Lancelot takes in a long, somewhat shaky breath, closing his eyes for a moment.
It isn't that no one showed him kindness in Camelot, in the aftermath of Corbenic. He knows, now, that Arthur tried and that Lancelot just could not hear him. (And, it seems, that Guinever refused to hear Arthur.) But until he came here, no one spoke to him plainly or directly about it, about what he felt and why he felt that way. And certainly no one has done so as carefully, as directly, with quite as much care as Susan.
He feels himself wavering -- the relief at hearing her make sense of his experiences, his feelings; the way he felt when he awoke and understood that Susan wasn't Susan. The unbalancing dissonance of seeing Thomas Nightingale's body with Susan's mannerisms, of seeing Susan and knowing, without a doubt, that she was not herself. For a moment, he thinks he might crumble. But he takes another breath and instead pulls her to him, to embrace her properly, bury his face in her shoulder, awkward as it is with how they're sitting.
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It isn't that no one showed him kindness in Camelot, in the aftermath of Corbenic. He knows, now, that Arthur tried and that Lancelot just could not hear him. (And, it seems, that Guinever refused to hear Arthur.) But until he came here, no one spoke to him plainly or directly about it, about what he felt and why he felt that way. And certainly no one has done so as carefully, as directly, with quite as much care as Susan.
He feels himself wavering -- the relief at hearing her make sense of his experiences, his feelings; the way he felt when he awoke and understood that Susan wasn't Susan. The unbalancing dissonance of seeing Thomas Nightingale's body with Susan's mannerisms, of seeing Susan and knowing, without a doubt, that she was not herself. For a moment, he thinks he might crumble. But he takes another breath and instead pulls her to him, to embrace her properly, bury his face in her shoulder, awkward as it is with how they're sitting.