Timeline: 1-2ish years after the knights' arrival in Britain.

Disclaimer: See Chapter 1.

.*.*.*.*.*.

Bors watched as Lancelot, halfway across the tavern, leaned against a table. There was a smirk on the boy's face as he chatted with one of the tavern girls, and he practically oozed confidence—but it was working. The girl was batting her eyelashes right back at the young knight, giggling at whatever he was saying, and flushing slightly. Bors nudged Bagdemagus with his elbow and nodded towards the boy.

"He looks cocky," Bagdemagus snorted.

"Very," Bors nodded in agreement.

"That's not good," Bagdemagus said.

"Not at all," Bors agreed.

"It could lead to him getting a big head," Bagdemagus said.

"And we all know that Lancelot's ego doesn't need any extra support," Bors said.

"It certainly does not," Bagdemagus shook his head gravely.

"So what should we do about it?" Bors grinned wickedly.

"What indeed…" Bagdemagus mused.

.*.*.*.*.*.

The next afternoon, Lancelot left the training grounds with a spring in his step. His conversation with Delen in the tavern the night before had gone well, until Josephus had scolded her for not working. Lancelot was hoping that he'd be able to get more of a chance to talk to her tonight, as soon as he was finished returning his gear to the armory.

Lancelot entered the armory, idly noting the presence of Bors and Bagdemagus in the corner, replacing their own weapons. He returned his to their racks, then turned to leave, only to find Meleagent blocking the now-closed door.

"What's going on?" Lancelot asked, immediately alarmed. He wasn't the only one among the knights who enjoyed playing pranks on the others, and revenge for past pranks was definitely not unheard of; he tried to remember of Meleagent, Bors, and Bagdemagus had ever gotten back at him for the last prank he played on them—or even when that had been—but couldn't think of anything.

"We noticed you chatting with Delen last night," as Lancelot backed up, he bumped into Bagdemagus. He looked over his shoulder and up at the much-taller knight, suddenly terrified.

"Yeah, I was talking to Delen," Lancelot hoped he sounded far more confident than he felt at the moment.

"In fact," Bors came up on Lancelot's other side, bumping into the skinny boy's arm with his barrel chest, "we've noticed that you've been having quite a few chats with quite a few of the girls in the tavern."

"And they seem to be going well," Meleagent added, crossing his arms over his chest and taking a step closer.

"They are," Lancelot lifted his chin defiantly, "if I do say so myself."

"See that's the thing," Bagdemagus moved forward, bumping into Lancelot and making him stumble.

"We just wanted to have a… talk with you," Bors also stepped forward, bumping against Lancelot again.

"What kind of talk?" Lancelot asked warily.

"We just wanted to make sure that, should you have any further success with Delen, or any of the other girls, you know... where to put it," Meleagent grinned wickedly.

.*.*.*.*.*.

Lancelot sat in the tavern, staring down into the still-full cup of wine on the table in front of him. He hardly noticed the whirl of cloth as Delen came up beside him, her skirts still swaying from movement.

"Hey there, handsome," Delen said, brushing a hand against Lancelot's.

Lancelot didn't glance up. "Hi."

"What's wrong?" Delen asked, perching on the table next to Lancelot's arm.

The knight flinched away from the girl, feeling the blood immediately rush to his face when he caught sight of her hip, his imagination quickly filling in what was under her skirts, based on what Bors, Bagdemagus, and Meleagent had told him that afternoon. "Uh, nothing," he gulped, his voice cracking. "Just a long day. I'm tired."

"Too tired to talk?" Delen lifted his chin.

As Lancelot's eyes tracked up the girl's body, he felt his face grow even hotter as his flush deepened. He quickly looked away, avoiding eye contact. "Yup," he gulped as sweat prickled against his spine.

"Well, that's too bad," Delen pouted, letting go of his chin.

Lancelot quickly dropped his gaze back down to his cup. "Yup," he mumbled.

With an exasperated sigh, Delen slid off the table and bustled away, leaving Lancelot alone in his misery.

The boy didn't notice, but at the next table over, Bors, Bagdemagus, and Meleagent were barely suppressing their laughter.