Lancelot was aware he was dreaming.
Moments like this could never happen in real life after all. He had made sure of that, with the incredible amount of shit he pulled during his time as a knight. This? This kind of paradise could only ever exist in a fantasy.
So he was aware this wasn't real, but he decided to remain here for a while longer, clinging to the vision for as long as he could. He dared not move, scared that as soon as he did, the dainty fingers in his hair would cease their gentle stroking, and she'd disappear into a wisp of smoke, tucked into a bittersweet memory in the back of his mind.
You seem tense, Lance…
He would never stop obsessing over the way she said his name. On her lips it sounded as smooth and sweet as those little dark cocoa squares the Matou girl had presented him with the other day. Even if her voice carried an accent different from that of his homeland, he'd rather have his name said the way she did it.
He opened his eyes to meet hers as she leaned over him, those bright emerald pools making his heart do somersaults in his chest as always. Hell, it felt like there was an entire circus going on in there with how much his heart rate had increased. Only she ever had this effect on him. He was completely, utterly spellbound, powerless to resist. But even if he could, Lancelot knew he wouldn't. He'd choose to be forever enraptured and hexed over spending even one moment without her touch.
The pink tinge below her eyes was a sight to behold. She looked so beautiful that if he hadn't served as her knight he could believe she was something divine, sent upon this earth to deliver his salvation. In many ways she had been his deliverance, starting from the day that they met, when she'd given purpose to a wandering knight.
She placed a warm palm on his cheek, which he leaned into almost like a reflex. He left a kiss in the little dip of her hand, savoring her sweet taste as she chuckled softly at his actions, calling him a sap.
Such a comment would have incited his ire, but from her it had the opposite effect, making rare happiness bubble in his chest till his spirits were more than lifted. It was more than enough to curl his mouth at the corners.
Arturia dipped forward then, to meet the lips of the man leaning on her lap. I love you. She whispered, against his lips, her warm breath tickling his lips before she closed the distance between them once again.
Of course, his dream would make her love him like this. Of course, it did.
He couldn't stomach letting the imaginary scene go just yet, though, so he snaked a hand behind her neck, threading his fingers into soft blonde tresses he barely ever saw hanging loose and pulled her gently towards him for another kiss. She complied happily, something he knew would never happen, and he was cruelly, cruelly reminded that this Arturia was only a figment of his imagination and nothing more.
How much longer was he going to lie to himself? This could never happen.
Suddenly whatever euphoria he was experiencing soured like milk left out on the porch, and his eyes shot open to the image of Guinevere, the blonde locks in his hands replaced by brown ones. He dropped his hold like a rock, pushing her away with more force than necessary and watched her splay out on the ground.
"Jesus, Lance!"
The voice that came from her lips was far too deep, far too manly to have belonged to the woman he committed the gravest sin with. It sounded...It sounded like —
"Bedivere?"
Lancelot's eyes snapped open, honed instincts instantly forcing him into a defensive position, with his arms raised. He blinked away the haze from his eyes, his dark head of hair swaying from side to side as he got his bearings. He was in a messy room with plastered walls and music posters strewn across the apartment. Whoever lived here was a slob. There were dishes in the sink and more take-away boxes than Lancelot had ever seen before, one of which was upturned at his feet, spilling rice all over the floor.
Bedivere was clicking his tongue, standing on the other side of the coffee table with a mug of bitter caffeine in his hand. The man was looking disapprovingly at his shoulder as if there was something there. Lancelot hissed as the pain finally caught up with him, a quick inspection showed he was currently straining some very neatly done sutures and his skin did not approve.
He felt a similar sting on his back as the events of this evening rushed back to him, each deadly strike, each carefully aimed slash at the enemy's jugular. A wave of shame enveloped his mind as he realized how many attempts he'd made and failed because his opponent was a slippery baseborn that didn't know his place. Any unscrupulous bastard worth his salt would have laid down and died.
His fingers curled into a shaking fist, nails digging painfully into his calloused palms. If only he'd had just a few more seconds. He'd almost had that cur's neck, if only Bedivere and Kay hadn't stopped him. They'd all be rid of that menace. If only Merlin —
Merlin, that bloody bastard!
He hated that wizard's damn ability, taking control of his mind's greatest desire and using it against him like that. Damn those incubi, damn them to hell. It would be weeks before he got that image of Arturia out of his head, looking so unbelievably beautiful all in white. Why, why, why did that have to happen. God.
