although most likely this isn't what she'd been thinking of when he'd offered to meet her.

He's standing outside the small, brightly coloured shop with one hand shoved into the pockets of faded jeans. The sun is long set, but the place is open until midnight -- although Lancelot suspects the fact that this caters to the supernatural community is entirely unintentional. Lily is sat pressed up against his legs, leaning slightly into him as his free hand ruffles her white fur. She's the first to sense Natasha approaching, and looks around before pushing to all fours -- tail beginning to swish up over her back. Lancelot looks up in turn, brightens a little at the sight of her and offers a small smile.

Then he belatedly realises he's standing in front of a small frozen yogurt shop and looks back at it self-consciously for a second before offering her a shrug.

"I hope it's everything you thought it would be," he says, and his lips twitch in barely repressed amusement.

Southwark -- backdated to June / Closed to Faolan.

Lancelot is more than a little surprised he actually won, but he's not arguing with it.

Now, though, as adrenaline begins to wear off all the cuts and scrapes he's wearing begin to hurt and as he looks down at himself... Lancelot can't help but laugh a little.

He looks like he belongs on the cover of some utterly ridiculous romance novel, shirt sliced and covered with blood. Doesn't help that it's a white shirt. Why did he wear a white shirt? He wasn't thinking, that's why, he was too angry to think. Sighing a little he tries to work out the best way to get home like this. He'll be stared at if he takes public transport. Maybe a taxi would be more forgiving.

With a heavy sigh he plods his way back toward the gaggle of Daybreak witches -- then catches sight of something out of the corner of his eye.

Faolan? Of all people -- well, Lancelot would have dragged him into such a thing once upon a time but... Faolan is now the leader of Hillingdon, and already has enough political complication without looking as if he's assisting in a Daybreak claim.

Lancelot blinks at him a moment before frowning and beginning to cautiously step over.

"If you're looking to help," he begins slowly, "you're a little late now. I'm afraid it appears to be over."

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Faolan glances sideways at the other man, frowning slightly at his own frown, wondering whether Lancelot would protest the idea if he really did need a doctor or not. "It would serve you right if I did," he says, before cutting himself off and glancing away. He doesn't want to cause a scene, especially not here. He has questions for Lancelot, of course he does. But there is a time and a place and he wants to be certain that they don't have an audience when he gets to them. And less of an opportunity to shy away from answering, if he has any say in the matter.

"No," he says, after a moment. "No A&E. I should have everything back at mine. Including that drink." He throws another sideways glance at Lancelot and the way that he's awkwardly wrapped the jacket around himself and then away again. "I'll have to see if I have anything that might fit you, though."

Lancelot flinches slightly at the first remark, adjusts the jacket around his shoulders uncomfortably before giving a slight nod.

"Thank you," he manages, "although it's fine if you don't. I have plenty more shirts at home."

So even if he has to vaguely clean up and head home in it, he can cope. It's only for tonight, after all, and with bandages on the wounds the worst of it might be hidden anyway.

Faolan tries not to feel bad at the flinch, considering it's basically exactly the reaction he had thought it would get out of the man. That he had lashed out because he had wanted him to feel guilty for his choices. Instead he shakes his head.

"Maybe you do. But if you want to make it home tonight, you're going to probably want to change," he says. He throws another sideways glance at the other man, before shrugging. "Take it from someone who has spent enough nights trying to get home looking worse than you to know."

He turns towards the street to attempt to flag down a cab for the pair of them. Luckily it's not too late, and it isn't long before he manages it. Making sure he's got the other man settled in beside him before he gives his address to the cab driver and sitting back in his seat for the ride. Though he's unable to keep himself from asking, "...how did you do that?" He throws a glance at the cab driver, before lowering his voice further. "How did you beat him? Not that I didn't want you to, but..."

"If I could tell you, I would."

He shifts uncomfortably, trying to work out a way of fastening his seatbelt while still keeping the jacket around himself like a makeshift cape. mostly this involves trapping his arms awkwardly, somehow adding to his overall levels of discomfort. He looks ridiculous, he feels ridiculous, and he also feels tired and frustrated a little irritable. He can tell Faolan is upset with him, and Lancelot doesn't feel as if he deserves it. He's only doing his best, and hadn't he managed it?

