King Arthur AU Fic: Trouble in the Making
Title: Trouble in the Making
Warnings: Slash, sex
Notes: Part of the AU that began with Resurrection. The order is Resurrection, Tools of the Trade, Slave to Fashion and this one. I don’t know about you, but I still hold sasha_b responsible for this. ; )
As always, I'd love to know what you think about it-good, bad and ugly.
Lancelot woke, a slight growl escaping him at the sharp pain in his scalp. It took him a moment to realize that Arthur had one of his hands buried in Lancelot's hair again, and some strands had gotten caught somewhere as the man had shifted in his sleep.
Wincing a little, Lancelot turned his head until his hair was free and then closed his eyes. Arthur was sprawled comfortably over him, face pressed into Lancelot's neck. He seemed deeply asleep. Lancelot nearly snorted aloud. Well, Arthur certainly should be tired out. He had been insatiable the last few days, and if he thought he was fooling Lancelot into believing that it had nothing to do with Lancelot's newly clean-shaven face, the man was an idiot. Arthur had not seemed to be able to get enough of kissing and rubbing his own face against Lancelot's-rather like a too affectionate cat. It had been three days, and Arthur was still failing badly even at the pretense that he was not staring every time he caught sight of Lancelot.
Fully awake now, Lancelot became aware of just how heavy Arthur was, and just how awkwardly twisted one of his own legs was and just how Arthur's stubble was scrapping slightly against his skin with every breath.
That was it! He couldn't sleep like this. He squirmed, trying to free himself enough to get comfortable, but Arthur's arm tightened around him, and the hand in his hair grasped painfully. Arthur mumbled, "Stop moving, Guin."
Lancelot froze, every muscle in his body clenching. That was enough to rouse Arthur, who, his hand ripping out of Lancelot's hair and reaching for a weapon that was not there, sat up suddenly, eyes automatically scanning the room. He looked down at Lancelot, who was rubbing at his abused scalp. "Lancelot? What's the matter?"
Lancelot stared at him for a moment before, saying, "Nothing. I must have been dreaming."
"Oh." Blinking sleepily, Arthur fell back on the bed and pressed himself close again. Lancelot forced his body to relax. Arthur, who had not really been fully awake, fell asleep quickly. Lancelot did not.
By the gods, what kind of fool had being dead made him, he wondered. It was as though up until this moment he had actually forgotten-or not really forgotten, but as though his memories had been some hazy and veiled thing, swathed in muffling fabric-their sting, their consequence forgotten. But with Arthur's words, the memories had ripped free with painful, immediate clarity and with all the charm of a sword to the gut.
How had he forgotten the agony of those last days? Of seeing Arthur turn away from him and to that pretty little British bitch? It had to be the fault of whatever cursed magic had revived him. Whether Merlin or Arthur's interfering God. What, to gain his easy compliance? Something to keep him stupid and happy? Well, whoever had done this had another fucking thing coming.
When he was sure that Arthur was fully asleep, he carefully extracted himself from Arthur's grasp. Pulling on some clothes, he left the room.
~
Bors yawned as he walked through the hallway. He was surprised as he passed by one of the downstairs rooms to see light. It was late enough that everyone should have been asleep.
The low murmur of the television caught his ear as he entered the room, and, there, sprawled across the couch, was Lancelot.
Bors ambled over to an armchair and settled himself into it with a contended grunt. Lancelot ignored him. Like most of them, Lancelot had been fascinated with the television at first. But in typical Lancelot fashion, within a day or so he was already bored with it. He still did occasionally watch but with strange choices in programming. Right now, he was watching the weather channel with what looked like unfeigned fascination-but Bors knew better than to take that at face value.
At last Lancelot spoke. "Did you have a good time?"
Bors grinned. "Of course." There had even been a rather tasty brawl. His knuckles were still stinging nicely. It was not exactly an enjoyable sensation, but a familiar, very nearly comforting one. These modern people might have all kinds of fancy things to make their lives both easier and more complicated, but in the end it was not even very hard to find places at which Bors felt perfectly at home. What men wanted was not really that different after all-drink, a good fight, and a woman's company. What else, really, was there?
"Hmm. Pretty women?"
"You think I'd tell you?" It was an old joke between them, and as comfortable as pulling on familiar armor. When they had first arrived in Britain, Bors had tried, in the fashion of a big brother (albeit one who was more intent on amusing himself than actually helping), to pass on to the younger Lancelot some of his vast knowledge of women, combined with helpful tips often offered in the presence of some of the very women at issue. To say the least, Bors's efforts had not been appreciated. He had been paying for it ever since. Bors heaved another contended sigh. Damn him, but he really had missed the pissy bastard.