He wasn't supposed to be having those thoughts. He couldn't be pining for her like this, he wasn't allowed that, not after what he did. It didn't matter how much he relished their dream kiss, how desperately he wanted to pull her close to him at times, how he was consciously aware of how much more time than custom he'd spend kissing her fingertips.
"Alright, let us calm down, shall we?" Bedivere eased, pushing a steaming mug across the table to Lancelot's side. "I would rather not have to do those stitches again. It's almost time for you to leave for the airport."
Lancelot accepted the cup reluctantly, expecting coffee within it, but was grateful to find it instead with chamomile tea. It would have been foolish to let too much caffeine into his system when he was this riled up. He felt some tension leave his body as soon as the tea entered his system, but before long his thoughts strayed back to the match last night, with pointed emphasis on its non-conclusion.
Even he hadn't expected himself to throw down the gauntlet, but he couldn't bring himself to regret his actions. He couldn't have that Irish bastard anywhere near Arturia. People like that would only bring her more pain and heartbreak, and heaven knew she had had enough of both those things to last several lifetimes.
"We need to talk."
The sane part of Lancelot told him to up and leave. He had a sneaking suspicion that this conversation would be a complete waste of time. Bedi was the most righteous of them after all. The blonde would probably try to convince him out of starting up another fight with that curly-haired charm-magic wielding creep, which of course he'd decline. Lancelot would have Diarmuid's head or death, and the latter was not an option.
But Bedivere did stitch up the lacerations the lancer was lucky enough to make on his shoulder and back, so Lancelot stayed. He wasn't going to start being an inconsiderate bloke to his...friend? Plus, it was clear the knight didn't reveal his secret to Arturia after all, bless him.
"Where are we?" Lancelot asked, hoping to delay the inevitable talking down he was going to have to sit through. Bedivere took the bait.
"Tristan's apartment," he answered stiffly, looking over his shoulder as if he was being watched. He missed the gaping expression on Lancelot's face as the French knight registered his words. Was the entirety of the Round Table here? First Kay, and then Bedivere, and Merlin and today, Tristan? Who was next, Gawain?
Lancelot's eyes appraised the apartment once again, taking in the numerous empty glass bottles and paper takeout boxes. There was also a not-so-subtle neglected bag with a pharmacy logo splayed across it lying on the kitchen counter, he wondered what that was for. It was hard to believe that this was Tristan's space. The guy was a downer, but he kept his room tidy, unlike certain other people in the Table. For heaven's sakes, there were clothes on the bookcase, and by the slight layer of dust on them he could tell they'd been there a while.
Bedivere took advantage of Lancelot's silence to speak. "Would you kindly rescind that little death match between you and the Knight of Fianna, Lance?"
Lancelot's entire being stiffened, as if all his muscles decided to go taught at the exact same moment. The rippling muscles of his jaw as he grit his teeth told Bedivere of his opinion on the matter without ever needing words. It was clear Lancelot would rather jump into a pit of lava than take back that particular declaration. Bedivere would get nowhere this way.
Right, time to switch tactics.
He sighed, long and hard, wondering how things could get this complicated so fast. The most loyal knight liked Diarmuid, he really did. Despite the slight twinge of jealousy he felt whenever Arturia spoke of the Irishman, he was genuinely happy his king was making friends. Every time he'd catch her after she'd been sparring with either Lancer, it was like she'd been walking on clouds. Her euphoria was so infectious it brought a smile to Bedivere's face every single time.
It was only tonight really that he witnessed why. The match between Cú and Arturia literally had all his hair standing on end. He had to rub his arms to rid himself of the goosebumps. They were basically flying at each other with the speed of their combat, the sparks from their clashing weapons illuminating the grins on their faces. In all their time together as her knight, Bedivere had never seen Arturia have that much fun. He imagined she experienced the same high from sparring with Diarmuid, considering she was off to the beach nearly every other day to exchange blows with the guy. If Diarmuid suddenly, well, up and died, Bedivere believed Arturia would be substantially upset.
Not only that, the blonde knight had a sneaking suspicion that taking Diarmuid out of the equation was like removing a piece from the base of a house of cards: catastrophic for one, and a hell of a mess to clean up too. Tonight's event also revealed that the summoned Servants as a group held some degree of attachment to each other. He was aware Cú and Diarmuid were basically brothers, but their friendship with that indelicate red king was novel to him. Iskandar and Medusa were obviously close, even if the latter's behavior toward the man changed when they woke, and the both of them regarded Lancelot with familiarity. Gilgamesh was universally disliked by all except the King of Conquerors and Camelot's royal siblings, apparently.
