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 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?

Lancelot stays tense and unhappy, his eyes dropped away, because he doesn't know how to answer that. It was a busy month, he's already mentioned that. He was tired. He didn't want to talk about it. He just wanted to move on. He didn't know there would be fallout later on with Jean-Claude. He didn't want to bring Faolan into that either. It was his own problem, not Faolan's.

"Are you going to claim you tell me everything that happens to you?"

Faolan narrows his eyes, his jaw tightening further. He turns to reach for a piece of gauze to tape over a deeper section of the wound he had been working on, before turning back to Lancelot, giving the other man a hard look.

"This isn't everything, Lancelot, this was an attempt on your life!" He reaches up to run a hand over his face and through his hair, trying to keep himself from yelling. Knowing that he's mostly failing at it.

"Vampires are dangerous, you..." He pauses to tape the gauze in place before he moves to sit back and regard the other man in turn. "You should have told me. I'm a hunter. I'm in charge of the hunters, damn it, this is what I do!" He gestures in the vague direction of the window and the city outside, where the fight had taken place. "Vampires are the reason why I do it! For god's sake, Lancelot..."

"He's already dead, Faolan! Were you planning to hunt a dead vampire?"

Lancelot lifts his eyes, frowns at him a moment in silence and tries to take a controlling breath himself.

"It wasn't premeditated, and it was handled. I had no idea anything else would come of it. I had no reason to bring it up."

After all, he isn't obligated to tell Faolan everything -- despite what the man might want.

"It was handled," Faolan repeats incredulously. "Yes, I'm sure that it was. I'm sure that Jean-Claude handled it all very nicely indeed! Tidied it all away, just the way that he wanted to, and that was that." He knows that vampire's type. And he knows Lancelot. Despite how strong and capable the other man is, the vampire has centuries of manipulation on him. And Lancelot will always be too nice.

"If you think that you should owe him a favor after that then you're wrong. If you think that he wouldn't have killed you back there in a heartbeat if he was given the choice between you or him, if you think he would have honored his word, then I suggest you study up on vampires," Faolan rants. "You could have died out there! If he really wanted that territory, he could have just killed you and taken what he believes to be his. He's toying with you, Lancelot. They all do. Like a cat with a mouse -- just before they eat it. You can never trust a vampire, do you understand that now?"

Frustration twists tight in Lancelot's chest, but he fixedly sets his jaw and tries to ignore it. Faolan means well, he knows that. He's just worried.

That doesn't make it feel much better to be railed at this way.

"Have you finished with this?" he says instead, vaguely shifting his eyes to the injury Faolan was cleaning up.

If Faolan is done, he feels like he'd really rather leave at this point.

"No," Faolan barks in response, but he can read behind Lancelot's question, read his body language and the tight set of his jaw. He takes in a deep breath and lets it out slowly before sitting forward and concentrating on his work instead. The last thing he needs is for Lancelot to develop an infection or something because he was too focused on the vampire detail instead.

He's quiet for a long moment, working to efficiently assess, clean, disinfect, and bandage the worst of Lancelot's cuts before he can't help himself speaking up to ask, "Would you tell me now?" His eyes flicker up to the other man and then back down to his hands. Almost afraid of his answer, but compelled to ask regardless. "If it happened again, would you..."

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