King Arthur AU Fic: Slave to Fashion
Title: Slave to Fashion
Warnings: None
Notes: Follows after Resurrection and Tools of the Trade-so, in other words, more crackish AU. This one took a slightly serious turn that I had not quite envisioned. I’d love to hear what you think about it. Once more-blame for this should rest squarely on sasha_b.
If Lancelot had been paying a little more attention, he might not have gone in blind. But by the time he walked into the bedroom and the door banged ominously shut behind him, it was too late. He spun around to find Arthur leaning against the closed door with a determined look on his face, one that very rarely meant anything good for Lancelot.
Lancelot was a professional warrior. He did not panic. He merely checked his potential routes of strategic retreat. The most obvious one was blocked by Arthur's rather immovable bulk. The only other exit was the window, which, while quite high off the ground, was a conceivable alternative, if only previous attempts to get it to open had not left Lancelot baffled by the modern locking mechanism. Breaking the glass would not be an easy option either, as Agravaine had inadvertently demonstrated two days ago when he had "accidentally" knocked Tor into one of the windows downstairs. There had been a loud, rattling thump, but not even a crack on the window surface. Modern technology was truly wondrous, but it was starting to get on Lancelot's nerves.
No ready escape presenting itself, Lancelot gave Arthur a bland smile and a raised eyebrow. "No need to block the exit, Arthur. If you're in the mood for a tumble, I won't try to get away."
It was a bad sign that Arthur's jaw did not so much as flex as he ignored that. Lancelot did not allow himself to be distracted by the fact that, for once, Arthur was not encased in one of those rather unappealing “suits” that people doing official business these days seemed to prefer. Lancelot thought it quite hilarious that these costumes came accessorized with a colorful noose, whose only conceivable purpose seemed to be to invite someone to wring the wearer’s neck. Lancelot had been tempted to act on that invitation more than once as he had started attending some of Arthur’s meetings with the people who were supposed to help engineer Arthur’s apparently bloodless rise to power. He had not been impressed by the sorry group, not least of all because they seemed to be too stupid to realize they should be afraid of him.
So Lancelot was not particularly distracted by the way Arthur’s loose linen shirt clung to his shoulders or revealed the hollow of neck, as Arthur said slowly, "I have to talk to you about something."
Lancelot yanked his mind back on track and rapidly flipped through a mental list of his many transgressions, but he had no way of guessing which of his unauthorized activities Arthur might have caught on to. If that loudmouth Agravaine or gods help him, Galahad, had let something slip, he would take great pleasure in flaying their skin off.
Realizing from the narrowing of Arthur's eyes that he might have been silent for a moment too long, Lancelot made a broad, distracting gesture with his hand, urging Arthur to continue, and merely said, adding an edge of impatience to his voice, "Yes?"
Arthur continued to stare at him for a moment in suspicion, but then, apparently unable to read anything from Lancelot's studiously bland expression, he returned to whatever his point actually was. "I've been speaking to the campaign people." Lancelot already hated that phrase. "And while you're probably ready to go out in public now without raising any suspicion," he ignored Lancelot's muttering at that and continued, "there's something else that has to be taken care of first."
"Well?" Lancelot resisted the urge to cross his arms. He was still wary. He needed to be ready to move.
Arthur took a deep breath, and then said levelly, "It's your beard. It has to come off."
For a moment, Lancelot stared at him, mute. Then he burst out laughing. When he felt like he could breathe again, he gasped, "Being dead has given you a sense of humor, anyway. Okay, I'm paying attention now. What is it you really want?" He studied Arthur's face, and then abruptly all traces of laughter were gone. "You're serious? Are you mad? No!"
~
A few of the knights had gathered in one of the downstairs rooms to play poker. Experienced gamblers, they had caught on to poker without much effort and had already learned the best ways to cheat.
Bors chomped down on the cigar in his mouth and dealt out the cards.
"Where's Dagonet?" Gawain asked as he scooped up his hand.
"Arthur's got him guarding the hallway outside his bedroom door," Gareth answered. "In case Lancelot makes a break for it.”
