undergrounds | [ Active / Closed ] Caught in the crossfire

Entry tags:

[ 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."

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Faolan knew better than to get himself involved in all of this, considering his current political position. Head of Hillingdon, he needs to think of them as well before he goes rushing himself into any potential conflict that might turn around to point the finger right back at them.

But it's one thing to stay out. And it's another thing entirely to stay away. He doesn't believe that Lancelot should have trusted this invitation. Certainly not from a vampire. But come Lancelot had, to greet the vampires with a righteous anger that somehow, some way it seems he had managed to channel to use to defeat them in turn.

Faolan's not going to question it. Why look a gift horse in the mouth? What he is concerned about is the state of Lancelot after the fight was over. And what he had been thinking accepting it in the first place. He steps forward, frowning up at the other man as he takes it all in, anger coiling tight within him at the creature that did this to the other man.

"I don't know that I would have been much good following the rules anyway," he replies, before taking another hesitant step towards the other man. "Are you alright?" he asks, his eye on a few cuts in particular. Lancelot might have won the duel, but he certainly didn't emerge unscathed.

Edited (editing out the sleepy...) 2016-08-06 13:50 (UTC)

"Fine," Lancelot answers easily, although the way he looks down at himself after suggests even he doubts the truth of this. "I'll live, nothing life threatening that I can tell. Can't say the same for my shirt, though."

He winces slightly, tugs at the fabric where it is sticking to some blood and tries to take a steadying breath.

"But a drink might help."

Which is a little more honest than he'd be if he wasn't shaken. Lance is, though, and he's tired and confused and bleeding. He may have won, but he doesn't feel particularly victorious.

Faolan watches as Lancelot answers, and doesn't believe that he's 'fine' for a moment. At least the pair of them can agree that his shirt is probably for the bin, if nothing else. He throws a glance behind Lancelot to be sure that he isn't being followed -- he isn't sure of what terms they agreed on, but he wouldn't put it past the vampires to break them, angry with the way that things have turned out. Lancelot shouldn't have to stick around to have to make certain they stick to their word, though. He's already done enough for the witches tonight, not even being one himself.

He takes another tentative step toward Lancelot, reaching to still Lancelot's hand from pulling at the shirt and worrying the wound anymore. He can feel it, welling within him. The aftermath of the fear for Lancelot, as he watched the sword fight. The desire to lash out, what were you thinking?, warring with the intense desire to protect him. "I think I can do something about that," he offers instead. He's certainly got a better liquor cabinet at his place than Lancelot himself. And a better medicine cabinet at that as well. "And the rest as well. Here."

He shrugs off his jacket and holds it out to Lancelot in turn. It's probably not going to fit him very well, but at least it will cover up the worst of the shirt. "Take this. You look... Rough." And the last thing that they need is anyone stopping them to ask questions.

Rough.

That's one way of putting it, he supposes.

He takes the jacket after a second of hesitation, shakes it out then... hangs it over his shoulders awkwardly instead of pulling it on. It looks like it will be too tight around his shoulders if he tries, and Lancelot doesn't really want to ruin Faolan's jacket if he can help it.

"Thank you," he says regardless. Then, "I'm not so sure I should take public transport like this."

Just, you know, even with the awkward jacket he still draws attention.

Faolan watches him drape the jacket over his shoulders and it's not quite the effect that he had intended. He supposes it's better than nothing, though, and he supposes it's something that Lancelot hadn't outright refused for that matter as well.

He shakes his head in response to the comment, gesturing away from the huddle of witches around them and back towards the main road. "No," he agrees, "I don't think you should. Luckily, I'm not sure that a taxi will care all that much. Not at this time at night. So long as you keep from bleeding on the seating." He'd been trying for light banter but the fact that it's actually a possibility takes something of the light out of the comment.

He turns and begins to lead them towards the road. "Do you think Lily can spare you for a little longer?" he asks. Not outright stating that he's intending to head back to his own flat first, though certainly implying it.

At the mention of bleeding Lancelot looks down at this shirt again self-consciously, adjusts the jacket and pulls it as close to closed as he can to try and cover some of it.

"Lily?" he echoes, and frowns a little. "I think so, but... if you're planning to take me to A&E, I don't think it's necessary."

He doesn't think anything is deep enough to need stitches, anyway. At least, not that he can tell.

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.

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject