Archive of Our Own

The first time Gwen saw Lance was not the first time Lance saw Gwen.

Wait. Perhaps it’d be better to start at the beginning.

The date was 13 November 1922. Lancelot had been assigned a case in Camelot, a city known for its impressive number of underground bars. He’d heard a lot about Camelot, and very few of the things he’d heard were good.

Lance had been tracking someone—Gwaine, a man Lancelot had had too many encounters with—when he’d happened upon The Red Dragon, a bar. Of course, it wasn’t advertised as a bar—alcohol was illegal, after all—but a bar was a bar, and Lancelot was thirsty.

It was crowded and lit dimly enough that Lancelot had trouble picking out anybody’s face. He figured the lighting was intentional; from what he could tell, this was one of the more high-end joints. It wouldn’t do to have some rich man’s son outed as a drunkard.

“Never fancied I’d see you here, inspector,” said a familiar voice when Lancelot reached the bar. He looked up and met the gaze of one Arthur Pendragon.

Not that that was the man’s actual name. But it was the name he answered to, and the name Lance could track.

“Mr. Pendragon,” Lancelot said, sitting on one of the barstools. “Keeping your nose clean, I see.”

“As usual,” Arthur said with a wink. If he weren’t a criminal, Lance probably would have found Arthur’s presence enjoyable. “I’m sorry,” said Arthur. “But you can’t sit at the bar unless you order a drink.”

Lancelot quickly squashed the urge to order something strong, alcoholic, and probably made from shoe polish. He’d not had a sip of alcohol since this stupid nationwide ban was put into place, and it was starting to get on his nerves.

“Cranberry juice,” he said shortly, removing his hat and laying it on the counter between them. Arthur was fixing Lancelot’s drink when the woman took the stage.

She wore a simple red dress, a shift dress with a beaded skirt whose hem fell just below her knees. Her hair was short, styled similarly to every other girl’s these days, and her lips were painted red.

But her eyes... Lance could imagine looking into those eyes for the rest of his life.

He saw her scan the crowd as her band mates quickly checked their instruments. The trumpeter gave her a nod and, stepping up to the microphone, the woman began to sing.

“Inspector, if you’re going to ogle my performers, I’m going to have to charge you double for that drink.” Arthur’s voice broke through Lance’s haze. He turned.

“Who is she?” he asked. He didn’t want to speak too loudly, didn’t want to drown out the woman’s voice as it washed over him.

“Come back and ask her yourself,” Arthur snapped before charging Lance triple for his drink.

The second time, Lancelot got her name.

Or so he thought.

Officially, the story was that Lance was still tracking Gwaine, who had agreed to lay low for a while in exchange for Lancelot not handing him over to the police. So unofficially?

Here he was.

He sat at a table near the back.  It was close enough that Lance had a good view of the stage, but far enough that he was unlikely to be bothered by anyone other than the waiter who seemed determined to sell Lance something stronger than fruit juice.

“Back so soon, Inspector?” Arthur stepped into Lancelot’s view of the stage, scowling in his neat suit. Lance could see thin silver pinstripes shining in the dim light. He leaned back in his chair and set his glass on the table.

“You told me to come back,” he said. “Do you mind? You’re blocking my view.”

“Oh, my apologies,” said Arthur sarcastically before taking the vacant seat. He leaned forward. “I don’t know who you’re looking for in my establishment, du Loc, but your presence is worrying a few of my regulars.”

“Are you going to have me thrown out, Pendragon?”

They both know there was actually very little Arthur could do without getting himself into trouble. Lancelot had the power to shut Arthur down. Arthur, on the other hand, had the power to have Lance taken care of, but that would cause unneeded—and unwanted—attention.

“What do you want?” asked Arthur sharply.

Lancelot crossed his legs and took a lazy sip of his drink. The juice was tart, and Lance wondered how good Arthur’s suppliers were if the juice alone was of such a high quality.

“What will you give me?” he asked, grinning at Arthur’s irritated expression. The man looked like he’d taken a bite out of a lemon.

“Her name is Queenie,” Arthur snapped. “Now pay and get out.” He signalled to the bouncer by the door and stood. “Have a nice night, Inspector.”

Lancelot grinned to himself and stood, pulling his overcoat from where it hung over the back of his chair. He was just placing his hat on his head when Percy made it over. He nodded at the burly man and, with a final backward glance at the stage, allowed himself to be led from the premises.

The third time? Well, the third time, Gwen saw Lance.

Lancelot awoke one morning to his friend Merlin lounging in one of his exceedingly uncomfortable chairs. He groaned and nearly went back to bed.

“What are you doing here Emerson?” Lance asked, groggily working on making his morning cup of coffee. He yawned.

“I’m taking you out tonight,” said Merlin cheerfully. Too cheerfully, in Lance’s very tired opinion.