“Ah, so today’s the day?” Gawain asked.
Bors snorted, “Arthur couldn’t put it off any longer, poor man."
"Put off what?" Agravaine demanded. "What's going on?"
Gareth ignored the question. “No one warned Lancelot?”
Gawain shrugged, “Why should he get off when the rest of us couldn’t? Damn modern sensibilities.” He rubbed his bare chin as Bors guffawed. Even after so many months, it still felt odd. He had not particularly cared, but Galahad had sulked for weeks, until he realized that women seemed to be paying far more attention to him.
"But does Arthur really expect Dag to stop Lancelot?" Bors asked.
"What are you taking about?" Agravaine asked again at the same time, face reddening in irritation.
"He’ll try, I guess," Gareth said as he too ignored Agravaine. Baiting Agravaine never seemed to grow old, no matter what the era. "Arthur told him not to let Lancelot get by."
Gawain laughed. "Think about it, though. What would you choose-Arthur angry at you or Lancelot after your hide?"
They-except Agravaine, who was now muttering to himself and sulking-exchanged knowing looks. Bors cast a glance up at the ceiling and grinned around his cigar. The fun was no doubt about to start.
~
"I'm not fucking shaving my beard!" Lancelot repeated for the fourth time.
"I told you-the PR people think that-"
"I don't fucking care what those idiots think! Whether I have a beard or not is not going to help you take over the world!" Lancelot spat.
Arthur got a bit distracted by that, as Lancelot intended, "How many times do I have to say it, we're not here to take over the world-"
Lancelot waved a dismissive hand, "Semantics! You're starting to talk like one of those damn lawyers!" If he could get Arthur angry enough, the man might step forward, away from the door, and then Lancelot might be able to make a break for it. Arthur was stronger than Lancelot, but Lancelot was faster and far more vicious.
Lancelot was currently cursing his own stupidity. He could only put it down to the fact that he'd had a rather lot to process over the last weeks, but how could he have failed to realize-nearly every one of the knights who had facial hair back in the last life were now clean shaven. Lancelot had in fact nearly had a hysterical laughing fit when he had first seen Gawain, Galahad, Tor, and Lamerok, all looking ridiculously young and pretty with their beards gone. He had been too busy laughing and pointing to wonder why they had actually shaved.
Arthur was talking in that soothing manner that always made Lancelot angrier. The idiotic man should have at least realized by now that Lancelot was never pacified by that tone.
"The people here, they generally are clean shaven. Research shows that they have a distrust of people with facial hair-" Lancelot snorted "-and we need you to appear trust worthy to the public. The PR people think that you'll look far more approachable-"
Lancelot snapped at that. "That god of yours really has addled your wits! I don't want to be approachable! I want to be so damn scary looking that people are afraid to even think about-"
"Lancelot! How many times do I have to tell you-"
"I'm not looking like some stupid adolescent girl!"
Arthur paused at that. "Lancelot, I know-"
"What the fuck do you know?" Lancelot snarled. As a boy in Rome's service, Lancelot had prayed nightly to the gods he had even then barely believed in that his beard would hurry up and grow in and cover up his too girlish face. "No. I'm not doing it," he met Arthur's eyes levelly. He was utterly serious about this, and Arthur had better understand that.
"Damn it, Lancelot, you're being unreasonable!" Arthur at last forgot himself enough to step forward away from the door, and Lancelot saw his chance and sprang.
~
The poker players all looked up at the ceiling as the crash sounded.
"So who’d you bet on?" Gawain asked.
As Agravaine glared at them all, Bors answered, "Arthur. I'd normally think they were pretty evenly matched-and actually I'd probably bet on our Lancelot-but not in this case."
Gareth nodded sagely as he considered his cards. "Lancelot's weakness has always been defensive fighting. Unless he's actually willing to knock Arthur out, Arthur's going to win." He glanced up again as there was another crash. "Although, I guess he might get mad enough-"
"All Arthur needs is one good swipe. He has a safety razor in his pocket," Dagonet said as he walked into the room. "No way is Lancelot going to wander around half shaved."