Yes, it was dangerous, he knows that's the argument -- but he can't think of a particularly safer idea right now.

(There are plenty, he knows in his heart, he just doesn't want to dwell on them and how badly it could have gone wrong.)

Faolan turns and frowns at the other man at that answer, considering the fact that it isn't really much of one. What does he mean, he doesn't know how? He was the one who had been in the fight, hadn't he? How can he not know?

Still. It's true that Faolan's upset, but he doesn't want to go on the attack. The way that Lancelot's got his jacket wrapped about himself, hunched in on himself. It quiets whatever other protest Faolan might have had. He has more questions, but they can wait. At least until they're out of the taxi and somewhere where they can discuss these things properly.

So he stays quiet for the rest of the ride, leaving the conversation open for Lancelot if he wants it, but not forcing anything between them. Once they reach his building Faolan pays the driver and, after a quick glance behind himself to make sure Lancelot is following, leads him in and up to his flat. Unlocking the door, he gestures him inside. "Here, sit," he says. Letting Lancelot choose anywhere he likes, although between the little kitchenette or the sofa, there isn't much of a choice.

Given the option to stay quiet Lancelot does, splitting his attention between idly checking his phone, watching the traffic out the window and shooting Faolan guilty looks.

Faolan's flat is familiar at least, and he follows him up and shrugs off the jacket -- inspects it warily to see if he's gotten any blood on it before hanging it over the back of a nearby chair. Sit, Faolan instructs, and Lancelot hovers a moment uncertainly before drawing up a chair in the kitchen area. He doesn't want to get blood on the sofa, either, and glances down at his shirt to begin picking at it once more.

"I'm sure it looks worse than it is," he says, as a token sort of protest against the fussing, and lifts his eyes just enough to follow Faolan's movements warily.

Faolan gives the other man a look in response to his protest, a look that no doubt Lancelot would be giving him himself, as well he knows. "I promise to draw the line at sutures, if you need any," he says instead, and moves to roll up his sleeves and start collecting first aid supplies. "Do you think you can get that off without re-opening anything?" he asks, nodding at the shirt. If not, he knows how to deal with that too, although the shirt will definitely be ruined if so.

Waiting for Lancelot's answer he wanders into his bedroom and the medicine cabinet there, working on pulling out various items that they might need and trying to line them up on the counter. It's hard to know for certain without knowing what he's dealing with, but it's better to bring out more than he needs he supposes.

He fidgets with the shirt a little, trying to decide how to answer.

"It's a little stuck," he ventures, "I think it might bleed more if I pull, but... it shouldn't be too bad? I think it will be fine. If you're going to clean it anyway..."

Then it will probably bleed again anyway, won't it? He thinks so? Most wounds starting bleeding a little in protest if you properly clean them out.

Faolan has had enough experience with such things he knows that if they want it to hurt less, if they want the shirt to stop sticking in the cuts, then they're probably going to have to get it wet. But short of asking Lancelot to step into the shower fully clothed or doing a lot of fussing just for the sake of a little discomfort, he supposes it hasn't been too long, to have to warrant something like that.

Padding back into the kitchen with what feels like half his first aid supply in hand (it isn't, though, Faolan has a pretty substantial first aid kit after all) he dumps it on the table before pulling up another chair to sit closer. "Here, let me see," he says, reaching forward for the other man's arm and gently tugging his sleeve, where a particularly bloody cut had been, though he knows that area is probably more vascular and true to Lancelot's word it probably just seems worse than it is.

He gives the rest of it a once-over before deeming that it should be fine and gestures, slightly awkwardly, to the front of Lancelot's shirt, for him to unbutton it. "It doesn't seem too bad, no. Give it a try? If it pulls too much this way we can always just cut it off." It isn't like the shirt is all that salvageable at the moment anyway, after all.

Lancelot watches Faolan inspecting his injuries awkwardly, a little self-conscious of the state he's in, then nods as he's encouraged to to carry on. His fingers make short work of the buttons, carefully trying to ease fabric away drying blood.