And then there was Arturia, of course, the de facto cornerstone of the group. Medusa respected her. Iskandar doubted her. Gilgamesh was obsessed with her. Cú and Diarmuid were friends with her. Lancelot...Lancelot loved her.
If she breaks, everything would fall to ruin.
It didn't matter who was the victor in this damned death match. The ghost of either would set off a cataclysmic chain reaction that would shake the fragile foundations of their little Servant Squad, permanently damaging their dynamic forever. The success of their mission here literally hinged on them being able to work together, and here Lancelot was, trying to tear them apart.
Well, Bedivere wouldn't let that happen. Not a chance. He'd spent too many years waiting for Arturia to return, too many years doing that damn magus-killer's bidding to allow Lancelot to bring about the mission's failure. He was going to change Lancelot's mind if it was the last thing he did.
"If you continue down this path, Lance, so help me, I will tell Arturia everything."
Lancelot's eyes widened in shock and horror. "You wouldn't —"
"I have never been more serious."
Blackmail wasn't the most honorable of tactics. It was desperate, sad even. Bedivere never thought he'd use this kind of emotional manipulation even once in his lifetime. He felt agonizingly twisted in a million different ways, but he kept his expression neutral. If Lancelot saw that he wavered, it wouldn't work.
The knight inhaled, ready to sell this little farce even if he had to sacrifice his precious pride and honor to do so.
"You want your forbidden feelings kept a secret, Lance, you will end this silly feud with the Fenian knight," he declared, his voice shaking only at the last few words. He deserved an Oscar for this, even he couldn't believe how intimidating that sounded.
"It will reach its end, when he is dead, Bedivere," Lancelot enunciated, emphasizing the grim reaper's favorite word as his baritone drifted across the room.
Bedivere pinched the bridge of his nose and dragged his palm down his face. Why was this so hard? Already he could feel the beginnings of a massive migraine coming on. Lancelot couldn't have possibly developed such deep-seated hatred in the span of—what was this, what, two months? The man was acting like Diarmuid had just declared war on all of Britain for Christ's sake.
"What exactly did he do to warrant this, Lance? Was there some quarrel you had in the Fourth Holy Grail War that I don't know about?"
"No—"
"Then what?" Bedivere interrupted, throwing his hand forward to alleviate some of his stress. A little clarity on this matter would definitely help. Tristan's words before his swift exit were still ringing in the one-armed knight's brain. He was missing something here, and he had a feeling it was important.
"He's a pest she ought to be rid of! A parasitic leech she caught her unaware. Do not expect me to believe you don't see the way he looks at her, Bedi, I swear—"
"He's her friend, Lance."
Again with these baseless arguments? Lancelot was not a shallow man, he wouldn't give in to mere jealousy of all things. Heaven knew Arturia was trying to spend as much time with her former first knight as well, her hesitation only stemmed from the latter's reluctance and guilt. The blonde knight was missing something, he just wasn't sure what. With the pounding in his head and Lancelot's words bringing him nowhere closer to the answer, he felt like he was reaching under the couch for the last piece of a puzzle while completely blindfolded. It was not a fun feeling.
Plus, it was obvious from the grave expression on Lancelot's face that Bedivere was no closer to convincing Lance to drop the issue. He needed time, time he didn't have, according to the busted old clock ticking to a dreary 5:47 in the background. He had thirteen minutes to wrap this up and book it before Tristan's favorite bar closes at six. Arturia wanted them at the airport by six too, right?
"Bollocks, could you just bloody hold it off till you get back at least? You obviously hate him but the both of us know he is an asset to destroying the second seal. He wouldn't have survived for so long against you otherwise,"Bedivere offered, knowing even with his ire, Lancelot would acknowledge when an opponent was strong. It wasn't ideal, but he was hoping he could at least settle this with a compromise and pick up on it again later on when they returned. It hinged on Diarmuid and Lancelot keeping themselves in check, but he'd take that chance. It was unlikely they'd move with Arturia around.
The air was stagnant, and not because Tristan had bolted the windows shut. Though Lancelot was already a man of few words, his silence was staggeringly unnerving. Despite the chill of the morning Bedivere could feel a drop of sweat slide from his brow down to his chin.
"...Fine," Lancelot muttered under his breath, his reluctance manifesting in the stiff line of his lip and the knitting of his eyebrows. His acceptance was not freely given, but it was given nonetheless. Lancelot was a man of his word, traitor or not, so this was enough for Bedivere.
"Good."
A pregnant silence followed the conversation, the only sound between the two being the quiet ticking of the clock on the wall. It reminded Bedivere that his king was once again being sent out onto the battlefield, this time with an unlikely army of misfits in tow, Lancelot among them. He wanted to tell himself she'd be home safely, considering that now, she had a Knight of the Round with her. No one knew her combat style better than her old comrades after all.
But...it was difficult to place his faith in Lancelot, even if he knew about the man's feelings for Arturia. He recalled that dinner some time ago, when the Lancers came over, how gently Diarmuid had held Arturia on the balcony. So enraptured they were with each other that they didn't notice his eyes on them.
Never before had he seen his king so vulnerable to someone else, not even her wife, not even to himself, and there she was, all her walls down in front of that Irish knight. When they looked at each other, their eyes locked with such intensity that Bedivere felt he was intruding. His king trusted the spearman wholeheartedly, and he felt the same for her. There was no doubt about that.
Bedivere got up, praying to what gods there were above that his king would be alright and putting his faith on a man that was a mere acquaintance to him at the moment. He would deal with the guilt of not trusting his own friend later on, but there were far more pressing matters to attend to.
"You'll find the shower past that door. You better hope I've still got some clothes here. Tristan's will no longer fit."
Something about the way the sentence was phrased bothered Lancelot. He and the redheaded knights were of similar build last he saw him. Admittedly, that was eons and eons ago, but still. Lancelot stumbled on his way out of the bathroom, a few beer bottles clinking against each other as they were kicked away. Not wanting to leave the house in an even bigger mess than it was, he bent to pick them up, only for his fingers to hit a small balled up paper.
Curiosity got the better of him, and though it wasn't like him to snoop, he found himself reading through it.
Monoamine oxidase inhibitors... Antidepressants?
Just then, he heard the front door slam, the smell of alcohol and nicotine suddenly spreading throughout the room.
"Fuck, Bedivere, are you daft?! What's he still doing here?!"
Lancelot whipped around to see a hunched figure with a stubbly chin and a greasy red mop of tresses that could barely be called hair. His cheeks were hollowed out, and he had a shopaholic's worth of bags under his eyes that made him look like he hadn't slept in years. An overly loose garment hung limp on narrower shoulders, sporting several dark spots Lancelot hoped was merely alcohol. The stench told him otherwise.
The person in front of him was nearly unrecognizable with his slimmer build—scratch that, nothing about this man's body was built. He was nearly all skin and bones save for a slight beer belly. Even his voice gave him no clues as to his identity, what was once a melodic tenor was no better sounding than a bullfrog's croak.
The only giveaway was his irises, yellow despite being clouded over by the haze of alcohol and bloodshot thanks to the cigarette smoke. They leveled on Lancelot a glare not quite as vicious as Kay's but just as scalding.
"Your presence is unwanted here, traitor," he barked, the statement losing some of its bite when the intoxicated man hiccupped and stumbled his way to the kitchen.
"Sir Tristan?"
Lancelot could hardly believe his eyes. He thought he had let go a little, he was certainly not as bulky as he had been when they appeared, but Tristan? Tristan looked like a mere shell of himself. He doubted the guy could even lift a sword with those skinny arms. Hell, he looked slimmer than Arturia at this point.
His face, always cleanly shaven, now had a chin of unevenly cut stubble, with bits of shaving cream stuck at the sideburns. He looked like the literal image of a lost cause, like someone who had wasted his life on all the wrong things. Looking around at the evidence of vices and the piles of messes across the room, that description couldn't be more accurate.
"Fuck," Tristan drawled, wiping his lips on his sleeve after taking a swig out of a fresh can of beer, "Would you all just bloody stop with the 'sir' this, 'sir' that I'm sick of it. Gawain and the *hic* fucking traitor Bedi—*hic*"
Lancelot was too taken aback to move, his inaction letting the redhead slump to the floor uselessly, the can of beer clattering to the ground beside him and spilling out its contents.