Gawain snorted a laugh at that image.
"I thought you were suppose to be guarding the door," Agravaine groused. He had at last figured out what was going on.
Dagonet shrugged, and looked over Bors' shoulder at his cards. "No way am I getting in the middle of that. Not even for Arthur."
~
When Lancelot came downstairs at last, not a few of the knights gaped at him. On his way to the back door, he nearly bumped into Galahad and Tor, who were coming out of the kitchen and arguing over which video game to play. Video games, while nowhere near as satisfying as real fights, were the best the two could do right now, since Arthur was not letting them out of the house after the bar brawl last week. For all Galahad's lofty proclamations that he didn't kill for sport, he did need some kind of exercise.
Catching sight of Lancelot's face, Galahad's jaw dropped open. Lancelot looked unbelievably young and- But then Galahad registered the look in Lancelot's eyes, and his mouth promptly snapped shut.
"One word," Lancelot snarled a black aura seeming to rise from him, "just one word, and you will regret it for every painful second of the rest of your very long lives." Galahad could only nod dumbly, and saw Tor doing the same out of the corner of his eye.
Lancelot stalked past them and after a blank moment, Tor whimpered, "Scary." Galahad could only nod again.
Money would be changing hands later, but not where Lancelot could see it. The knights were often foolhardy, but not, after all, stupid.
~
Arthur too was a brave man, but also a prudent one. He did not seek out Lancelot until many hours had passed. It was dusk when he cautiously walked, limping just slightly, toward the steps that led from the outdoor terrace down to the grounds. He had gotten not a few assessing looks from the knights, which he knew better than to take for concern. He wondered who had come out ahead in the heavy betting that no doubt had been going on. He was grateful, anyway, that Lancelot had refrained from hitting him in the face.
He caught sight of Lancelot's curly hair just over the edge of the top stair. Lancelot was sitting on the steps, apparently watching the sunset. Ignoring the ache in his ribs where Lancelot's elbow had caught him, Arthur warily sat down a few steps above Lancelot. Over the last few hours, Arthur had experienced a growing sinking feeling in his belly. He was afraid that perhaps this time he had gone too far. Lancelot frequently argued with him-rather, Lancelot argued with him most of the time-and, in the past, he had often had to order Lancelot to do things the man was reluctant to do, but this had been different. A trivial matter, or so Arthur had told himself, in justification, but he could not escape the fact that he had forced something on Lancelot that should have been solely personal when Lancelot had been unwilling.
Arthur shut his eyes. He disliked admitting it, but he had been wrong. He should have asked, but never forced. He was lucky that Lancelot cared for him, he knew, or he did not doubt that the man would have broken his neck rather than submit. Arthur had only won the fight because Lancelot had been unwilling to truly hurt him. Although the ribs and his right thigh hurt pretty badly as it was.
He opened his eyes to watch the slow dying of the day for a moment. "I'm sorry," he said finally into the silence, turning his gaze to stare at the back of Lancelot’s head.
"Are you?" Lancelot's voice was smooth, but the tone of it, silk over steel, made Arthur wince. "A little too late for that, perhaps."
"I realize I shouldn't have forced you,” he made himself say the words. “I should have asked you, only." Arthur wished Lancelot would turn his head and look him, so he could see Lancelot's eyes.
"Contrary to what you seem to think, I'm not actually your property, Arthur." Arthur winced again, but Lancelot was not done. "Unless you've made some pact with your god at my resurrection of which I'm not aware. But, even then, I'd hardly be expected to go along with such a bargin." Lancelot straightened up slightly, but still did not turn around. "And in fact, I don't believe you're even my commanding officer any longer, are you? My conscription was over, oh, one thousand five hundred years ago. Roughly."
Arthur was not sure exactly how to answer that acid sarcasm. He had promised himself he would only apologize, accept whatever Lancelot chose to say, and not get angry. As he tried to think of how to respond, his eyes caught sight of one of Lancelot's hands, resting loosely on the steps. His eyes narrowed as he saw what the long fingers held, and he abruptly forgot that he was here to be conciliatory.
