Lancelot du Lac (
knightscode) wrote in
undergrounds2016-08-06 01:12 am
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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."
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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"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?"
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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.
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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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Would you tell me now? Faolan prompts, and Lancelot hesitates. He hesitates because he doesn't know, because he might but he also might not. Because Faolan has feelings for him, and he doesn't want to hurt them but he also wants him to remember how things stand.
"I might," he says softly, "if I needed help, or was still injured... but... I didn't want to talk about it, Faolan, and I don't... have to."
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"Why not?" he has to ask, despite himself. Is it because of Hillingdon? Is it because he's a hunter? Is it because Lancelot thinks he's sparing him, keeping from burdening him with his problems? After everything that Lancelot has done for him, the comparison so unbalanced that Faolan feels almost ashamed of it at times, even as he goes crawling back to the other man time and time again -- why not?
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"You want to know why I don't want to talk about nearly dying, being forced to drink vampire blood then suddenly finding said vampire wandering about my head uninvited?"
Shouldn't it be obvious it makes him uncomfortable? He's fairly sure Faolan would be uncomfortable himself, given the same situation, and when has Lancelot ever appeared good at talking about his own problems?
"Or -- do you want to know why... I think I shouldn't have to?" Which makes his discomfort ramp up again, brow furrowing uneasily. "Forgive me but, you're a good friend Faolan but... we're not dating here."
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He isn't exactly sure how to respond to that. So he doesn't at first. Knowing Lancelot is undoubtedly aware of the fact that he wishes that they were. Knowing that his silence stretching on like this probably only makes things even more awkward between them. More awkward than the idea that Lancelot knows in the first place, for there it is, forced to sit out in the open between them yet again.
Faolan tries to ignore his desire to run away or possibly try and toss himself out his balcony window, and instead sits back in his chair, forcing himself to speak up so that the silence doesn't draw out for too long. Any longer than it has at any rate. "None of these are all that deep. You might want to get a tetanus vaccine, if you haven't had one recently. Sooner rather than later. Who knows what condition those swords were in..." he fusses, becasuse it's easier to fuss than to face his own discomfort just in that moment.
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But they aren't dating. They aren't, and Faolan is... well, he's acting like a possessive partner.
"I'll make sure I get a tetanus shot," he agrees, "I promise." His tone stays easy and soothing, as if that might help Faolan settle after the previous remark.
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He lets another moment's silence stretch between them and as a principle, Faolan isn't certain he can dig himself any deeper of a hole. That is until he opens his mouth to say, "But what if we were though." The flash of fear in his eyes and sudden recoil that Faolan makes should be more than enough indication to the other man that those weren't quite the words he had intended to slip out, just now.
"I'm sorry," he apologizes hastily, all of the previous fight gone out of him, and moves to stand and begin gathering the supplies. Give himself an excuse to back out of the question. An excuse to run away from his problems yet again, just as things were beginning to really look messy. An escape.
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It isn't something Lancelot really has an answer to. He has no idea what it would be like if they were dating. Would it be good, bad, worse than bad? He hasn't anything to even begin to gauge that.
"Faolan..." he begins, and holds out a hand to stop him as he begins to quickly get up and move -- rests it on his arm to try and either stop him or at least slow him down.
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Faolan knows that he does stupid things, when he feels as exposed as he does now. When he can't run and hide, like he wants to. He feels his heart hammering in his chest as he stands regarding the other man, and he can feel even before the deed is done another stupid decision welling up within him. And he'll be damned if he has any power within himself to do more than sit back and watch it happen.
"Would it be such a terrible thing?" he asks, his voice barely above a whisper, because he feels like his heart might leap straight out of his mouth if he gives it half the chance.
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If it all went wrong they'd still have to work together, and they wouldn't even have each other's friendship to get through. Is that worth it? Lancelot has no idea. He struggles to imagine exactly what it would be like, truth be told.
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Faolan's mind comes to a screeching halt.
