Tangible Schizophrenia


Vice Extra: Family Affairs

Author: Guede Mazaka
Rating: PG
Pairing: Arthur/Lancelot/Guinevere
Feedback: Good lines, bad ones, etc.
Disclaimer: Versions from the movie.
Notes: Film noir AU. Makes little attempt to be really historically accurate, and much effort to both be true to genre tropes and to riff on them. Supernatural stuff.
Summary: It’s different and it’s not.


God knew what Gawain and Arthur and Guin had come up to tell the police about Whitechapel—well, not that much of an explanation was ever needed to explain that district. Law enforcement didn’t like it in there, decent people didn’t like it in there, hardened criminals didn’t even like it in there if they weren’t twisted backwards somewhere inside. Lancelot sure as hell didn’t like it in there, and for once, he was happy to let the story blow right past him.

For the moment, anyway. He had goosefeather-stuffed silk pillows cushioning his slouch, champagne-grade cigarettes and Arthur’s head nestled in his lap. Guin was sitting next to them, legs tucked up beneath her and a bottle of brandy busily tucking itself into her, so her tongue was relatively occupied. Occasionally she’d lean down to share a mouthful with Arthur, who’d drink it slow from her and then resume his lazy kissing and licking of Lancelot’s wrist. Fingers. Palm, with teeth grazing the hollow. “I don’t remember you having a thing for hands,” Lancelot murmured, not especially protesting about it.

“I remember and I can’t, because it’s been so long.” Arthur moved, pressed his cheek against Lancelot’s stomach. His breath filtered warm and moist through the fabric of Lancelot’s shirt. “And you’re different, too.”

He lifted a hand to trace over Lancelot’s side, and Lancelot had a sudden recollection of frenzied caresses over seemingly nothing. Except now he also had a peculiar ghosting tingle and a memory of an arrow, painful and burning. “Your scars aren’t the same,” Arthur added, nuzzling that spot. “So I’m relearning them, one at a time.”

“Always methodical.” Guin swigged her brandy, then leaned over Lancelot to set the half-empty bottle on the side-table with exaggerated care. Her eyes were brighter than usual, but not so much so as to explain why she then draped herself around Lancelot and nipped at his ear.

Well, if she wanted to, she wanted to. Anyway, he wasn’t so stupid as to complain until after her teeth were away from his softer bits, so Lancelot let her and just curved his arm around her head so he could keep smoking. “You two ended up having a kid after all.”

“Hmm. I never had a chance to see him up close, though.” Sadness faded in and out of Guin’s voice as she sank back, dropping down to snuggle against Arthur’s chest. “Was he…?”

“He grew up very well,” Arthur told her, suddenly sober.

Lancelot threaded his fingers through the other man’s hair, which brought about a slight lightening in Arthur’s face. “You thinking of starting over?” he asked the other two. He was joking. A little. Maybe his gut was a bit worried.

Guin looked like she’d swallowed something twice the size of her throat, which wasn’t too unexpected; modern medicine aside, she couldn’t be too enthusiastic about a second try at what had killed her the first time around. Surprisingly enough, Arthur also looked rather reluctant.

“I’m not sure that that’s possible.” He twirled a lock of Guin’s hair around his finger, then pressed it to his lips. “We had our son before I died the first time. And I never did have any others—” faint blush and nervous look “—with the, ah, occasional—”

“—fuck. Which is what Lancelot and I were to each other before you showed up again.” She looked like she was enjoying herself entirely too much. “And I can understand if you’re tired of babysitting.”

Torn between amusement and annoyance, Lancelot put out his cigarette and slid the hand he had in Arthur’s hair a little further down, curling it invitingly around the other man’s neck. “I bet. Guin’s grandbrats had to be a hell of a handful—”

Arthur kissed him. Sensibly enough, since that kept him and Guin from getting into a squabble. And then it was less sensible, and Lancelot couldn’t help grinning as he drifted down the pillows.