"I should tell Jean-Claude he owes me a new shirt," he mutters, wincing slightly as blood starts to well up again from a cut. That and more. Lancelot is still uneasy about the man, more so after today. Part of him wants to question him about what he thought he was doing, but part of him just doesn't want to talk to the vampire at all.

Faolan lets out the huff of a breath that suggests he thinks that Jean-Claude owes him much more than just a new shirt, but he doesn't speak up to say as much. Instead watching the other man remove the thing slowly and then setting about assessing his wounds now that they're better exposed. Moving to begin cleaning the worst of them, one of the ones that has already started to bleed again from the movement and the peeling away of the shirt, however gentle.

"What is your history?" he asks instead, glancing up at the other man before back at where his hands are working. "You and that vampire. You know each other. He certainly knew you." Faolan's trying not to make any assumptions. He wants to hear from Lancelot himself. From the other man himself, just what those comments had meant, earlier in the evening.

"History?" Lancelot echoes, fidgeting slightly as antiseptic stings against the cuts. "It's... complicated, I suppose? I thought we were friends -- he saved my life once -- but I'm beginning to doubt my judgement on that."

In his gut, Lancelot has a feeling Faolan won't like all the details if he shares them. He immediately looks uncomfortable, dropping his eyes to watch him clean the cuts then moving them away to the floor and the wall -- avoiding eye contact.

Faolan's head jerks up slightly from where he is concentrating on his work at that. "Saved your life?" he repeats, unable to help the question. Unable to help the narrowing of his eyes. Wondering if this has anything to do with what they had been talking about, Lancelot and Jean-Claude. 'Gentleman don't invite themselves into each other's heads,' that's what Lancelot had said back there.

He keeps at the work -- it gives him something to do with his hands and takes something of the attention off of the other man. But only something of it. Faolan wants his answer, and he isn't going to take no for an answer. He isn't going to let Lancelot get away with brushing something like that away, not something life and death as he is implying. Not life and death where vampires are concerned.

Something in Faolan's eyes tells Lancelot to tread softly, but he honestly is not sure how to here. There isn't a delicate way to further that statement.

"Yes," he answers, and hesitates. "In... February I think it was? I suppose the entire of February was a little complicated."

Considering, well, what else happened then. He winces apologetically, but all the same vaguely hopes the reminder might back Faolan off.

The mention of February just has Faolan narrowing his eyes further. Is that why Lancelot hadn't told him about it then? Why is he only finding about it now? Saved his life -- a vampire. Never mind the vampire bit, the fact that he hadn't known that his life had been in danger in the first place, that was troubling enough in itself, but then to bring Jean-Claude into the mixture.

"How?" Faolan asks, although there's a little niggling sensation deep within him that suspects he might already know the answer. A normal vampire cannot simply invite himself into a man's head -- and Jean-Claude might be climbing up there in the ranks within Islington, but he's not so powerful as that. Faolan would know if that were the case. He has men investigating this business. He's had men investigating the vampires of Islington for some time now.

The question is oddly aggressive, and Lancelot almost shies from it physically -- eyes dropping away and leaning away himself an inch or two.

"Well, there was... your fever, the... tea spiking too, that month, you remember? That, and I was arrested in January so... some spill over from that, too..."

That's enough to qualify it as a complicated month, isn't it? Does that get him off the hook in describing it?

Faolan keeps his grip on the other man's arm, as much to continue the work that he's doing (though less of his attention is on that just now) as it is to keep Lancelot from running away. Not that he's certain that's what he would do, but it might be what he would do, if cornered in such a situation.

"Yes," he says, a bit sharper than he had intended to. "Yes, I remember February." How could he forget. He realizes belatedly how tight his grip is and loosens it slightly. He wonders whether Lancelot is doing this on purpose -- purposely being obtuse so that he doesn't have to answer his question. He tries again, this time a little more direct.

"Tell me how he saved your life, Lancelot," he inquires, this time not making it a question. "Tell me what happened." Tell me why I'm only finding out now. No, he keeps that last part to himself. For now, at least.

He looks down at the grip on his arm warily, trying to assess Faolan as it loosens finally.

