undergrounds | [ Active / Open ] How long can I neglect me for

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[ Active / Open ] How long can I neglect me for

The month has become a little rough for Lancelot. First there was his suspicions regarding Jean-Claude, then Raymond's declaration, then... then everything got a little worse. It was only a weekend hes spent in the basement with Raymond's lackeys, but he's still recovering from the blood loss -- and it's shaken him more than he'd care to admit.

i) Semi-Open: At Home, Richmond.

For a few days after, Lancelot simply shuts himself in and tries to recharge. He's sore, covered in vampire bites and bruises and a little uneasy still. Lancelot may not have been taken directly from his home, but he wasn't far from it. He still can't be sure if they were watching his house, how long for if they were. If it was chance or luck, if it was planned.

He won't refuse visitors, but in truth Lancelot is rather content with just Lily for company at the moment. His mind is busy, and having lost a fair amount of blood he's also tired.

An awkward amount of time has been spent inventing a passable reason he's in such a state for people he simply can't tell 'oh it was vampires', and that's... difficult. He hates lying. Yet all the same he's managed it, somehow, had to halfway makeup that he's already done something about charging those responsible and he doesn't want to talk about it.

Which just leaves Lancelot standing in his kitchen staring absently at the coffee he's just made, wondering if he can get away with putting some alcohol in it this early in the day. Lily stays pressed to his side like a peculiarly white and fluffy shadow of concern, perhaps wondering what she might be able to do to help.

ii) Open: Night Council territory & various others.

He knows he can't stay at home forever, though. Eventually Lancelot has to go back to work, and he knows the longer he leaves it the harder it will be. So a few days after it Lancelot heads back in, wearing a little more clothing than strictly sensible on a hot day to try and cover up some of the bites and bruises he's sporting. He checks in with all his cases and paperwork in Westminster, picks up a few things and heads out onto the street.

Lily tags along with him for support, so he tries to walk in the shade when he can -- her thick white fur making her suffer a little in the summer. He's pausing by a shop at one point to pour out a little water for her when she nearly trips someone up moving, and Lancelot makes a little ah sound and bodily pulls her closer.

"Forgive me," he says softly, shuffling the bowl so she can lap some of the water up. "She's a little restless in the heat."

Samoyeds are built for Siberia, after all, not for 30°C. The dog fusses to get at the water, leash looping around her a little even as Lancelot looks up to offer an apology smile.

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"Oh--"

Finnick narrowly avoids tripping as he takes a step sideways at the last moment. He's in his own world a lot recently, if the truth be told, and his first instinct is to apologize. He's a little slow to find the words, is all, and the other man speaks first. It's familiar, which is off-putting and comforting at the same time. He should have been prepared - the closer he gets to the Night Council HQ the more magical energy he can feel - but he's been trying to ignore it.

"It's fine," he says finally, "I should have been looking."

It has taken almost all of Faolan's self-control not to insist that he stay by the other man's side since the second they had pulled him from that basement and out of harm's way. He appreciates that Lancelot should want his space and so after he deemed that he'd just about overstayed his welcome and Lancelot had gone from needing his company to needing his absence, he had gone home for a day or so. To sleep in his own bed and leave Lancelot to himself.

It had worked well enough overnight but about partway through the day Faolan finds himself wondering after the man around every other corner of thought. It's the middle of the day, he'll be safe for now, right? Unless they've got daylight rings... But so long as he stays at home he'll be fine, yeah? He doesn't suppose that they had figured out where he'd lived...

Finally once Faolan can't take himself anymore he grabs his keys and jacket, though he hangs it over his arm for now -- it's too warm outside to need it just yet. He thinks about texting to ask Lancelot whether he needs anything as he heads over, but he doesn't. Feeling as though it might be just a little too presumptive of him. He can offer once he gets there. Once he knows whether Lancelot will appreciate the company or not.

As he reaches Lancelot's door and brings a hand up to knock, he considers the fact that maybe he should have texted, at least to warn to expect company. Ah well, he supposes it's too late now.

Why is Arthur here?

Well, it's not because he's just that thoughtful. He didn't even remember to bring any wine as a comfort; in fact he only thinks he probably should have brought something just after he knocks on Lancelot's door. Brushing that thought away, he shoves his hands in his pockets and looks up and down the hall, waiting eagerly for the door to be answered. He needs information. He needs to know if there's anything Lancelot learned that could bring a stop to this Harris problem. Every day that goes by it just becomes more pressing, and Arthur would like to help take care of it before something catastrophic happens, if he can.

Kyle half-falls over the dog, catching himself easily enough and automatically reaching out to pet the thing. He's always liked dogs and the furball monstrosity before him is definitely no exception. Which is why he as easily waves off the man's apologies, crouching down to pet the dog with the presumption that only an American would have.

"Don't worry about it." The accent confirms his origins.

He looks up to Lancelot to offer the man a light smile then pauses, expression shifting to something vaguely pensive. "Wait, I think I know you. Lancelot, right? How do I know you? Were you running for the Council?"

It was quit the debate, whether or not to respond to Lancelot's messages. He certainly seems to be doing pretty badly, and if there's one thing Eames just can't be bothered with it's emotions.

Knowing now that he's a Guardian though. Kathryn might not have been so hasty in saying she didn't want a relationship if that knowledge had been on the table at the time, and though a precedent has been set, a friendship can be equally as lucrative. Which is why he eventually fires off a text apologising for the late reply and offering to come over.

When Kathryn arrives at his door a few hours later, it's with some chocolate biscuits (you know, the fancy ones. The best for sad whiners,) and two large hot chocolates she bought from the stand at the station. They're probably awful but it's the thought that counts.

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