He waited for Lancelot's sharp-tongued retort, which never came. Frowning, he squinted over at Lancelot's face. It was hard to see past the distraction of his ridiculous beardlessness, but, yes, there was that black glitter in his eyes that never boded well for someone.
Bors wondered who had managed to set off Lancelot this time. The other knights had been walking carefully around him since the latest fight with Arthur-and no one, even among their hardheaded lot, had been stupid enough yet to comment on the change in Lancelot's appearance. There was ribbing and teasing and tormenting, and then there was masochism and suicidal tendencies. Bors figured he would wait about another week or so before he began calling Lancelot “pretty boy” again.
"I've got my eye on this one woman," he continued coaxingly when Lancelot failed to say anything. "Good woman, but a temper. I like a woman with a temper. And nice wide hips."
Lancelot took the bait and raised an eyebrow. "Planning on more bastards, are you?"
Bors gave a toothy grin, but his voice was almost wistful when he replied. "It was nice having a family."
Lancelot's gaze was fixed on the television. He abruptly asked, "Did you have a good life afterward, then?"
"Did you know I was the last of us to die?" Bors felt rather smug about it.
"Were you?"
"Yes. Lived to be an old man, if you can believe it. I was nearly seventy. Still strong as an ox. And just as virile. I think I might have died between my Vanora’s sweet thighs. A perfect way to go.” His grin was smug. "I had fifteen children, fifty-some grandchildren and a good many of them had children of their own by then."
Lancelot snorted. "Only fifteen? Still, you started your own tribe. They must have been the terror of the countryside."
Bors guffawed. "That they were. Could have had more children, too. But my Vanora, she put her foot down. Said she was done with being pregnant." He sighed, thinking of it. He had had a good life, over all, especially at the end.
They were both silent for a while. Eventually, Lancelot spoke, "Do you miss her?" His eyes were glittering strangely in the television's flickering light.
"Not like I would have then." He frowned, trying to think of how to explain. "It's like a distant thing. Like something I got over long ago."
"Perhaps she's out there somewhere." Lancelot waved his hand.
"You mean reborn?"
"It worked for that black-hearted whoreson Merlin," Lancelot said, anger darkening his voice.
Bors thought about it-to have Vanora here. But- "I don't think so," Bors said slowly. "I think I'd have-a wanting for her, if I were meant to meet her again. Like the way Arthur was before you came back."
Lancelot gave him a sharp look. "What?"
"Arthur. He was half-mad to have you here. Never seen anything like it with him."
Lancelot looked back at the television. It was showing the day's average temperatures in Australia. At least Bors thought it was Australia-or Austria? Antrica? Something like that, anyway. Why Lancelot seemed engrossed in this boring parade of maps and numbers was anyone’s guess.
But then, Bors had been there a few weeks ago when Arthur had shown the newly woken Lancelot a globe of the world. Arthur had been talking excitedly about how the earth was round, and about things like Columbus and NASA and going to the moon-which Bors had tuned out (as he often did when Arthur started declaiming). So the earth was round? What did he, Bors, really care, so long as he was in no danger of falling off? Or so he had told one of the long-suffering tutors that had been hired to teach the knights. Lancelot had listened to Arthur, but his finger had been tracing over the lands he knew-the borders of the empire-and then he had spun the globe around slowly, a thoughtful look on his face, which had lit into hilarity. With the very nearly pouting Arthur demanding to know what was so funny, Lancelot had finally managed to gasp out, “Roman Empire-rulers of the world my arse!” It had taken Lancelot a good while to stop laughing. After that, he had smirked every time he looked at the globe-that is until it somehow disappeared from Arthur's study. Bors was pretty sure that none of the knights had been to blame for that one, but most likely a certain ex-Roman commander. Arthur never had appreciated being laughed at, even by (especially by) Lancelot. So in watching this dull program, Lancelot was quite possibly interested in the maps. Or the weather. Who knew? Figuring out how Lancelot's mind worked was not a task Bors would take on, even when he wasn't a fair way to being sotted.
When Lancelot spoke again, the weather had moved on to Canada. Bors was sure of that one. "When did he die?"
Bors tensed and gave him a hard look. Sometime during the conversation Lancelot had shifted position. Rather than the easy, indolent sprawl, he was lying stiffly, arms crossed tightly over his chest. That, combined with the joltingly beardless face put Bors in mind of the boy he had once been. Bors found himself wishing that he had not drunk quite so much earlier-or perhaps that he had drunk a great deal more. He rubbed at his face before answering. There was no need to ask whom Lancelot was talking about. "Some fifteen years after you did."
