Lancelot du Lac (knightofthelake) wrote in mythologs, @ 2012-03-13 09:15:00 |
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Entry tags: | gwynevere, lancelot |
[closed/complete]
Characters: Gwynevere and Lancelot
Date/Time: March 12th, late night
Location: Drinksalot
Rating: Low
Warnings: Bit of angst.
Summary: What happened in Zurvan doesn’t stay in Zurvan.
Lancelot wasn't having an easy time of returning to New York. Things in Zurvan had been by no means perfect. But the abrupt shift from being the general of a region back to being the owner of a campy pub was a large serving of humble pie for Lancelot. No longer commanding the respect of an army -- of a whole kingdom -- made him feel small. Ordinary. Unimportant. Was his purpose in this life to spend the rest of his time serving people drinks?
And that wasn't even touching on how he felt about Arthur now that they remembered themselves.
Lancelot didn't go out of his way to smoke, but when he stepped outside for a break and found himself offered a cigarette, he couldn't say no. The clove cigarette was almost burned down to the butt when he felt a soft tap on his shoulder.
Rather uncharacteristically, Gwynevere was two sheets to the wind.
It hadn't been her fault, really. She wouldn't have stepped foot in a pub, much less one that rhymed with Lancelot, were it not for the enthusiastic pleas of her co-workers. From what Gwynevere surmised, she had ended up with a pay raise, and apparently New Yorkers jumped at every reason to celebrate. That, and they were rather keen on pairing her up with one of the PR guys.
Right - not going to happen. Still, the man insisted on buying her drinks. While he may have been hoping Gwynevere would get drunk enough for a romp, she was never, ever going to happen. Especially not while she drank thinking of Zurvan and Glastheim, of Arthur and Lancelot, of Hector and Andromache, of Elaine and Morgause...
Feeling stuffy, she decided to break off from the revelry. But wearing five inch heels when your co-workers planned on getting you absolutely pissed probably wasn't the smartest thing a woman could do. She was tripping over herself at every turn. Finally, she stumbled into a man's back, but caught herself just soon enough that her forehead didn't do too much damage to his shoulder. "M'sorry," she slurred clumsily, covering her forehead with a hand.
"S'alright," he muttered before glancing back. Nothing could have prepared him for the sight of her. The shock of seeing Gwynevere there, right outside his pub of all places, was ill concealed.
"Gwynevere." The name escaped him without hesitation or doubt. "What are you doing here?"
"Lancelot!" Gwynevere breathed, sounding for all the world as if her very happiness depended on that name. She giggled stupidly before adding, "Jordan thinks if I drink enough, he'll suddenly become irresistible!"
Though her words rolled into one another almost incomprehensibly, Gwynevere's tone was evidently smug. "But I'll never be pissed enough for that!"
Normally the idea of Gwynevere drunk would have been amusing to Lancelot. But rather than feel an ounce of mirth, he found his jaw clenching. Finding this Jordan and punching his teeth in sounded like a good time. Maybe it was jealousy. Maybe it was the over-protective knight. Maybe it was remembering the hunt they had shared in Zurvan. Gwynevere was so young and beautiful -- and she deserved a hell of a lot better than some asshat who thought he could take advantage of her when she was plastered.
Lancelot stubbed out his cigarette. "So you're here on a date?"
"'Course not!" Gwynevere shook her head emphatically. "M'co-workers wanted to go out."
Her eyes fixed on the cigarette. She never liked smoking, but it seemed strangely fitting that Lancelot would. "I didn't know you smoked." And without an ounce of graceful maneuvering, she segued, "In Zurvan, I heard..." She waved her hands around as if the gestures would somehow fill in the blanks. "Things."
"I don't." Lancelot didn't care if the lingering scent of cloves on his breath said otherwise. He doubted she cared. Her artless transition made it clear she was past the point of tipsy and fumbling in the jungle of wasted.
"Yeah?" He wasn't playing daft. He knew what things meant. But if Gwynevere wanted to pry about the debacle with Elaine and his affair with Arthur, she would have to find the words herself. "What about 'em?"
If Lancelot expected articulation, he would be sorely disappointed. Gwynevere fumbled over her words. "You and -- Didn't spare -- I don't -- Hurts -- Forgot -- Can't see --"
Frustrated with her uncharacteristic clumsiness, Gwynevere stopped. Brow furrowed, she pursed her lips. "Are the two of you happy?" she said finally.
"Happy?" Lancelot barked a mirthless laugh. Happy was the last word that came to mind. He was confused. He was frustrated. He was full of conflicting emotions -- but happiness hadn't come into play yet.
"I don't know what we are," he admitted honestly. He hitched his shoulders in a shrug.