“It’s a bit early for that, don’t you think?”

Merlin blinked at Lance from over the back of his chair. “You do realise it’s nearly 7pm, yes?”

No. Lancelot had spent the last 48 hours tailing a man named Cendred, who was believed—known, really—to have killed around ten people in his bootlegging schemes. But he couldn’t explain that to Merlin, obviously.

“Hm,” he said instead. “So what are we doing?”

“A friend of mine is singing tonight. I told her I’d watch, maybe buy a couple drinks.” Merlin shrugged.

“I didn’t hear that,” muttered Lancelot. He didn’t want to have to arrest Merlin. Hunith would never forgive him.

“Right. Of course not.” Merlin grinned and waved his hand as if he was shooing a fly. He looked too young and too small in his suit and hat. It was new and obviously expensive, and Lance didn’t want to think about how he’d managed to pay for it.

“Anyway,” continued Merlin. “We’re going to have a wonderful time. Go wash up; we can’t have you looking homeless in such a nice place. I’ll wait here.” He grinned again and then disappeared behind one of the newspapers that had been lying on Lance’s table. On the front page, Lancelot could see the District Attorney announcing yet another successful case against some notorious criminal.

“Fine,” he sighed, staring forlornly at his still-brewing coffee. He shut off the hob and went to get changed.

The club turned out to be, to Lancelot’s great displeasure, The Red Dragon. Merlin wandered off almost the instant they entered, leaving Lancelot to awkwardly find them a place to sit for the night.

Somehow, Lance was able to find them a table near the front of the room. He set his hat on the table and sat down to wait for Merlin to return. He shifted, able to feel the other guests watching him carefully, and shrugged out of his overcoat.

“Something tells me this isn’t my usual cranberry juice,” said Lance dryly once Merlin finally returned, carrying two glasses full of red liquid. He sniffed his glass, and then took a hesitant sip. He returned his glass to the table. “Completely legal; I’m surprised.”

“I had Arthur add some orange to give it a little kick,” Merlin said proudly. He took a long sip of his own—very strong, if that wince was anything to go by—drink.

“Didn’t realise you were on a first name basis with bootleggers.”

Merlin flushed and laughed a quiet, nervous laugh. “Well, you know…I, er, I get around. We met—“

Lancelot held up a hand. “If I don’t know, I can’t arrest you.”

Merlin laughed again. “Keep in mind, du Loc, that you’re sitting in the middle of a well-known speakeasy on your night off. I don’t think you’re in any position to be arresting anybody tonight.”

“Touché,” muttered Lance, toasting Merlin with his drink. He looked around, watching the other patrons.

They seemed excited, if very drunk, and Lance wished for a moment that he wasn’t a cop. His life would be much more fun if he were able to break the law. (Though, admittedly, Lance knew quite a few police officers who didn’t give a damn about breaking the law.)

Merlin leaned forward. “Arthur says you’ve been around a lot recently. Care to tell me why?”

For the first time since he’d discovered The Red Dragon, Lancelot was happy the lighting in the room was low enough that Merlin couldn’t see the way Lance flushed.

“Did he?” he asked, clearing his throat.

“He said you’re interested in one of his singers? Queenie?” Merlin’s smile grew more teasing, and Lancelot was offended by how much fun the other man seemed to be having.  

“Just a bit, I suppose.”

“Well,” began Merlin. “I may have neglected to mention that Queenie has a second name, one known only to people she associates with outside of this place.” He grinned conspiratorially. “And I may be one of those people.”

Lancelot stared, astounded, at Merlin. “You may…you may be one of those people?” he repeated slowly. “Why are you telling me this now?”

Merlin opened his mouth, but before he had a chance to answer, the lights dimmed and Queenie’s band began to take the stage. Merlin winked at Lance, then stood and approached the stage.

At the table, Lance watched as Queenie crouched down to speak with Merlin, smiling and looking just as beautiful as ever in her dress—purple, this time. He saw Merlin gesturing wildly (he’d always talked with his hands), and just before Lance’s brain caught up enough to suggest he turn away, Queenie looked up and her eyes met Lance’s. Her smile faltered slightly in surprise, but before Lance had a chance to despair, Queenie’s smile returned, even more brilliant than before. Lancelot lifted a hand in an awkward greeting, hoping his grimace passed as a smile. But a moment later, he grinned.

Queenie had waved back.

And finally, they met.

Lancelot was running late to work. His alarm clock, which had faithfully awoken him every morning for the past seven years, had failed to go off, leaving Lancelot to make his way hastily through the busy streets of Camelot. He was exhausted—Gwaine had started making trouble again—and all he wanted to do was sit down, have a nice cup of tea, and relax.

He made it to work twenty minutes late, breathless and sweating. Leon looked over at him, confused.

