Chapter Text
It starts as most things do because of an argument. Well, it wasn’t a screaming-and-crying kind of argument and neither was it a flinging-spells-at-one-another kind of argument, and neither was it a I-am-going-to-try-to-poison-your-breakfast-and-you-must-figure-out-the-antidote-quick kind of argument either — which in Sebile’s mind was the best kind of argument — it was the kind of argument that begun seemingly out of nowhere and about nothing in particular. Neither Sebile nor Morgan, if truly pressed, could recall exactly what brought it on, but it might have been exacerbated by the copious amounts of sangria that they had for brunch.
(Truly, the most upsetting thing was that it wasn’t even a sexy argument. A sexy argument didn’t have to be about sex — it just had to be about sexy things, like blood or murder or about how they had scammed several knights out of their retirement funds. No, the topic was about the Holy Grail.)
“See, you don’t understand, you don’t, you don’t get it,” Sebile slurs before drunkenly getting to her feet only to fall back against the pillows of the couch. “Did you see that? I did that to emphasize my point.”
“You would throw yourself off a cliff to emphasize your point,” Morgan points out dryly as Sebile kicks her feet up against the small table only to have Morgan bat at her ankles half-hardheartedly.
“I would not,” Sebile scoffs, “well, maybe. That was one time, one! Remember, when we time-traveled to the United States and everyone was just throwing themselves off a cliff?”
“It was a helicopter, but, yes.”
“Whatever,” Sebile takes another sip of her sangria. She cannot think about time-travel, not right now. All those technological advances makes her head turn when she's drunk-but-let’s-call-it-pleasantly-tipsy, although, she has to say, it was criminal that Zune didn’t get as much recognition and love as the iPod did in the early 2000s. “Speaking of emphasization, it’s not as if I was the one who dressed up like an old crone to psychologically torture Gwent.”
“I didn’t psychologically torture Gawain,” Morgan pauses. “Well, much.”
“Gawain? Is that his name? Sure it’s not Gwent?”
“I’m pretty sure.”
Sebile hums. “What were we talking about again? Ah yes, the Holy Grail.”
Morgan hums back and together they harmonize at a pleasantly low-pitched note for a few moments before erupting into giggles. “The Holy Grail, the Graal, the Sankgreal — what about it, dearest?”
“Well, you see, darling, what are your plans for it?”
“My plans? Who says I have plans?”
“You always have plans.”
“As do you.”
Sebile shrugs elegantly, bringing the glass back up to her lips. “You see what the problem is now, don’t you.”
Morgan sighs, a small simple thing. It was a funny habit of Morgan’s that Sebile had noted throughout their years together — the more serious the subject, there was an inverse relationship upon the audibility of Morgan’s sighs. And this one was worryingly quiet.
“I was afraid it would come to this,” Morgan admits and Sebile beams — score for Sebile for having Morgan show emotional vulnerability. Kind of.
“Really? I was looking forward to it,” Sebile says. “I do love a challenge as do you, and what could possibly be more of a challenge than this?”
“What indeed,” Morgan says dryly. She eyes her drink wearily before placing it on the table, swatting at Sebile’s legs once more. On it were little trinkets such as a Down with Cis pin, a small photograph of Morgan and Sebile staring dourly at the camera as a seagull stole Sebile’s ice cream, a half eaten pastrami sandwich, and the book of evil itself: House of Leaves. “For keeps? Winner takes all?”
“Of course. Although, wouldn’t it be fun,” says Sebile as she leans into Morgan’s space, so close that their lips almost brushed, a mischievous glint in her eyes. “Wouldn’t it be fun if we...ruined is too much of a word, but how about we bring Arthur’s little knights into the mix?”
At this Morgan’s eyebrow rose; for a moment, she wished she had drunk the rest of the sangria. It’d be considerably easier to brainstorm ideas to cause complications and inconveniences and predicaments and problems and quandaries to Arthur’s silly little knights (which Morgan was truly not too worried about — she lived to cause complications, inconveniences, predicaments, problems, and quandaries to Arthur’s silly little knights) but to outsmart whatever game Sebile had begun and the traps that she, forever cunning, had started to ensnare around Morgan’s neck, gossamer thin and imperceptible until the most crucial moment when Sebile would flip the board around and smile, all teeth and glorious spite.
“What we need is a contract.”
“In blood?”
“Of course, dearest, this may be Bottomless Mimosa Brunch Hours, but this is not amateur hour.”
Sebile smiled, her eyes were soft and moony and she giddily clapped her hands together in delight. “Well, darling, here are my clauses: two teams, sabotage is encouraged, lies are a must, trickery and deception are a given. We are like two guardian angels watching over our own sweet, little souls — after all, we are taking our baby dragon to puppy training classes in the 21st century and you know how dragonlets teeth! Don’t give me that look, we simply don’t have time to do this ourselves, it’s a wonder that he’s even slept this long quietly — and whoever gets the Grail first has free reign to do whatever she so pleases with it without complaint from the other.”
“You’ll complain either way,” Morgan says as she rummages through her skirt’s pockets and draws out a small bag. She undoes the drawstrings and delicately rummages around inside it.
“Whining is a dying art, darling,” Sebile says, watching as Morgan pulls out a crunchwrap supreme, three vials labeled POISON: TEST ON KAY?, and what appears to be a lost folio of Shakespeare before pulling out Clarent, Arthur’s ceremonial sword. “We’re not using the dagger strapped to your thigh this time?”
“Harlot,” Morgan says, affectionate. “No, this calls for some ceremony. Now, dearest, give me your hand and let me bind you to your words and me to your will.”