"Bloody hell, Tris," Bedivere cursed, coming out of a door on the other side with two sets of clothes in his hand. The blonde shook his head as he tossed the garments to Lancelot and checked Tristan's vitals. Even with all Bedivere's prodding, the drunkard didn't stir, barely even moved, really.
The knight hefted the passed out man onto his shoulders with a practiced ease and made for the room past the bathroom, sighing as he instructed Lancelot to put on the change of clothes and to ready himself. It made Lancelot wonder just how many times the loyal knight had been forced to pick up after the drunkard. Heaven knew Kay wouldn't extend such kindness to Tristan, considering how Kay had reacted to Lancelot's presence that first night they met up.
They were silent as they exited the building, with Lancelot's mind still trying to process what he'd just seen. It was only later, midway to the airport where he finally found the urge to speak.
"He didn't want another life," Bedivere said, beating him to the punch before he could even ask. Curious, Lancelot's eyes left the window to land on Camelot's most loyal knight, silently urging him to continue.
"It wasn't easy for Sir Tristan after he left. You know about him and Lady Iseult, yes?"
Lancelot nodded. Of course he knew. When Sir Tristan joined the Table, Arturia welcomed him without much question of his past. His skill with the sword and bow and his declaration of loyalty was more than enough for her. However, the other knights, like Gawain and Palamedes, made it their mission to "get his story". They got more than they bargained for when they got some mead in him. 'Twas like one had broken a full dam, is what it was.
The redhead had launched into a full-blown dramatic retelling of the events of his life, with tears at the corners of his eyes. He was cursed to love Iseult, who was married to his uncle whom he too, loved dearly. Guilty from the nature of his illicit romance, he made the journey to serve in Camelot to forget her, even if their love still echoed in his chest. It was strong still, even separated by land and sea.
Gawain would soon grow to regret that he'd even asked, as Tristan never shut up about his fate after that, his woes often turning the joyous mood of a meal somber faster than blowing out a candle. Tristan had a lovely voice and a skill with the lyre unmatched, but often the knights thought it wasted on him when all he sang were tragedies and all he played made children cry.
Eventually, he was given a wife, a gorgeous woman with coincidentally the same name and face as his love, but still Tristan's woes did not cease. Now, by this time Lancelot had his own demons to appease, and he was not one to gossip, but even he had heard the whispers in the corridors. Tristan still begged for his old love at night, unsatisfied by the lookalike.
"I heard he died of poison and heartbreak, lied to by his wife that his Iseult loved him no more," Bedivere explained, recounting what little news he'd heard about Tristan when the redhead left Camelot forever. Lancelot watched the other man exhale resignedly, twiddling the cloth of his jeans with twitchy fingers.
Bedivere looked at Lancelot then, with eyes that held some sort of warning. "When we were, well, when he was resurrected, the first thing he did was look up his own legend for closure, and…"
He was interrupted by the quiet ding of his phone, which lit up on his lap with a message from both Arturia and Merlin. The former was asking if they would make it in time, while the latter texted about checking on Tristan a little later on. Bedivere sighed, something he did far too much these days, and typed up a hurried reply to both of them. He looked out the window, and whatever he saw must have incited something in him, because the next part of his narration came so swiftly he was eating his words.
"Iseult loved him," he continued, hurrying to wrap up, "In her despair that she could not reach him before his death, she kissed his poisoned lips and in her heartbreak, let the poison take her too. They were buried separate, but from their graves sprung two rose bushes—his was red, hers white—that intertwined and grew together. The tales said their blossoms were beautiful, their petals in mixed reds and whites and pinks."
Lancelot cocked an eyebrow. It wasn't so terrible an ending. It was certainly better than how he and Arturia ended up. The thought soured his expression as he reminded himself once again of how damn foolish he had been.
Bedivere didn't seem to notice. "When he found out, he thought life cruel, cursing that he'd been reborn at all while his love now lay in their shared grave alone."
Leave it to Tristan to only see the negatives.
"I wish it ended there but, in his search for answers, he read what happened to our king as well. Tristan believes his leaving of the Table was the event that triggered Arturia's downfall, and what, well, what you did merely cemented it."
Bedivere's words struck a chord that made Lancelot curl up in the inside and shrivel like a fish left to dry in the sun. It didn't help that Bedivere was the only other person who knew the true nature of his betrayal and his hidden feelings for Arturia either.
"He is not wrong," Lancelot commented simply, thinking it best that he avoid Tristan at all costs. "Does she know?"