Bors was not exactly surprised that Lancelot and Arthur had not spoken about these things. They had all-those few of them that had been left-seen the way Arthur had dismissed Lancelot that last night. Bors was fairly sure that whatever had happened between them those final days had eaten at Arthur for the rest of that life.
"Did he have any children?" Lancelot asked. It could have been a casual question, given Lancelot's tone and their earlier topic of conversation, but it was not.
“Guinevere was barren." He chose the words with uncharacteristic care. Then, knowing what Lancelot would be wondering, he added, "They got married in the spring after the battle." Less than three months after Lancelot had fallen.
Bors braced himself for the next question, but Lancelot seemed to switch topics. “Do you buy any of this?” His body language had changed again and he waved a hand loosely, the gesture mocking.
Bors, well used to Lancelot’s restless mind and rapid shifts of mood, relaxed further into his chair and propped his feet up on the coffee table. “Arthur does.” He shrugged.
Lancelot made a derisive sound. “This idea of democracy has only replaced his faith in Rome and the church. He’s overjoyed. He thinks, at last, mankind has hit upon the solution.” Lancelot’s tone was scathing. “He always manages to overlook that, even if the ideas seem well and good, they are executed by men, who are flawed, greedy and stupid.”
Bors shrugged again and scratched at his stomach. He, frankly, did not really care about the niceties. He agreed that men were not to be trusted whatever pretty notions they spouted. The rest he left for Arthur and Lancelot to fight about. What he wanted was simply to be pointed in the direction of the enemy and let loose. Sadly, there had been none of that since he had woken in this life.
Lancelot’s attention seemed once more to be on the television and Bors had nearly dozed off in his chair when he looked up on sudden instinct and found Tristan standing in the door.
"So?" Lancelot asked.
Tristan came into the room, flipped on the lights and pulled something from the bag he was carrying. He tossed a flat package to Lancelot, who sat up and caught it in one easy motion. A black grin lit Lancelot’s features, as he yanked off the paper wrapping. "The manuals? No trouble, then?"
"No." Tristan sat down in the armchair across from Bors.
Lancelot studied the covers. "United States Army Field Manual," he read, and then smirked. "So we're to borrow from this age's Rome. How appropriate.” He tossed one of the books to Bors and another Tristan.
They perused them for a while, with only an occasional remark breaking the silence.
"These machine guns don't seem that hard to use," Lancelot said, studying one of the diagrams. He had sprawled out on the couch again, his head resting on one of the couch arms.
"They're not," both Bors and Tristan said at the same time, which earned them a raised eyebrow from Lancelot as they exchanged a rather surprised look themselves.
"When can we try them out?" Lancelot asked, choosing to ignore the silent byplay.
"As soon as you're allowed to leave the house," Tristan said blandly. Lancelot gave him a dirty look. Lancelot had not yet been deemed by Arthur sufficiently acclimated to this century to be allowed out in public-or so Arthur had put it. Lancelot and Arthur had had some rather spectacular arguments on the subject, but Arthur had dug in his heels.
"Still, once we get them, we'll need to train with them," Bors said.
"There's a large, unfinished room in the basement I'm told is suitable-Gareth and Meliot are going to figure out how to fit it out," Lancelot said.
Tristan looked faintly approving, but Bors asked, "And Arthur? He's going to notice if we start building a firing range in the house."
Lancelot gave him a smooth smile that was not entirely pleasant. "Leave that to me."
Bors had to laugh at that. "By the Lady's tits, Lancelot, it's been dull here without you." It was true. They had spent the last months learning about this time and immersing themselves in all the trouble they could find, but they had been growing restless. It was as though they had been waiting for something. Arthur said they were needed, but in truth they had little actually to do. Then Lancelot had opened his eyes, seemed to take one quick assessing look around, sneered, and began to scheme with a clarity of purpose that none of the rest of them could match. As much as they complained, it was a relief (and always entertaining) to once more watch and help as Lancelot plotted and maneuvered his way around Arthur.
"Still," Lancelot said, looking back at the manual in his hands, "I'm not sure I like this time. Just point and pull the trigger? So a man with neither discipline nor strength can kill any opponent. It's worse than being killed by a fucking arrow." His face darkened and he rubbed at his chest. There was a pale scar there, Bors knew. It was a strange thing, considering every other mark on Lancelot's body was gone. Bors missed his own scars, particularly the prominent one on his face. He thought it had given his face a certain appealingly roguish character.