"You shouldn't be anything!" Gwynevere burst out, the volatility of her emotions making her more unsteady than she already was. "But I'm supposed to support whatever Arthur wants, and if it's--" here, Gwynevere attempted to say Polyxena, but the Greek name was far beyond her drunken verbal capacity --"that princess, I can bugger on. But if-- if--"
If it's you.
"If it's me, you can't?" Lancelot finished for her. It wasn't hard to make the leap.
He sighed and caught a hold of her arm. Her balance looked precarious at best. Her skin was warm, soft. Touching her, even just an innocent touch, felt wrong somehow. Like he was betraying Arthur in a different way.
"Bit selfish, don't you think?" Not that he was any less.
"I know I'm selfish," she said lamely. Gwynevere had thought she was getting somewhere by being as gracious as possible about Hector and Andromache, but with Lancelot she was always back to square one.
Or maybe that was because she couldn't think or stand straight. His grip was so steady - reliable. Lancelot had always been there for her, even when all else failed. "You're Lancelot," she said, as if his identity explained everything. "I'm no good when it comes to you."
Lancelot frowned. Arthur had said the same thing. That he was Lancelot. He was still trying to figure out what the hell that meant. Maybe it meant something to them -- maybe it had meant something in Camelot and in Zurvan -- but that name didn't mean a damn thing here in New York.
"I should get you home," he said, evading. Lancelot could confront any physical challenge, but not his own emotions. Not this. "You're drunk."
"But we'll be strangers in the morning." Sober, Gwynevere would never have dallied in conversation with him for as long as she had. But this would have happened eventually. One way or another, she and Lancelot would've collided. And while drunkenness was a great excuse for prolonging this collision, she wouldn't be able to deny that she wanted this.
She wrinkled her nose. "And I'm going to be... " she grappled for the term. "hungover then, aren't I?"
"'M sure you'll be able to find me again."
Drinksalot. Lancelot. If she didn't black out, he had faith Gwynevere would remember the name and return.
"Probably. Unless you drink lots of water." The way her nose wrinkled, he couldn't help a smidgen of a smile from showing. "Do you live around here, or should I call a cab?"
"S'not the same when I'm sober," she muttered, maudlin. "It hurts when I'm sober." It hurt now, actually, knowing that he was in love with her (ex-)husband. But the edge of the pain was smoothed over by inebriation.
Gwynevere considered calling Heimdall, but she didn't want to bother him so late in the night. "Cab. Cab'd be smashing. But later."
He was making her hurt. Hearing that was worse than a kick to the groin. His poor excuse for a smile disappeared. "I'm sorry, Gwyn. I just-"
How could he explain what he and Arthur had shared in Zurvan? The loyalty, the devotion, and the love -- it seemed impossible to pour all those emotions, and the memories that had formed them, into words. "I don't know." He couldn't. He couldn't explain why -- of all the men on this godforsaken earth -- fate had made him in love with Arthur in this life.
"If you stay here, someone's going to take advantage of you. You should go home now," Lancelot said firmly.
That wasn't real, Gwynevere almost said. I was real. Our love was and will always be real.
But that love wrecked families and razed a kingdom. Gwynevere would never be foxed enough to forget that. Her remorse didn't mean that little to her. (But how much did Lancelot mean? Would it hurt him as well if he knew about Hector? God, Lancelot was in love with her king, with her husband--
And he'd forgotten all about her. Just as well, just as well.)
"Don't be sorry," she mumbled. She lay her hand over his, presumably to tug it off, but it was a gesture weakened by intoxication. "Y'know what, you're right. But I can handle m'self."
The alcohol seemed to be making Gwynevere more stubborn than usual. Lancelot could tell it was useless to coax her into a cab. And despite every instinct telling him that she was his Queen, the woman who he had sworn to protect and love always, they were in a century where chivalry was dead. He was no longer a knight. She was no longer a Queen. They were back to their mundane lives. Like it or not, he had to let her fend for herself.
"Fine," Lancelot relented, albeit reluctantly. Her cheek was brushed with a chaste kiss and her hand was given a final squeeze before he let go.
"Take care of yourself."
He would watch her, of course, and make sure no one laid a hand on her, but he would keep his distance.
"I will."
In her heels, Lancelot was only an inch or two taller than she was. It was easy enough to lean forward and pay his cheek the same respect without fumbling too much. She did so, then offered him a small, sad smile before ambling off with the peculiar, ridiculous dignity only a drunk person could muster.
Though she would later credit the smooth sailing to her non-existent street savvy, her ability ensured that she encountered no trouble from the other sex on her way out. Too frazzled to give her co-workers a by-your-leave, she hailed a cab and headed home.