"What are you doing with that?" he demanded. "I told you such things were poisonous-I would have thought you'd care that they'd ruin your wind at least!"
Lancelot answered, his tone unchanged. "Well you know me, I've always tried to cultivate the fashionable vices-in our day it was drinking, gambling, whoring and insubordination. These days it seems that smoking is the chief of the despised vices. But don't worry, I found it too vile even for my tastes." He tossed the pack backward at Arthur without turning around to look.
Arthur caught it automatically, crushing the pack as he clenched his fist. He swallowed hard and tried again. "I am sorry, Lancelot. It will grow again, surely, and I'll not object if you want to grow it back-" He winced at the way that sounded.
"Oh, won't you?" Lancelot turned at last, and Arthur braced himself, but Lancelot only looked at him. Arthur could not help but stare back, trying to keep his reaction from his face. It would not help matters at all if Lancelot realized that Arthur liked-more than liked, was rather enthralled and aroused by-his clean-shaven appearance.
"I made a mistake," he managed. There was a small scab on Lancelot’s left check where Arthur had accidentally cut him. "I acknowledge that. I can only ask that you accept my apology."
Lancelot was watching him with chilly eyes. "I think you should remember, Arthur, that I follow you because I choose to do so. No other reason."
"I know. And don't think I don't realize-"
Lancelot cut him off by standing. He began to walk back up the steps, passing where Arthur sat without pausing. Arthur felt the horrible hollow feeling in his stomach grow, as he thought that Lancelot was leaving without even acknowledging his apology.
But then Lancelot's voice drifted back to him. "If you ever do anything like this again, I will not forgive you."
Lancelot was gone, and Arthur let out a relieved breath.
He sat for awhile and watched the last bit of sun slip below the horizon before rising carefully to his feet and groping his way back up the stairs. Night had fallen, and it was pitch black out here, but Arthur was sure now that the sun would rise again tomorrow.
He did not let himself think about the fact that he had not even broached the subject of what the campaign advisors wanted to do with Lancelot’s hair.
Warnings: None
Notes: Follows after Resurrection and Tools of the Trade-so, in other words, more crackish AU. This one took a slightly serious turn that I had not quite envisioned. I’d love to hear what you think about it. Once more-blame for this should rest squarely on sasha_b.
If Lancelot had been paying a little more attention, he might not have gone in blind. But by the time he walked into the bedroom and the door banged ominously shut behind him, it was too late. He spun around to find Arthur leaning against the closed door with a determined look on his face, one that very rarely meant anything good for Lancelot.
Lancelot was a professional warrior. He did not panic. He merely checked his potential routes of strategic retreat. The most obvious one was blocked by Arthur's rather immovable bulk. The only other exit was the window, which, while quite high off the ground, was a conceivable alternative, if only previous attempts to get it to open had not left Lancelot baffled by the modern locking mechanism. Breaking the glass would not be an easy option either, as Agravaine had inadvertently demonstrated two days ago when he had "accidentally" knocked Tor into one of the windows downstairs. There had been a loud, rattling thump, but not even a crack on the window surface. Modern technology was truly wondrous, but it was starting to get on Lancelot's nerves.
No ready escape presenting itself, Lancelot gave Arthur a bland smile and a raised eyebrow. "No need to block the exit, Arthur. If you're in the mood for a tumble, I won't try to get away."
It was a bad sign that Arthur's jaw did not so much as flex as he ignored that. Lancelot did not allow himself to be distracted by the fact that, for once, Arthur was not encased in one of those rather unappealing “suits” that people doing official business these days seemed to prefer. Lancelot thought it quite hilarious that these costumes came accessorized with a colorful noose, whose only conceivable purpose seemed to be to invite someone to wring the wearer’s neck. Lancelot had been tempted to act on that invitation more than once as he had started attending some of Arthur’s meetings with the people who were supposed to help engineer Arthur’s apparently bloodless rise to power. He had not been impressed by the sorry group, not least of all because they seemed to be too stupid to realize they should be afraid of him.
