#carelot

Lancelot had never intended to get drunk, but then he had never intended to end up in the tavern either. That was all entirely Gwaine’s fault. 

Of course it was his Bachelor Party, and Gwaine had a thing for parties. Lancelot had gone along mostly to be nice, though that had all ended when they’d handed him his first cup of ale. Lord it felt nice to be a part of the knights again, though he would never give any of the time he’d spent with Cara up. 

After a few rounds and more than one fight Lancelot had said he needed to go. He knew Cara was not happy with him going out in the first place. He just didn’t know how drunk he actually was. 

Until he wandered in the door. 

The moment he walked in Cara glared at him. 

“I could smell you from a mile away Lancelot” 

“m’lady?”

“ALCOHOL! You’re drunk aren’t you? And obviously you must have drunk ALOT to smell that bad”

Lancelot blinked quickly smelling his own skin. It was his clothes he decided, and therefore he pulled off his shirt. 

“That’s not helping….” Cara mumbled her arms crossed tight. 

Of course when he tried to kiss her she’d do what she’d do next. She shoved him, though more gently than she would anyone else. “You need a bath Lancelot. A long hot bath. And I think I’ll just stand here and watch”

(( Have you noticed that Carelot is just Camelot one letter off? ))

Knights aren't supposed to fall in love with whores.

Prostitute, red women, whatever you called Cara, she wasn't in a knight's world. She belonged to the nobles only for an hour, until they were done with her and threw her away like trash. Like everyone else.

But he was different. And she hated it. There were times when she wanted to strangle Lancelot, smack him, cry to him, kiss him, love him. How dare he be what she want? How dare he make her feel alive, when she had taught her body to die below the waist so long ago? It was the highest treason for Cara, to love and to care. A good amount of nights that could have been used to gain the money she needed had been wasted with tear stained beds and hopeless sighs. There were only a thousand warnings given to her to be careful. To give up. Most came from her own heart.

Everyday Lancelot would come down by the brothel. At first, it had been by mistake, a wrong turn here, a mistake there. But after a conversation with some of the prostitutes, he had a habit of returning. Never sleeping with them, obviously. Just conversation. Most of the others had tried to convince him otherwise, but Cara was content with the conversations they had.

Even if she would never admit it.

" Cara. Is something the matter, m'lady? " Once again, those horrible words.

" I told you not to call me that, Lancelot. I am not a lady. I'm a whore. " Cara repeated the words that had been embedded in her brain. This particular exchange was expected at least twice a day. The words had failed to mean anything even.

" Every woman is a lady. Especially one was beautiful as yourself. " Lancelot reminded her. Cara stopped in her tracks. Her back turned towards him, she mulled over his comments. That last part was new. He never called her beautiful before this moment.

She swung around, expecting someone new to be in his place. Someone with a horrid sense of humor and with a distinct urge to be slaughtered. Instead there was only Lancelot. More than enough.