The query hung in the air for a while, only the hum of the taxi's engine breaking the silence.
"He was doing better 'til the news of her arrival got to him."
His question made Bedivere shift uncomfortably and avoid his eyes. So, Arturia didn't know about Tristan and his...condition yet. The frenchman's eyebrow twitched and he directed his gaze back outside to where they were pulling up at the airport. It didn't sit right with him to be keeping so many secrets from his beloved king, but if her most trusted knight did so, he'd just have to follow the blonde's judgement.
Besides, he had his own hurdles to deal with, he remembered, eyes zoning in to the love of his life and the damn womanizer who had her hand in his.
"Ah, shit, here it comes."
Cú's carefully chosen words were the only warning before the man booked it for the far end of the expansive airport lobby, making a beeline for a vending machine. He looked back once and tilted his head in the direction he was going to indicate Diarmuid to follow. In hindsight, the man probably should have followed his fellow countryman, but he was currently much too preoccupied drawing circles on the King of Knights' palm as he mumbled an apology.
Their heads were near touching, neither aware of how intimate the moment seemed to the outsiders. Their words were mere whispers, secrets lost to all the busy airport hubbub, but their message deep and resonating between the two of them.
Are you alright?
It was she that had initiated the touch, checking his palms for wounds that she knew would be there. The pads of her fingers were feather-light on the crescent shaped scabs, comforting instead of hurting. She made Diarmuid's bruised cheeks tinge pink.
I am...now.
The smile he offered was meant to reassure her. For a brief second, she mirrored it, but it disappeared in a blink, a storm running through those beautiful, wide green eyes.
Please, I must apologize for him. I was unaware that you and he —
He interrupted her with a gentle shh, bumping his head to hers lightly. He was scolding her, she realized, shame and guilt bubbling to the surface in the form of a slight flush. Gently, he took his hands from hers and slid his fingers round the backs of her palms till it was his larger hands encasing her much smaller ones.
You are faultless in this, Arturia. This rift was between him and me.
His thumbs drew circles in the hollows of her palms. She had a warrior's callouses, just like he did, and yet her hands were perhaps the prettiest he'd ever held. He let his honey eyes drift back up to those stunning emerald pools to find them saturated with enough emotion to make his heart break.
Diarmuid...
She looked so...torn. He shook his head. He would not allow her to shoulder this guilt when none of this was her fault. It was a mistake to pick up that gauntlet, damn his pride. It simultaneously hurt him and healed him to know she cared so deeply for himself and Lancelot both. They should never have made it so that she'd lose either one of them.
I am the one who should be asking for forgiveness, fair king. Let me.
He knew his words meant nothing as long as he and the black-stained knight both wanted the other dead, and by the way she broke away from his gaze, he could tell she knew that too.
But try as he might…
He followed her line of sight when her eyes widened, the tall silhouette of a man reflected in her irises. It pained him when she moved away, another undeserved apology on her lips, went over to speak to the madman of their war.
Try as he might, he couldn't bring himself to tuck the issue away, to forget the disgrace that this man had leveled upon him unwarranted. He tore his gaze from the knight and his knight-king, unable to bear the weight of the guilt and rage it incited within him. It was laboring to drag himself all the way to the end of the room, resisting the urge to tear her away from Lancelot and bury his fists into the bastard's face, but he did so anyway. Cú touched a drink to his cheek as he slumped into a creaky airport chair, wordlessly offering him some comfort.
The shock from the cold made him flinch, his shock driving his gaze upward to meet the eyes of the tall, one-armed, knight, looking straight at him through the glass walls as he waited for a cab outside. Bedivere mouthed three words, and though they were lost to Diarmuid because of the distance and the glass, the man's eyes were sharp and piercing. His stare alone made Diarmuid feel he was hit square in the chest, and he suddenly felt like he'd just been entrusted something important.
His first instinct was to go for his phone, but he promptly remembered he didn't have Bedivere's number saved. What could he have said that was so significant and yet something he couldn't say in person?
"Oi,"
Cú snapped his fingers in front of Diarmuid's confused face twice, snapping the man's attention back to him.
"Sorry, what was that?"
The red-eyed man gave him a lopsided smile. "Didn't know where ya went there, for a second," he said looking behind him to ascertain what it was that had captured Diarmuid's attention, but the tall blonde knight was no longer anywhere to be found
Diarmuid let out a breathy chuckle. "'Twas nothing."