So Lancelot was not particularly distracted by the way Arthur’s loose linen shirt clung to his shoulders or revealed the hollow of neck, as Arthur said slowly, "I have to talk to you about something."
Lancelot yanked his mind back on track and rapidly flipped through a mental list of his many transgressions, but he had no way of guessing which of his unauthorized activities Arthur might have caught on to. If that loudmouth Agravaine or gods help him, Galahad, had let something slip, he would take great pleasure in flaying their skin off.
Realizing from the narrowing of Arthur's eyes that he might have been silent for a moment too long, Lancelot made a broad, distracting gesture with his hand, urging Arthur to continue, and merely said, adding an edge of impatience to his voice, "Yes?"
Arthur continued to stare at him for a moment in suspicion, but then, apparently unable to read anything from Lancelot's studiously bland expression, he returned to whatever his point actually was. "I've been speaking to the campaign people." Lancelot already hated that phrase. "And while you're probably ready to go out in public now without raising any suspicion," he ignored Lancelot's muttering at that and continued, "there's something else that has to be taken care of first."
"Well?" Lancelot resisted the urge to cross his arms. He was still wary. He needed to be ready to move.
Arthur took a deep breath, and then said levelly, "It's your beard. It has to come off."
For a moment, Lancelot stared at him, mute. Then he burst out laughing. When he felt like he could breathe again, he gasped, "Being dead has given you a sense of humor, anyway. Okay, I'm paying attention now. What is it you really want?" He studied Arthur's face, and then abruptly all traces of laughter were gone. "You're serious? Are you mad? No!"
~
A few of the knights had gathered in one of the downstairs rooms to play poker. Experienced gamblers, they had caught on to poker without much effort and had already learned the best ways to cheat.
Bors chomped down on the cigar in his mouth and dealt out the cards.
"Where's Dagonet?" Gawain asked as he scooped up his hand.
"Arthur's got him guarding the hallway outside his bedroom door," Gareth answered. "In case Lancelot makes a break for it.”
“Ah, so today’s the day?” Gawain asked.
Bors snorted, “Arthur couldn’t put it off any longer, poor man."
"Put off what?" Agravaine demanded. "What's going on?"
Gareth ignored the question. “No one warned Lancelot?”
Gawain shrugged, “Why should he get off when the rest of us couldn’t? Damn modern sensibilities.” He rubbed his bare chin as Bors guffawed. Even after so many months, it still felt odd. He had not particularly cared, but Galahad had sulked for weeks, until he realized that women seemed to be paying far more attention to him.
"But does Arthur really expect Dag to stop Lancelot?" Bors asked.
"What are you taking about?" Agravaine asked again at the same time, face reddening in irritation.
"He’ll try, I guess," Gareth said as he too ignored Agravaine. Baiting Agravaine never seemed to grow old, no matter what the era. "Arthur told him not to let Lancelot get by."
Gawain laughed. "Think about it, though. What would you choose-Arthur angry at you or Lancelot after your hide?"
They-except Agravaine, who was now muttering to himself and sulking-exchanged knowing looks. Bors cast a glance up at the ceiling and grinned around his cigar. The fun was no doubt about to start.
~
"I'm not fucking shaving my beard!" Lancelot repeated for the fourth time.
"I told you-the PR people think that-"
"I don't fucking care what those idiots think! Whether I have a beard or not is not going to help you take over the world!" Lancelot spat.
Arthur got a bit distracted by that, as Lancelot intended, "How many times do I have to say it, we're not here to take over the world-"
Lancelot waved a dismissive hand, "Semantics! You're starting to talk like one of those damn lawyers!" If he could get Arthur angry enough, the man might step forward, away from the door, and then Lancelot might be able to make a break for it. Arthur was stronger than Lancelot, but Lancelot was faster and far more vicious.
Lancelot was currently cursing his own stupidity. He could only put it down to the fact that he'd had a rather lot to process over the last weeks, but how could he have failed to realize-nearly every one of the knights who had facial hair back in the last life were now clean shaven. Lancelot had in fact nearly had a hysterical laughing fit when he had first seen Gawain, Galahad, Tor, and Lamerok, all looking ridiculously young and pretty with their beards gone. He had been too busy laughing and pointing to wonder why they had actually shaved.