“What are you doing here du Loc? Didn’t I tell you to stay home and get some rest?”

“I…what?” Lancelot dabbed his brow with his handkerchief.

“Go home, du Loc,” said Leon, gently guiding Lancelot toward the door. “You look dead on your feet.”

Lancelot left the building and stood, dazed, on the courthouse steps. It was strange, trying to figure out just what to do with his suddenly free day.

Sleep would be nice…and maybe something to eat.

This late in the morning—too late for breakfast, but too early for lunch—the sandwich shop was nearly deserted. Behind the counter, Gaius smiled at Lancelot.

“We missed you this morning, Inspector,” he said. “Had your order all ready to go.”

“Sorry Gaius,” Lance replied, digging through his pockets for some money. “I overslept.”

“And they fired you for that?” Gaius raised an eyebrow, and Lancelot had to suppress a shiver. Something about that expression made him uneasy.

“Hardly,” Lancelot snorted. “Apparently, my exhaustion has become noticeable enough that I was given the day off.”

“Only you, sir,” he chuckled, setting a mug of coffee on the counter. “It’s on the house; you clearly need a pick-me-up.”

Lance raised the cup. “Cheers, Gaius,” he said and went to sit down.

He was halfway through his meal when Queenie walked in. She was wearing a lavender coat that was far less extravagant than anything she wore at The Red Dragon. Her hair was neatly styled and tucked beneath a cloche hat that matched the colour of her jacket.

She looked different, normal even, but no less beautiful as she spoke amiably with Gaius. When she glanced over, Lancelot ducked his head, but he must have been too late, because a moment later, Gwen was standing beside his table.

“You’re Merlin’s friend, right?” she asked.

“I—yeah.” Lance stood, offering her his hand to shake. “I’m Lancelot, or Lance. Most people call me Lance.”

“Guinevere,” she said, smiling “Most people call me Gwen.”

Lancelot grasped her hand. It was still warm from the cup of tea she’d been cradling. “Or Queenie.”

Gwen agreed, laughing. “Yes, or Queenie. I…do you mind if I join you?”

“Oh! No, not at all.”

Gwen settled in, removing her coat to reveal a yellow dress. As she took off her hat and ran her fingers quickly through her hair, she said, “I don’t think I’ve seen you around here before. Do you come here often?”

“Yes, every morning,” said Lance. “I’m usually in much earlier, but I overslept this morning.”

“Ah, yes. That explains it, then. I’m usually in much later than this. It’s very lucky we bumped into each other.”  

“Very lucky, indeed,” replied Lance quietly. “I’m happy to meet you like this.”

“Instead of Queenie, you mean?” Gwen smiled and ducked her head. “She’s more of a night person.” She paused, her expression growing serious. “I need to be very clear, Lancelot. I am not her. Queenie is a character I play for a living. If that’s who you want, then I’m afraid this isn’t going to work.”

Lancelot smiled kindly at her and, in a moment of either stupidity or bravery, he reached over and grasped her hand where it was lying on the table between them. “This is perfect.”

And now:

Lancelot awoke to the sound of Gwen quietly shutting the door to their flat. He sat up wincing as he disturbed the large bruise on his side. With some difficulty, he swung his legs over the side of the bed and stood, shivering when his feet made contact with the cold floor.

He padded into the kitchen and smiled. Gwen stood at the stove, singing quietly to herself as she boiled the water for her tea. It was always a bit jarring seeing Gwen in Queenie’s outfits while standing in Lance’s kitchen.

“Good morning,” he said quietly, kissing Gwen’s temple. She smelled of smoke, vanilla, and just a little bit like alcohol. He rested a hand against the small of her back. “Good night?”

“Good enough,” she responded, leaning into Lance’s touch. “It was busy until about three, and you know Arthur. He won’t close until the last man has finished drinking.” She waved her hand. “But you didn’t hear that, of course.”

“Of course,” laughed Lancelot. “Have you eaten?”

Gwen shook her head. “I think I’ll drink my tea and head to bed.” She looked up at him and smiled. “I’ll sit with you.”

The mornings were Lance’s favourite time of day. He and Gwen kept almost opposite schedules, so it was rare that they were together for more than a couple hours during the day, if they were together that long. But Gwen’s nights usually ended when Lancelot’s days started, and that meant they always crossed paths in the morning.

So now, they sat together on Lance’s incredibly lumpy couch and drank their tea. They didn’t speak, both too tired and too content in their silence to even think of saying a word. Gwen finished her tea and curled up beside Lancelot, and he looked down a few moments later, Gwen was already fast asleep.

Careful not to wake her, Lancelot stood and draped a blanket over Gwen’s body. She stirred slightly, then turned to face the back of the couch. Lance knew, when she awoke, Gwen would be upset with him for letting her sleep in her dress, but he doubted she’d be coherent enough to change right now anyway.