Bors and Tristan exchanged a glance, but before either of them could respond, they heard footsteps approaching and they burst into action.
Arthur blinked sleepily at them from the doorway, hair rumpled, and suspicion dawning in his half-open eyes. "What are you all doing awake? Lancelot?"
Lancelot shrugged. "I couldn't sleep. These two were out and just came back." The amazing thing about it was that Lancelot rarely seemed to need to tell outright lies. Lancelot sat up and abruptly demanded, "And when am I going to be allowed out of this house, Arthur? I thought that was the whole point of your little barbering exercise."
Bors had to restrain a grin at the sudden shift of Arthur's expression and the way Arthur’s eyes seemed to jerk away from staring at Lancelot’s face. Truly, Bors had missed Lancelot.
"Soon, I told you." It was Arthur's turn to try to change the subject. He was not as good at it. "You should come back to bed-We've a lot to do tomorrow."
"You've a lot to do tomorrow," Lancelot muttered, but he got to his feet anyway. When Arthur's back was turned, he glanced pointedly at the couch cushions before following Arthur out of the room. Tristan retrieved Lancelot’s manual from the couch, his own reappearing in his hand from somewhere, and Bors pulled out his from inside his leather jacket.
From the hallway they could hear Lancelot's voice, clear and cuttingly smooth as fine steel, "And exactly how long is 'soon,' Arthur?"
Steel. Bors glanced down at the book in his hands and sighed. As exciting as firing one of these gun things could be, he badly missed the feel of a well-balanced, edged weapon in his hands. Nothing could match that.
~
Arthur shut the bedroom door after Lancelot and watched as Lancelot stripped off the sweatpants and t-shirt he was wearing before he crawled into bed. Arthur joined the knight there after a moment, automatically pulling Lancelot's body against his own.
He had awoken, surprised to find himself alone. He had a vague recollection of being woken earlier by Lancelot having a-dream? He had felt guilty for just falling back asleep. Whatever he had dreamed had troubled Lancelot enough to keep him awake.
He ran his hand though Lancelot's curly hair, loving the way it seemed to wind itself around his fingers in a persistent embrace. "Why couldn't you sleep?" He asked after a while.
Lancelot shifted over on to his back, taking Arthur with him. Arthur went without resistance, settling himself between Lancelot's legs. Having gone so long without, he hoped he would never be foolish enough to refuse this again.
He pressed his face against Lancelot's, letting his lips feather across the beardless cheek. He adored the feel of it. He was a little obsessed he knew, but he was fairly sure he had managed to hide that from Lancelot.
"It was nothing." Lancelot shifted his long legs so that Arthur pressed more deeply against him, and his arms went around Arthur, trying to pull him closer still.
"Hmmm," Arthur murmured as he nuzzled into Lancelot’s skin. Arthur was no longer able to remember quite what they were talking about. Lancelot's fingers were moving over Arthur's spine in a way that never failed to send a hot jolt of arousal straight through him. One of his own hands had moved to cradle Lancelot's hip, thumb drawn to the prominent jut of a hipbone.
"Tell me something," Lancelot shifted his head so he caught Arthur's lips and kissed him, long and seeking, then gasped into Arthur's mouth as Arthur's other hand found its way between his legs and fingers stroked inside him.
"Anything," Arthur breathed against his mouth, meeting his eyes.
Lancelot's long lashes fluttered when Arthur's fingers twisted, but he kept his eyes locked on Arthur's. "Do you miss it-the old life?"
"What? The mud and the blood and losing you one by one?" The hand at Lancelot's hip clenched hard and the fingers of Arthur’s other hand thrust in deeper.
Lancelot's neck arched. He fought to keep his eyes open and his voice grew rougher. "No-afterward. Do you miss it?"
Arthur had little attention to spare for talking. He pulled his fingers free of Lancelot, earning a low cry. "No," he managed to gasp, as he positioned himself, not really thinking about his answer, "I have everything I want now."
He pushed into Lancelot and groaned at the maddening, hot, tight feel of it, his teeth biting into Lancelot's shoulder as he fought for some control. He felt Lancelot's hands scrape down his back, as the lean body under him tensed and then relaxed. Still, Lancelot rasped against his ear, "Everything?"
Arthur shoved himself deeper, unable to be gentle for wanting. "Everything," he gasped and did his best to make sure that the only sounds that came from Lancelot's mouth thereafter were cries of pleasure and Arthur's own name.
Afterward, Arthur fell asleep contentedly, aware only of Lancelot’s body against his, of his arms holding Arthur close. He slept easily, unknowing that Lancelot lay still until dawn, eyes burning as he stared up into the darkness.