"You..." he says, trailing the words off as he fights to make himself catch up. He didn't say no. He didn't say no, and the small part of Faolan that was still holding out hope despite the odds suddenly finds itself holding on to this, as tight as he can. Forcing itself out through his mouth as he stands there, otherwise lost for words.
"You wouldn't have to," he says, his voice quiet and low. "I would never..." He swallows, hard, before the next words slip out, unbidden. "You're the most important person in my life, Lancelot, and I... I know that I cock a lot of things up. But. If I were given the chance..." He glances down, away, anywhere but at Lancelot himself, because he isn't certain he wants the other man to see the desperation written there. "If I were given the chance," he continues, quietly, "you had better believe I would do my best to get things right, for a change."
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Which, as far as Lancelot is concerned, is already a long lost of problems before they even get into the more personal ones. Of which there are plenty for both of them.
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"Tell me you're not interested, and I will accept that," he says. Keeping his voice quiet, as if afraid he might break this spell otherwise. "Tell me... You're not interested in men, or that. You'll never see me in such a way. I will accept that too. But none of the rest of that matters here, Lancelot, no more than it does to our friendship. So please... If that is what's holding you back..." Faolan trails off unsteadily. It's taking a lot for him, even to be as bold as this.
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He takes a deep breath, lets it out in a heavy sigh and rubs his forehead.
"Do we have to do this now? It's just..."
Just that he's tired, covered in cuts and bruises, all of that. Lancelot gestures vaguely at himself to encompass this, offers a wincing smile.
"I'd like to think about things properly, rather than... well, not."
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He turns back to the supplies as he had done before, moving to gather them up to bring them back to the medicine cabinet in his bathroom. Quietly wondering to himself as he does at how the other man can build him up so high and make him feel like such an idiot at the same time.
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And, well, a shirt that might fit -- but if he has to pick one of the two he's somewhat leaning toward a drink right now. Especially after all the conversation that came on top of everything else.
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"Do you have a preference?" he calls out, moving towards his bureau and starting to dig. A drink will go easier if Lancelot's got a shirt on, after all. He's sure that the other man will feel better for having it and Faolan perhaps will be more consciencious of the words coming out of his mouth if he does. He's sure that he has something that'd fit Lancelot, and he finds it after a moment in the shape of a free handout from a gym, shaking it out to make certain that it's not in terrible condition before returning to the kitchen with it for Lancelot.
"Here," he says, handing it to the other man before moving to lean against the counter, a safe distance away.
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"Something... strong, I suppose? While bearing in mind I don't drink much."
As Faolan well knows, having seen the minimal supplies in his flat.
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"Strong I can do," Faolan replies, turning to the cabinet behind him and, after a moment's consideration, bringing down a bottle of spiced rum and a glass tumbler for it. "I can put ice in the glass if you like?" he asks, turning back to the other man and raising his eyebrows slightly, uncertain whether Lancelot even knows whether he'd like that or not. "It'll cut the flavor a little," he elaborates slightly.
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If nothing else, a cool drink in this summer heat sounds good.
"I shouldn't drink too much, though, or I'll be falling asleep. You might not mind but I think Lily would."
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"Here," he says, setting it down and sliding it across his little kitchen table towards him before turning to pour himself a healthy glass of his own. Notably without the ice, but Faolan wants to feel the heat of the spice. Take his mind off of the hole he has dug for himself.
"Don't worry about getting home tonight," he says, settling down opposite the other man and then speaking up to elaborate, lest Lancelot start getting any ideas of what he's trying to say. "I may not be able to promise you home before midnight," considering it's already passed, "but I'll see that you get there, one way or another."
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"If you don't, Lily will probably have something to say about it."
Straightening the t-shirt vaguely he offers Faolan a faint smile, a little hopeful. As if half questioning if they're still allowed to joke like this after all the drama.
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Still, he would never want the other man to caution himself, not around him. Not because of him. So he does his best to rally himself, taking a sip of his drink before he replies, "You know, somehow I don't find myself feeling particularly threatened by that."
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