"It was just bad timing on my part," Lancelot says, pitching his tone for soothing. "I happened to walk in on a vampire who... had drunk a little too much fae blood to be reasonable. I suppose I smelled similar to him. Luckily Jean-Claude turned up in time."

There, no need to mention the bit where he bled a lot -- right?

To Lancelot's credit, Faolan is somewhat soothed by the other man's tone. But he doesn't want to be. He wants to be angry, and he wants the other man to understand why. Because for whatever reason, it doesn't seem as though he does. After every embarrassing reveal Faolan has made, Lancelot still doesn't understand why something like this should upset him. Or maybe he does, and he doesn't care. Neither thought is very comforting.

"What happened?" Faolan grinds out, abandoning his efforts to clean the other man's wounds as he does his best not to simply beg the answer out of him. It's surely not as simple as that, Jean-Claude showed up and rescued him. It never is, not when vampires are concerned.

What... happened? Lancelot blinks, frowns slowly.

"Faolan I just told you what happened. I had a run in with a vampire who was high on fae blood."

Then Jean-Claude saved him. Yet for some reason Faolan doesn't seem to be accepting that as an answer. Why? It's what happened! He cannot quite parse what may not be acceptable about the answer.

Faolan shakes his head in slight disbelief, looking down at his hands and starting up his work again to bide himself some time, as well as in effort not to just explode at the other man entirely. He understands that Lancelot is telling him the truth. But he has a sinking suspicion that it isn't the whole truth. And that's what eats at him more than anything.

It takes him a long moment, to parse through what he wants to say, though when he manages it, it is through gritted teeth. "What did you mean back there, to Jean-Claude. About him being in your head." He knows what it should mean, of course. But he wants to hear it from Lancelot himself.

Ah.

Lancelot immediately looks guilty once more, dropping his eyes self-consciously away again to the wound then to his hands.

"I... was injured, and Jean-Claude helped me... to heal. He took advantage of that later, something I didn't even know he could do until it happened."

Something he doesn't like being forced to admit this way, because it was invasive and personal. Even if it didn't seem that way to Jean-Claude, it felt that way to Lancelot. He's already someone with fears and doubts about his memories and the parts that are missing, having someone exploring them without his permission makes him wonder if the ones he have could be changed.

Faolan struggles to contain himself, trying to imagine what sort of a scenario would have had to occur in order for Lancelot to accept Jean-Claude's blood. Because that's what happened. He was injured, and Jean-Claude had offered his blood, and unless...

"Did you know?" he asks, glancing up again at the other man, his eyes dark, questioning, probing. Concerned, angry, hurt, and afraid for the other man all at once. It's a jumble of emotions, and only the fact that he's been given something to do with his hands is keeping Faolan in his place. For now.

"Did you know that was what would happen?" he asks again, because perhaps Lancelot will take this advantage to try and divert the conversation as well. "Did you know, when you accepted his blood from him," for Lancelot had not outright said as much, but Faolan knows that that's what happened, "that he had taken some from you as well? Did you know all the power that would give him over you?" Lancelot may still be new to this world, but he isn't a fool. He must have known the possibility of it.

"Of course not!" he hisses, "I told you, I didn't even know he could do that until it happened! Why would I want that? You know I've barely known vampires even exist a year!"

He frowns at Faolan, a little agitated himself now, feeling awkwardly as if he's being told off.

"I was bleeding too quickly to refuse him. I didn't have a choice."

Faolan's expression darkens slightly at that. Bleeding too quickly to refuse him. His jaw tightens and he forces his gaze back to the task at hand, lest the other man be witness to whatever else might be lurking in his eyes. Faolan feels the anger rising in him, and he lets it build, because it's better than the fear. The pain of the knowledge that Lancelot could have died that night, months ago. He had been forced to put his life in the hands of a vampire. And then he had kept the whole matter to himself.

"Why didn't you say anything about this before?" he asks, trying to keep his voice low, but somehow that makes it worse. Because he knows, to some extent. Lancelot had said, after all. It had been a busy month. He had had a lot going on. But he would have had time for this. He would have made time for this. He would always have time for Lancelot, when he needed it. Didn't he understand that?

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