Warnings: Slash, sex
Notes: Part of the AU that began with Resurrection. The order is Resurrection, Tools of the Trade, Slave to Fashion and this one. I don’t know about you, but I still hold sasha_b responsible for this. ; )
As always, I'd love to know what you think about it-good, bad and ugly.
Lancelot woke, a slight growl escaping him at the sharp pain in his scalp. It took him a moment to realize that Arthur had one of his hands buried in Lancelot's hair again, and some strands had gotten caught somewhere as the man had shifted in his sleep.
Wincing a little, Lancelot turned his head until his hair was free and then closed his eyes. Arthur was sprawled comfortably over him, face pressed into Lancelot's neck. He seemed deeply asleep. Lancelot nearly snorted aloud. Well, Arthur certainly should be tired out. He had been insatiable the last few days, and if he thought he was fooling Lancelot into believing that it had nothing to do with Lancelot's newly clean-shaven face, the man was an idiot. Arthur had not seemed to be able to get enough of kissing and rubbing his own face against Lancelot's-rather like a too affectionate cat. It had been three days, and Arthur was still failing badly even at the pretense that he was not staring every time he caught sight of Lancelot.
Fully awake now, Lancelot became aware of just how heavy Arthur was, and just how awkwardly twisted one of his own legs was and just how Arthur's stubble was scrapping slightly against his skin with every breath.
That was it! He couldn't sleep like this. He squirmed, trying to free himself enough to get comfortable, but Arthur's arm tightened around him, and the hand in his hair grasped painfully. Arthur mumbled, "Stop moving, Guin."
Lancelot froze, every muscle in his body clenching. That was enough to rouse Arthur, who, his hand ripping out of Lancelot's hair and reaching for a weapon that was not there, sat up suddenly, eyes automatically scanning the room. He looked down at Lancelot, who was rubbing at his abused scalp. "Lancelot? What's the matter?"
Lancelot stared at him for a moment before, saying, "Nothing. I must have been dreaming."
"Oh." Blinking sleepily, Arthur fell back on the bed and pressed himself close again. Lancelot forced his body to relax. Arthur, who had not really been fully awake, fell asleep quickly. Lancelot did not.
By the gods, what kind of fool had being dead made him, he wondered. It was as though up until this moment he had actually forgotten-or not really forgotten, but as though his memories had been some hazy and veiled thing, swathed in muffling fabric-their sting, their consequence forgotten. But with Arthur's words, the memories had ripped free with painful, immediate clarity and with all the charm of a sword to the gut.
How had he forgotten the agony of those last days? Of seeing Arthur turn away from him and to that pretty little British bitch? It had to be the fault of whatever cursed magic had revived him. Whether Merlin or Arthur's interfering God. What, to gain his easy compliance? Something to keep him stupid and happy? Well, whoever had done this had another fucking thing coming.
When he was sure that Arthur was fully asleep, he carefully extracted himself from Arthur's grasp. Pulling on some clothes, he left the room.
~
Bors yawned as he walked through the hallway. He was surprised as he passed by one of the downstairs rooms to see light. It was late enough that everyone should have been asleep.
The low murmur of the television caught his ear as he entered the room, and, there, sprawled across the couch, was Lancelot.
Bors ambled over to an armchair and settled himself into it with a contended grunt. Lancelot ignored him. Like most of them, Lancelot had been fascinated with the television at first. But in typical Lancelot fashion, within a day or so he was already bored with it. He still did occasionally watch but with strange choices in programming. Right now, he was watching the weather channel with what looked like unfeigned fascination-but Bors knew better than to take that at face value.
At last Lancelot spoke. "Did you have a good time?"
Bors grinned. "Of course." There had even been a rather tasty brawl. His knuckles were still stinging nicely. It was not exactly an enjoyable sensation, but a familiar, very nearly comforting one. These modern people might have all kinds of fancy things to make their lives both easier and more complicated, but in the end it was not even very hard to find places at which Bors felt perfectly at home. What men wanted was not really that different after all-drink, a good fight, and a woman's company. What else, really, was there?
"Hmm. Pretty women?"
"You think I'd tell you?" It was an old joke between them, and as comfortable as pulling on familiar armor. When they had first arrived in Britain, Bors had tried, in the fashion of a big brother (albeit one who was more intent on amusing himself than actually helping), to pass on to the younger Lancelot some of his vast knowledge of women, combined with helpful tips often offered in the presence of some of the very women at issue. To say the least, Bors's efforts had not been appreciated. He had been paying for it ever since. Bors heaved another contended sigh. Damn him, but he really had missed the pissy bastard.