Arthur was talking in that soothing manner that always made Lancelot angrier. The idiotic man should have at least realized by now that Lancelot was never pacified by that tone.
"The people here, they generally are clean shaven. Research shows that they have a distrust of people with facial hair-" Lancelot snorted "-and we need you to appear trust worthy to the public. The PR people think that you'll look far more approachable-"
Lancelot snapped at that. "That god of yours really has addled your wits! I don't want to be approachable! I want to be so damn scary looking that people are afraid to even think about-"
"Lancelot! How many times do I have to tell you-"
"I'm not looking like some stupid adolescent girl!"
Arthur paused at that. "Lancelot, I know-"
"What the fuck do you know?" Lancelot snarled. As a boy in Rome's service, Lancelot had prayed nightly to the gods he had even then barely believed in that his beard would hurry up and grow in and cover up his too girlish face. "No. I'm not doing it," he met Arthur's eyes levelly. He was utterly serious about this, and Arthur had better understand that.
"Damn it, Lancelot, you're being unreasonable!" Arthur at last forgot himself enough to step forward away from the door, and Lancelot saw his chance and sprang.
~
The poker players all looked up at the ceiling as the crash sounded.
"So who’d you bet on?" Gawain asked.
As Agravaine glared at them all, Bors answered, "Arthur. I'd normally think they were pretty evenly matched-and actually I'd probably bet on our Lancelot-but not in this case."
Gareth nodded sagely as he considered his cards. "Lancelot's weakness has always been defensive fighting. Unless he's actually willing to knock Arthur out, Arthur's going to win." He glanced up again as there was another crash. "Although, I guess he might get mad enough-"
"All Arthur needs is one good swipe. He has a safety razor in his pocket," Dagonet said as he walked into the room. "No way is Lancelot going to wander around half shaved."
Gawain snorted a laugh at that image.
"I thought you were suppose to be guarding the door," Agravaine groused. He had at last figured out what was going on.
Dagonet shrugged, and looked over Bors' shoulder at his cards. "No way am I getting in the middle of that. Not even for Arthur."
~
When Lancelot came downstairs at last, not a few of the knights gaped at him. On his way to the back door, he nearly bumped into Galahad and Tor, who were coming out of the kitchen and arguing over which video game to play. Video games, while nowhere near as satisfying as real fights, were the best the two could do right now, since Arthur was not letting them out of the house after the bar brawl last week. For all Galahad's lofty proclamations that he didn't kill for sport, he did need some kind of exercise.
Catching sight of Lancelot's face, Galahad's jaw dropped open. Lancelot looked unbelievably young and- But then Galahad registered the look in Lancelot's eyes, and his mouth promptly snapped shut.
"One word," Lancelot snarled a black aura seeming to rise from him, "just one word, and you will regret it for every painful second of the rest of your very long lives." Galahad could only nod dumbly, and saw Tor doing the same out of the corner of his eye.
Lancelot stalked past them and after a blank moment, Tor whimpered, "Scary." Galahad could only nod again.
Money would be changing hands later, but not where Lancelot could see it. The knights were often foolhardy, but not, after all, stupid.
~
Arthur too was a brave man, but also a prudent one. He did not seek out Lancelot until many hours had passed. It was dusk when he cautiously walked, limping just slightly, toward the steps that led from the outdoor terrace down to the grounds. He had gotten not a few assessing looks from the knights, which he knew better than to take for concern. He wondered who had come out ahead in the heavy betting that no doubt had been going on. He was grateful, anyway, that Lancelot had refrained from hitting him in the face.