"Was beginning to think you weren't going to come."
Kay looked up from where he was leaning on his car, just in time to see the last of the King of Heroes' signature gold dust disappear. He was correct in assuming Gilgamesh would have the decency to not implode the minds of the common folk by materializing from thin air, so it made sense for him to appear in the quietest corners of the back parking lot. He underestimated how late Gilgamesh would be, however. The sun had made its entrance some time ago, it was far past the agreed meet-up time.
From here, he could see his little sister bloody fuming with the only two remaining sets of passports and tickets, her eyes darting from side to side in search of the red-eyed demigod but finding him nowhere. Eventually she threw up her hands and gave up, plopping to sit in between Medea and Medusa.
"So familiarly you address me, mongrel," Gilgamesh replied, irritatedly, noticing Kay had dared shift his focus after calling his name out so easily. "I would have your tongue if it were not your sole redeemable quality."
Kay, unintimidated, rolled his eyes. It may have been child's play to Gilgamesh to rile up Arturia, but he wasn't about to take the bait. Kay halfway through his thirties, less a stickler for the knight's pride bull crap, and a CPA Lawyer. You develop a tolerance for assholes when you deal with corporate bastards on a daily basis.
"It's Kay," he emphasized, looking directly into Gilgamesh's eyes. "You know my name, use it."
Gilgamesh blinked at him lazily, that condescending manner of regard ever present in his countenance. He seemed to be pondering Kay's little request as the seconds went by, and only when Gilgamesh began his kingly stride toward Arturia did Kay realize the bastard decided this wasn't worth his time.
He fought the urge to grab the demigod and stood from his car. In the corner of his vision, he could see Iskandar and Heracles leading the group through the flimsy-looking maze of dividers, handing their tickets and passports through to the airport staff as they weighed their little travel bags. Arturia hung back with both hers and the Babylonian King's travel papers, green eyes sweeping the room for the missing king.
Arty...
Why did they have to say goodbye again so soon? Kay didn't know what he'd do if she came home with another life-threatening scar. He'd nearly lost it when Merlin showed him the vision, cursing Kiritsugu, cursing Merlin, cursing Arturia and her stupid stupid need to always do the 'right thing' and save everyone.
He was scared. He should just admit it. Kay didn't want to lose her, and it didn't matter that he knew her strength, he would always be bloody terrified every time that damned magus killer would send them out to fulfill their end of the bargain. And yes, it helped to know there was now a small army of them, but heaven knew numbers were not the only factor on the battlefield. If that was the case, the Hundred-Faced Hassan would have ensured an easy win. Arty wouldn't have come home half-dead.
"Wait—"
"I am afraid you have reached your quota for requests, Kay," Gilgamesh enunciated mockingly, not stopping in his stride when he spoke. "Not every ruler is a servant king like yours."
Kay stumbled to a stop, watching the king's retreating back. He bit his lip, wondering whether or not he should move forward with this. His Adam's apple bobbed as he gulped down his indecision, stealing a look at his sister from beyond the king's shoulder. He would probably get scolded for this if she ever found out, but he'd take her ire any day if it meant she'd come back home safe and sound.
"Keep her safe," he mumbled, unknowingly echoing the words Bedivere had spoken just moments ago.
There was no break in the Mesopotamian king's pace. He didn't even so much as look back as he berated the knight for daring to doubt Arturia's strength once again, even if they both knew that was not the purpose behind Kay's words. Before long, Gilgamesh was far out of hearing range, and disdainfully complying with airport security. In the distance, he could see Arty stomp over to Gilgamesh in wide strides, grab his sleeve and drag him to the check-in counter. They argued the whole way.
Kay was beginning to think his request went unheeded and he slumped onto the side of his car as he watched the two blonde kings make it to the front of the line. It was a mistake to even try to converse with that prick, no matter how formidable the first hero was. Maybe he should have talked to that Heracles. That guy certainly looked like they could take a hit.
Kay shook his head, grabbing his keys to return to his car, but he stopped in his tracks. He almost couldn't believe he nearly missed it. Gilgamesh turned to the side, showing his profile, and tilted his head so slightly it was barely perceptible at this distance.
Maybe he was being irrational, maybe this little favor wasn't even necessary, maybe he was crazy for choosing to trust the King of Heroes at all.
But for one reason or another, Kay felt his worries ease.