He waited for Lancelot's sharp-tongued retort, which never came. Frowning, he squinted over at Lancelot's face. It was hard to see past the distraction of his ridiculous beardlessness, but, yes, there was that black glitter in his eyes that never boded well for someone.
Bors wondered who had managed to set off Lancelot this time. The other knights had been walking carefully around him since the latest fight with Arthur-and no one, even among their hardheaded lot, had been stupid enough yet to comment on the change in Lancelot's appearance. There was ribbing and teasing and tormenting, and then there was masochism and suicidal tendencies. Bors figured he would wait about another week or so before he began calling Lancelot “pretty boy” again.
"I've got my eye on this one woman," he continued coaxingly when Lancelot failed to say anything. "Good woman, but a temper. I like a woman with a temper. And nice wide hips."
Lancelot took the bait and raised an eyebrow. "Planning on more bastards, are you?"
Bors gave a toothy grin, but his voice was almost wistful when he replied. "It was nice having a family."
Lancelot's gaze was fixed on the television. He abruptly asked, "Did you have a good life afterward, then?"
"Did you know I was the last of us to die?" Bors felt rather smug about it.
"Were you?"
"Yes. Lived to be an old man, if you can believe it. I was nearly seventy. Still strong as an ox. And just as virile. I think I might have died between my Vanora’s sweet thighs. A perfect way to go.” His grin was smug. "I had fifteen children, fifty-some grandchildren and a good many of them had children of their own by then."
Lancelot snorted. "Only fifteen? Still, you started your own tribe. They must have been the terror of the countryside."
Bors guffawed. "That they were. Could have had more children, too. But my Vanora, she put her foot down. Said she was done with being pregnant." He sighed, thinking of it. He had had a good life, over all, especially at the end.
They were both silent for a while. Eventually, Lancelot spoke, "Do you miss her?" His eyes were glittering strangely in the television's flickering light.
"Not like I would have then." He frowned, trying to think of how to explain. "It's like a distant thing. Like something I got over long ago."
"Perhaps she's out there somewhere." Lancelot waved his hand.
"You mean reborn?"
"It worked for that black-hearted whoreson Merlin," Lancelot said, anger darkening his voice.
Bors thought about it-to have Vanora here. But- "I don't think so," Bors said slowly. "I think I'd have-a wanting for her, if I were meant to meet her again. Like the way Arthur was before you came back."
Lancelot gave him a sharp look. "What?"
"Arthur. He was half-mad to have you here. Never seen anything like it with him."
Lancelot looked back at the television. It was showing the day's average temperatures in Australia. At least Bors thought it was Australia-or Austria? Antrica? Something like that, anyway. Why Lancelot seemed engrossed in this boring parade of maps and numbers was anyone’s guess.
But then, Bors had been there a few weeks ago when Arthur had shown the newly woken Lancelot a globe of the world. Arthur had been talking excitedly about how the earth was round, and about things like Columbus and NASA and going to the moon-which Bors had tuned out (as he often did when Arthur started declaiming). So the earth was round? What did he, Bors, really care, so long as he was in no danger of falling off? Or so he had told one of the long-suffering tutors that had been hired to teach the knights. Lancelot had listened to Arthur, but his finger had been tracing over the lands he knew-the borders of the empire-and then he had spun the globe around slowly, a thoughtful look on his face, which had lit into hilarity. With the very nearly pouting Arthur demanding to know what was so funny, Lancelot had finally managed to gasp out, “Roman Empire-rulers of the world my arse!” It had taken Lancelot a good while to stop laughing. After that, he had smirked every time he looked at the globe-that is until it somehow disappeared from Arthur's study. Bors was pretty sure that none of the knights had been to blame for that one, but most likely a certain ex-Roman commander. Arthur never had appreciated being laughed at, even by (especially by) Lancelot. So in watching this dull program, Lancelot was quite possibly interested in the maps. Or the weather. Who knew? Figuring out how Lancelot's mind worked was not a task Bors would take on, even when he wasn't a fair way to being sotted.
When Lancelot spoke again, the weather had moved on to Canada. Bors was sure of that one. "When did he die?"
Bors tensed and gave him a hard look. Sometime during the conversation Lancelot had shifted position. Rather than the easy, indolent sprawl, he was lying stiffly, arms crossed tightly over his chest. That, combined with the joltingly beardless face put Bors in mind of the boy he had once been. Bors found himself wishing that he had not drunk quite so much earlier-or perhaps that he had drunk a great deal more. He rubbed at his face before answering. There was no need to ask whom Lancelot was talking about. "Some fifteen years after you did."