He caught sight of Lancelot's curly hair just over the edge of the top stair. Lancelot was sitting on the steps, apparently watching the sunset. Ignoring the ache in his ribs where Lancelot's elbow had caught him, Arthur warily sat down a few steps above Lancelot. Over the last few hours, Arthur had experienced a growing sinking feeling in his belly. He was afraid that perhaps this time he had gone too far. Lancelot frequently argued with him-rather, Lancelot argued with him most of the time-and, in the past, he had often had to order Lancelot to do things the man was reluctant to do, but this had been different. A trivial matter, or so Arthur had told himself, in justification, but he could not escape the fact that he had forced something on Lancelot that should have been solely personal when Lancelot had been unwilling.
Arthur shut his eyes. He disliked admitting it, but he had been wrong. He should have asked, but never forced. He was lucky that Lancelot cared for him, he knew, or he did not doubt that the man would have broken his neck rather than submit. Arthur had only won the fight because Lancelot had been unwilling to truly hurt him. Although the ribs and his right thigh hurt pretty badly as it was.
He opened his eyes to watch the slow dying of the day for a moment. "I'm sorry," he said finally into the silence, turning his gaze to stare at the back of Lancelot’s head.
"Are you?" Lancelot's voice was smooth, but the tone of it, silk over steel, made Arthur wince. "A little too late for that, perhaps."
"I realize I shouldn't have forced you,” he made himself say the words. “I should have asked you, only." Arthur wished Lancelot would turn his head and look him, so he could see Lancelot's eyes.
"Contrary to what you seem to think, I'm not actually your property, Arthur." Arthur winced again, but Lancelot was not done. "Unless you've made some pact with your god at my resurrection of which I'm not aware. But, even then, I'd hardly be expected to go along with such a bargin." Lancelot straightened up slightly, but still did not turn around. "And in fact, I don't believe you're even my commanding officer any longer, are you? My conscription was over, oh, one thousand five hundred years ago. Roughly."
Arthur was not sure exactly how to answer that acid sarcasm. He had promised himself he would only apologize, accept whatever Lancelot chose to say, and not get angry. As he tried to think of how to respond, his eyes caught sight of one of Lancelot's hands, resting loosely on the steps. His eyes narrowed as he saw what the long fingers held, and he abruptly forgot that he was here to be conciliatory.
"What are you doing with that?" he demanded. "I told you such things were poisonous-I would have thought you'd care that they'd ruin your wind at least!"
Lancelot answered, his tone unchanged. "Well you know me, I've always tried to cultivate the fashionable vices-in our day it was drinking, gambling, whoring and insubordination. These days it seems that smoking is the chief of the despised vices. But don't worry, I found it too vile even for my tastes." He tossed the pack backward at Arthur without turning around to look.
Arthur caught it automatically, crushing the pack as he clenched his fist. He swallowed hard and tried again. "I am sorry, Lancelot. It will grow again, surely, and I'll not object if you want to grow it back-" He winced at the way that sounded.
"Oh, won't you?" Lancelot turned at last, and Arthur braced himself, but Lancelot only looked at him. Arthur could not help but stare back, trying to keep his reaction from his face. It would not help matters at all if Lancelot realized that Arthur liked-more than liked, was rather enthralled and aroused by-his clean-shaven appearance.
"I made a mistake," he managed. There was a small scab on Lancelot’s left check where Arthur had accidentally cut him. "I acknowledge that. I can only ask that you accept my apology."
Lancelot was watching him with chilly eyes. "I think you should remember, Arthur, that I follow you because I choose to do so. No other reason."
"I know. And don't think I don't realize-"
Lancelot cut him off by standing. He began to walk back up the steps, passing where Arthur sat without pausing. Arthur felt the horrible hollow feeling in his stomach grow, as he thought that Lancelot was leaving without even acknowledging his apology.
But then Lancelot's voice drifted back to him. "If you ever do anything like this again, I will not forgive you."
Lancelot was gone, and Arthur let out a relieved breath.
He sat for awhile and watched the last bit of sun slip below the horizon before rising carefully to his feet and groping his way back up the stairs. Night had fallen, and it was pitch black out here, but Arthur was sure now that the sun would rise again tomorrow.
He did not let himself think about the fact that he had not even broached the subject of what the campaign advisors wanted to do with Lancelot’s hair.