Another side-glance at Lexi as their knees bumped, with an odd mix of 'I have no idea what's going on' and 'If this guy's hurting you just say the word and I'll stab him in the throat' and more than a little 'Are you sure you don't want me to leave you two to it?', and some inane comment that he wasn't deluded enough to believe that anyone would take into account, some lame attempt to lessen the levity of the situation. “There's no way we can stop at the gingerbread house and not the bit where it turns out there's a hag in there, right?”
He hated the plea in his voice. Hated that some random stranger with an ungodly skill at baking and a strength which sat about her like an oversized coat – the ghost of a good fit, and yet not quite right – had taken hold of him. Hated wanting to reach out and take her other hand, and hated knowing that he couldn't, that something deeper than how ridiculous it would be for two grown men to be playing tug-of-war over her stayed his hand. Hated not knowing what was going on, and more than that hated that he was afraid to find out exactly what that was.
When, exactly, had he become so bloody weak?
He should have walked away and left them to it. Should have hit the road, found another town, another story. The devil take Lexi, the strength that belied her delicate frame, the fire blazing behind her eyes... hang the fact he knew beyond a shadow of a doubt she'd haunt him now he'd set eyes on her, or the stinging back-slap which followed that thought, the whisper that branded such thoughts heresy. He could be a happy heretic, and burn in hellfire somewhere else. He could.
… no, it wasn't working.
He waited for Arthur to speak, to come out with something that would make all of this 'click' and cease to be a great bottomless mystery. The answer that he'd come up with didn't make any fucking sense: Camelot was a myth, and reincarnated knights did not open bakeries and bewitch travelling writers.