[Closed Post] ..lines we're leaving behind..

[lanselos_du_lac]

He doesn't really mean to, but Lancelot keeps to his rooms for a time in the wake of the latest mansion upheaval. He doesn't disappear for days, and he mostly keeps his routines -- he does spend a little more time riding -- but he is subdued and not idly floating about for socializing.

It could have been worse. He knows this. He knows, too, that no one did this on purpose; he's grateful for Susan and Nightingale's understanding. But none of that makes it easier to regain his emotional balance. Much like that day (which felt very long), he is still grappling occasionally with that sensation of being... just outside of himself, a step removed, dizzy and longing to be even further away.

Still, he does not want to punish Susan and he knows they should talk. So this morning after he puts up Rivelin, he goes to find Susan, wherever she might be.

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[lanselos_du_lac]

"Dost think so?" He pulls her a little closer, holding her a little tighter. He relaxes a little, once he allows himself to look at her directly.

[quote_gentle_unquote]

"What happened with Elaine and then with Guinever - none of that was your fault. None." Susan says this emphatically, meeting his gaze the entire time she says it. After, she wets her lips, a thoughtless quirk as she thinks through what else to say. "But when something dreadful happens - especially when we cannot confront its scope with the people best equipped to soothe our concerns after it happens - I believe it becomes easier for our minds to trip over the singular clear constant throughout... whatever befell us: ourselves."

[lanselos_du_lac]

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.

[quote_gentle_unquote]

Susan, meanwhile, bundles her arms around him, stroking the back of his head with one hand and pressing a kiss to his temple. "There, there," she says, now kissing the crown of his head. "I've got you."

[lanselos_du_lac]

And despite how he wants to rally, to raise himself up, to kiss her soundly and move on from this... that care and sweetness nearly overwhelm him. It seems an invitation to trust, to let go, to rely on her, and he melts against her, letting himself sink into the comfort of her presence, her voice, her smell. She can certainly feel it, the way the tension leaves him in a little rush, the way he clings to her.

[quote_gentle_unquote]

As she holds him tighter, her heart thuds in her chest, painfully. Anger? she wonders - at the way he's clearly been treated by those he cherishes, no doubt. But it's a more of an ache than the hot flush she gets when she's truly angry. Worry, then?

No matter. He's trembling, and she - she -

She cares deeply about him; that's not in question. Whether it's - she's still trying to understand - she shan't commit to any other descriptors until she's absolutely certain that she's understanding her feelings correctly. "I'm here," she says instead, quietly, and then repeats, "I've got you."

[lanselos_du_lac]

Lancelot draws in a shuddering breath, murmurs, "I know, sweet. I know."

And instead of I thank thee, instead of sinking into collapse (as a part of himself wants to do), he shifts and kisses her, one hand at her cheek -- deep and sweet and almost desperate with the need to show her how well she cares for him, how much he wants her. Needs her.

[quote_gentle_unquote]

Susan responds, of course, as eagerly as she always does. There's an edge to it now though, an acuteness to the way that she wants to cling to him that feels unfamiliar to her.

[lanselos_du_lac]

He has one hand around her shoulders, and the other shifts back to the nape of her neck as he draws the kiss out.

[quote_gentle_unquote]

She shifts a little, wanting a better angle but also to feel more of his body against hers - she has, in truth, been feeling out-of-sorts ever since she woke up as Thomas; Lancelot's touch is grounding. So she ends up first on his lap, and then straddling it, her skirt riding up high enough that her stocking garters are bared. This is not actually by design: she's feeling frantic enough (about the way he's still trembling; about the intensity of his kiss; about how this is the first time she's really been able to kiss him the way she always wants to since she and Thomas traded bodies) quickly enough that she's not actually thinking with any specificity about working toward any particular goal.

[lanselos_du_lac]

He lets his arm slide down to loop around her waist, unwilling to move the other from her face. His thumb brushes her cheek and still he holds the kiss.

Lancelot also is considering nothing other than keeping her close, other than their connection, other than anything except Susan.

[quote_gentle_unquote]

Eventually, Susan gets a handle on her own fervor. Lancelot is the one hurting, she tells herself, firmly. He shall set the tone. She manages to gentle into the kiss, after that, moving with more deliberation than desperation.

[lanselos_du_lac]

After a long while, he breaks the kiss just enough to say softly, "Christ, I'm so glad to have thee--"

[quote_gentle_unquote]

"You have me," Susan says immediately, kissing him again, swift hard kisses punctuating her words. "I'm here. I'm not going anywhere."

[lanselos_du_lac]

"I know," softer still, so his voice stays steady. "Susan, thou'rt--"

[quote_gentle_unquote]

"Yes?"

[lanselos_du_lac]

He shifts so that they are able to look at one another, one hand still at her cheek. His voice is low and now he's at last meeting her gaze directly. "Thou'rt so good to me. I love thee so."

Lancelot stops himself from saying anything else, lest he apologize for taking time to himself, or any other thing. His gaze and his smile are warm -- he wants her to know how she's helped not just this latest trick of the mansion, but everything. All of him.

[quote_gentle_unquote]

"I'm no better to you than anyone ought to be," Susan says, obstinate, but warmed by his gaze and his touch.

[lanselos_du_lac]

"Perhaps," giving her a little smile, "But I prefer thee."

[quote_gentle_unquote]

There's that queer ache in her chest again! Perhaps she ought to take an antacid? Or perhaps--

She cups her hand over his, holding it against her cheek. "Good," she says, softly.

[lanselos_du_lac]

Lancelot has another wave of gratitude and feeling that makes him close his eyes. He shoves down all of the reckless, over-the-top things that come to mind to say to her. Instead, he stretches up to kiss her again, sweetly.

[quote_gentle_unquote]

When Susan included the question about love on the survey she and Nina put together, she hadn't known what to expect. About half the answers were utterly useless. When you know, you'll know and the like. Where's the objectivity in that? The clear distinction?

Some responses were a little more illuminating. You will know if this person's wellbeing becomes your foremost priority floats through her mind now, as she kisses him and thinks, fleetingly, of the conversation she'd had with Laertes a week earlier, about being and having the sort of friends they deserve.

Everything else aside - all of her questions; all of her frustration with understanding her own feelings; all of her own discomfort with briefly being in Thomas's body and then returning to her own - she has enough clarity to recognize one thing as specifically true. "I prefer you, too," she says, her words half-swallowed by his mouth.

[lanselos_du_lac]

At this he laughs a little, softly, against her mouth, holding her closer still. It sends a warm flood of joy, delight, through him.

[quote_gentle_unquote]

He sounds lighter. Good. Relief suffuses Susan, and with it, her hold on him grows softer, like he's something precious to be treasured and cared for. This might be a noticeable shift; earlier, she'd been holding him rather like he was something ephemeral that might fly or float or drift away.

[lanselos_du_lac]

He strokes her cheek gently, and when they finally break the kiss to take a breath he says, very softly, "Art thou well?"