After - after the end of the world, the end of everything, of Arthur and Camelot and all that Lancelot had once thought was invincible and good and pure - the knight had gone away, had lived as a monk, a hermit, an outcast, until he'd died in his grief. He'd deserved the isolation. No, he'd deserved more, had deserved to die by Arthur's hand, but fate had never been that sweet.
Lexi was not Lancelot, however. That man was dead and buried and she thought good riddance to it all. The fact there was a ghost of guilt at the sight of Ben, that the whisper of blood and tears and years of grief accompanied every sound of his voice, was shoved aside and forgotten. That was not now, was not here, and she refused to be ruled by some long-distant past.
Quietly she studied him. Then, as if coming to some decision, she leaned over and every so lightly ghosted her lips over his. The jolt of heat, of surprise and warmth and longing, that coiled in her stomach made her breath catch and she pulled away enough to see his face, blinking. "Sorry," she managed, voice low. "I just wanted to know. I'm not good with beating around the proverbial elephant."