Anti-OTP: Mordred/Laurel

[illgotten]

Mordred is sitting on the doorstep in the late afternoon sun, peeling last year's potatoes and occasionally cursing when his fingers slip. Fortunately he's almost done, having sustained only glancing injury.

Comments

[hardlyagravated]

She comes out to join him, a bit besmudged with flour from the savory pies she's been making. "You peel potatoes like you've been doing it all your life," she observes, sitting down nearby.

[illgotten]

He smiles a little. "Inborn talent."

[hardlyagravated]

"Ah, clearly. A shame it was Gareth who ended up in the kitchens." She smiles a bit.

[illgotten]

"Yes, well. He always does luck out."