Bors was not exactly surprised that Lancelot and Arthur had not spoken about these things. They had all-those few of them that had been left-seen the way Arthur had dismissed Lancelot that last night. Bors was fairly sure that whatever had happened between them those final days had eaten at Arthur for the rest of that life.
"Did he have any children?" Lancelot asked. It could have been a casual question, given Lancelot's tone and their earlier topic of conversation, but it was not.
“Guinevere was barren." He chose the words with uncharacteristic care. Then, knowing what Lancelot would be wondering, he added, "They got married in the spring after the battle." Less than three months after Lancelot had fallen.
Bors braced himself for the next question, but Lancelot seemed to switch topics. “Do you buy any of this?” His body language had changed again and he waved a hand loosely, the gesture mocking.
Bors, well used to Lancelot’s restless mind and rapid shifts of mood, relaxed further into his chair and propped his feet up on the coffee table. “Arthur does.” He shrugged.
Lancelot made a derisive sound. “This idea of democracy has only replaced his faith in Rome and the church. He’s overjoyed. He thinks, at last, mankind has hit upon the solution.” Lancelot’s tone was scathing. “He always manages to overlook that, even if the ideas seem well and good, they are executed by men, who are flawed, greedy and stupid.”
Bors shrugged again and scratched at his stomach. He, frankly, did not really care about the niceties. He agreed that men were not to be trusted whatever pretty notions they spouted. The rest he left for Arthur and Lancelot to fight about. What he wanted was simply to be pointed in the direction of the enemy and let loose. Sadly, there had been none of that since he had woken in this life.
Lancelot’s attention seemed once more to be on the television and Bors had nearly dozed off in his chair when he looked up on sudden instinct and found Tristan standing in the door.
"So?" Lancelot asked.
Tristan came into the room, flipped on the lights and pulled something from the bag he was carrying. He tossed a flat package to Lancelot, who sat up and caught it in one easy motion. A black grin lit Lancelot’s features, as he yanked off the paper wrapping. "The manuals? No trouble, then?"
"No." Tristan sat down in the armchair across from Bors.
Lancelot studied the covers. "United States Army Field Manual," he read, and then smirked. "So we're to borrow from this age's Rome. How appropriate.” He tossed one of the books to Bors and another Tristan.
They perused them for a while, with only an occasional remark breaking the silence.
"These machine guns don't seem that hard to use," Lancelot said, studying one of the diagrams. He had sprawled out on the couch again, his head resting on one of the couch arms.
"They're not," both Bors and Tristan said at the same time, which earned them a raised eyebrow from Lancelot as they exchanged a rather surprised look themselves.
"When can we try them out?" Lancelot asked, choosing to ignore the silent byplay.
"As soon as you're allowed to leave the house," Tristan said blandly. Lancelot gave him a dirty look. Lancelot had not yet been deemed by Arthur sufficiently acclimated to this century to be allowed out in public-or so Arthur had put it. Lancelot and Arthur had had some rather spectacular arguments on the subject, but Arthur had dug in his heels.
"Still, once we get them, we'll need to train with them," Bors said.
"There's a large, unfinished room in the basement I'm told is suitable-Gareth and Meliot are going to figure out how to fit it out," Lancelot said.
Tristan looked faintly approving, but Bors asked, "And Arthur? He's going to notice if we start building a firing range in the house."
Lancelot gave him a smooth smile that was not entirely pleasant. "Leave that to me."
Bors had to laugh at that. "By the Lady's tits, Lancelot, it's been dull here without you." It was true. They had spent the last months learning about this time and immersing themselves in all the trouble they could find, but they had been growing restless. It was as though they had been waiting for something. Arthur said they were needed, but in truth they had little actually to do. Then Lancelot had opened his eyes, seemed to take one quick assessing look around, sneered, and began to scheme with a clarity of purpose that none of the rest of them could match. As much as they complained, it was a relief (and always entertaining) to once more watch and help as Lancelot plotted and maneuvered his way around Arthur.
"Still," Lancelot said, looking back at the manual in his hands, "I'm not sure I like this time. Just point and pull the trigger? So a man with neither discipline nor strength can kill any opponent. It's worse than being killed by a fucking arrow." His face darkened and he rubbed at his chest. There was a pale scar there, Bors knew. It was a strange thing, considering every other mark on Lancelot's body was gone. Bors missed his own scars, particularly the prominent one on his face. He thought it had given his face a certain appealingly roguish character.
Bors and Tristan exchanged a glance, but before either of them could respond, they heard footsteps approaching and they burst into action.
