Post-Camlann. Leon is interested. Gwen is not.
"Don't do it, Leon," Gwaine warned him, looking sternly at the taller man.
"I have to," Leon says. "Either I tell her, or I leave Camelot."
"You may have to do both, mate," Gwaine mutters as Sir Leon gets up and strides from the knights' quarters.
Hoping it's not too late, Leon knocks softly on Gwen's door.
"Come in," her voice calls from the other side of the doors.
"Am I disturbing you?" Leon asks, entering and standing just inside the doors. She is over by the window, at the desk near the bed.
"Not at all," she calls. "Come over here, please, Leon, I don't want to shout at you."
"Yes, my lady," he answers. He swallowed hard and walks over towards her, studiously not looking at the large, opulent, four-poster bed.
"What can I do for you, Sir Leon?" she asks, setting her quill down.
"Well, um… I have something I'd like to tell you…"
"Oh?"
"It's of a… delicate, um, personal nature, and…"
"Is this something you should be talking to Gaius about?"
"What? No! No, sorry…"
"Oh. Sorry. I won't interrupt again."
"Thank you. Um, well, my lady, it has been… five years since the king's death, and… well… to be honest, I have always thought of you rather fondly, and…"
"I'm sorry, I lied, I am going to interrupt you," Gwen says, holding her hand up. She looks up into Sir Leon's face. Familiar, sweet, honest, true. Loyal. But… no. Just, no.
Honestly, Gwen has suspected this for some time. They grew up together, and he was always kinder to her than other nobles were to their family's servants. If she hadn't been enchanted by Morgana at the time, his words to her that night while they kept vigil over Arthur's poisoned body would have given her pause indeed.
Since Arthur's death, Leon has been indispensable to Camelot, always at her side, always looking out for her and her well-being.
There was even the occasional whisper in the court about them. But Gwen had never had feelings of that sort for Leon. "I am sorry, Sir Leon."
That was all she needed to say. His dear face falls for just a moment, but then he recovers his features and nods slowly. "I understand, my lady."
"Perhaps in another lifetime, I could have looked upon you as favorably as you do me," she says.
"But not in this one," he says.
"No, I'm sorry. You are dear to me, you know that…"
"I know. Please don't say it. I don't wish to hear that I'm like a brother to you."
"Very well," she nods, and Leon knows that she was indeed going to utter those words.
"I'll… just be retiring for the night, then, my lady," Leon says, nodding respectfully to his queen before turning to leave.
"Leon," she calls, "If I see a transfer request on my desk with your name on it, I will not approve it. Just so you know."
He stops. How does she do that? "Yes, my lady," he sighs. He takes two more steps, pauses, and turns his head slightly. "And thank you."
"Thank you, Leon. For all that you've done."
Once the door is closed, Gwen sighs heavily and decides she is done working. She tosses a few more logs on the fire. She doesn't want to see anyone now, so she doesn't call for her maid, choosing to turn down her bed and change into her nightdress herself.
She goes to her wardrobe and her hand hesitates on its way to where her dress is hanging. It moves to the left, over, over, all the way to the far side of the wardrobe, poking her hand inside until she feels it.
White linen. His shirt. The shirt.
She used to sleep in it every night after he died. After six months she decided it was probably healthier for her mental state to stop wearing it every night. But she kept it. She wears it occasionally, when she misses him. His birthday. Their anniversary. The anniversary of his death.
Tonight.