Arthur blinked sleepily at them from the doorway, hair rumpled, and suspicion dawning in his half-open eyes. "What are you all doing awake? Lancelot?"
Lancelot shrugged. "I couldn't sleep. These two were out and just came back." The amazing thing about it was that Lancelot rarely seemed to need to tell outright lies. Lancelot sat up and abruptly demanded, "And when am I going to be allowed out of this house, Arthur? I thought that was the whole point of your little barbering exercise."
Bors had to restrain a grin at the sudden shift of Arthur's expression and the way Arthur’s eyes seemed to jerk away from staring at Lancelot’s face. Truly, Bors had missed Lancelot.
"Soon, I told you." It was Arthur's turn to try to change the subject. He was not as good at it. "You should come back to bed-We've a lot to do tomorrow."
"You've a lot to do tomorrow," Lancelot muttered, but he got to his feet anyway. When Arthur's back was turned, he glanced pointedly at the couch cushions before following Arthur out of the room. Tristan retrieved Lancelot’s manual from the couch, his own reappearing in his hand from somewhere, and Bors pulled out his from inside his leather jacket.
From the hallway they could hear Lancelot's voice, clear and cuttingly smooth as fine steel, "And exactly how long is 'soon,' Arthur?"
Steel. Bors glanced down at the book in his hands and sighed. As exciting as firing one of these gun things could be, he badly missed the feel of a well-balanced, edged weapon in his hands. Nothing could match that.
~
Arthur shut the bedroom door after Lancelot and watched as Lancelot stripped off the sweatpants and t-shirt he was wearing before he crawled into bed. Arthur joined the knight there after a moment, automatically pulling Lancelot's body against his own.
He had awoken, surprised to find himself alone. He had a vague recollection of being woken earlier by Lancelot having a-dream? He had felt guilty for just falling back asleep. Whatever he had dreamed had troubled Lancelot enough to keep him awake.
He ran his hand though Lancelot's curly hair, loving the way it seemed to wind itself around his fingers in a persistent embrace. "Why couldn't you sleep?" He asked after a while.
Lancelot shifted over on to his back, taking Arthur with him. Arthur went without resistance, settling himself between Lancelot's legs. Having gone so long without, he hoped he would never be foolish enough to refuse this again.
He pressed his face against Lancelot's, letting his lips feather across the beardless cheek. He adored the feel of it. He was a little obsessed he knew, but he was fairly sure he had managed to hide that from Lancelot.
"It was nothing." Lancelot shifted his long legs so that Arthur pressed more deeply against him, and his arms went around Arthur, trying to pull him closer still.
"Hmmm," Arthur murmured as he nuzzled into Lancelot’s skin. Arthur was no longer able to remember quite what they were talking about. Lancelot's fingers were moving over Arthur's spine in a way that never failed to send a hot jolt of arousal straight through him. One of his own hands had moved to cradle Lancelot's hip, thumb drawn to the prominent jut of a hipbone.
"Tell me something," Lancelot shifted his head so he caught Arthur's lips and kissed him, long and seeking, then gasped into Arthur's mouth as Arthur's other hand found its way between his legs and fingers stroked inside him.
"Anything," Arthur breathed against his mouth, meeting his eyes.
Lancelot's long lashes fluttered when Arthur's fingers twisted, but he kept his eyes locked on Arthur's. "Do you miss it-the old life?"
"What? The mud and the blood and losing you one by one?" The hand at Lancelot's hip clenched hard and the fingers of Arthur’s other hand thrust in deeper.
Lancelot's neck arched. He fought to keep his eyes open and his voice grew rougher. "No-afterward. Do you miss it?"
Arthur had little attention to spare for talking. He pulled his fingers free of Lancelot, earning a low cry. "No," he managed to gasp, as he positioned himself, not really thinking about his answer, "I have everything I want now."
He pushed into Lancelot and groaned at the maddening, hot, tight feel of it, his teeth biting into Lancelot's shoulder as he fought for some control. He felt Lancelot's hands scrape down his back, as the lean body under him tensed and then relaxed. Still, Lancelot rasped against his ear, "Everything?"
Arthur shoved himself deeper, unable to be gentle for wanting. "Everything," he gasped and did his best to make sure that the only sounds that came from Lancelot's mouth thereafter were cries of pleasure and Arthur's own name.
Afterward, Arthur fell asleep contentedly, aware only of Lancelot’s body against his, of his arms holding Arthur close. He slept easily, unknowing that Lancelot lay still until dawn, eyes burning as he stared up into the darkness.