Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Was just rereading your Leon/Gwaine stories. I love them! If it pleases the muse, could we please have some more? – anon

"Your knight is supposed to be here tonight," Serena calls, smirk plastered across her face as Gwaine groans.

"He's not my knight, 'Rena."

"Oh, but you wish he was."

He lets his smile spread wide and filthy across his face. "Come on, you're telling me you've never thought the same?"

Gwaine challenges anyone in Camelot not to have had the occasional flight of fancy about one of their famous knights swooping in to save them, all shining armor and tousled hair, or the wish of being courted by such a noble suitor, or even just a night, one night, to find out what's really underneath all that armor. Their knights are the stuff of legends, after all, and bards are commonplace in a tavern, can he be blamed for how he listens to them? Especially working in a tavern so close to the citadel itself, where the knights will actually come and drink during their evenings, well, that's just like putting a fresh pie on the counter and expecting it to be there when he returns.

"Oh, I've never shied away from imagining such things," Serena laughs. She adjusts the ties on her apron and puts a tray on her hip. "But then again, I'm only the wench getting them their drinks. You, on the other hand—"

"Oh, please. If any creature in here were beautiful enough to sway a knight from his vows—"

"Don't start with me, save it for your knight!"

"He's not my knight!" he calls after Serena's retreating form, her laughter pealing like bells as she moves off down the hallway. He rolls his eyes and goes back to cleaning the bar, scrubbing at a particularly stubborn stain. "Honestly, you think you know someone…"

"Gwaine? Is that you?"

"Ah, if it isn't my fair lady." Gwaine ruffles the dark hair as it comes to rest by his shoulder. "How does the afternoon find you?"

Gemma giggles as he winks. She's still not quite tall enough to place anything on the bar itself, so Gwaine leans down a little to take her by the waist and lift her up. She squeals and kicks her feet but manages to keep the containers of nuts steady until the pots rattle against the wood.

"Masterfully done, my dear." He kisses her cheek and sets her down. "How is your mother fairing?"

"She says that you need to stop being a tree."

Gwaine blinks. And blinks again. "I need to stop being a tree?"

Gemma nods seriously, taking a fistful of his tunic in her little hand. "She said it's getting painful, watching you be a tree over your knight. That you should just talk to him."

"Be a tr—oh, for the love of—did she use the word 'pining?'"

"Yes! A tree! She said you're being a tree."

Gwaine is a man who works in a tavern. Gwaine is an incredibly attractive man who works in a tavern, not to sound overly fond of himself. Gwaine is a man who flirts with anything and everything that will let him once they walk through the doors of his tavern. He should not be getting hot under the collar because the lovely lady who works with him says he's been pining.

"I think your mother might have gotten her rum cake recipe a little wrong tonight, hm?"

"She said if you said that then she'd stop you from having any."

"The cakes will be perfect, then! There's nothing wrong with them, and there has, in fact, never been anything wrong with them. Who started talking about cakes? Was it you?"

Gemma just giggles again. He pulls her in for a quick cuddle, pressing a smacking kiss to her forehead as she scampers back towards the kitchen. He lets himself close his eyes for one moment before he gets back to work.

Outside, the hustle and bustle of the street ebbs and flows. A horse passes by drawing a cart laden with supplies for the upcoming market. They'll need to ensure they stock their good spices, the ones that will last all night without using everything. With any luck, the delivery will be here early tomorrow and he'll have a chance to get it all squared away before anyone arrives.

"Gwaine!" The first customers of the evening push open the doors: the blacksmith and his workers, probably just finished their last repairs of the day. "A round for me and my boys, if you please."

"Your table's all set up for you," he calls, "give us a moment and we'll be right there."

"It's a night to celebrate," he crows as Gwaine makes his way over, setting tankards down in front of them, "we're finally ahead of schedule! Not a shoe or a stirrup out of place."

"I should think so, what with such capable hands." He tosses a wink at one of the younger men and chuckles as he flushes. "Our horses have never been safer."

"Gwaine!" Serena calls him over. He sweeps his hand in a bow and promises he'll return as soon as he can as the next wave of people start to come in. Serena bumps his hip with hers. "Go open up another barrel of wine, we're going to need it."

"Your wish is my command."

There are very few things Gwaine loves as much as a lively tavern. A place where there is good food, good drink, a bard or two to get the crowd to enjoy itself as much as possible…a place that can provide the safety of home, even if it's only for a little while.

He gives himself a good shake before he can drift any further down that path. He has customers to serve.

An ale here, a wine here, a mead here. A young boy new to the city, looking for a place to set his feet before beginning his apprenticeship. An old man, the kindly one who lives a few streets over, who opens his house to the children on the street when the tavern is full on stormy nights. A wandering merchant with wild eyes and a brazen smile who eyes Gwaine just as eagerly as he saunters back to the kitchens. A pair of younger girls whom he sits at the end of the bar where he and Serena can keep an eye on them, a plate of roast perched between them.

"Oh—Gwaine!" Serena pinches his sleeve when he goes to make another trip out. "The delivery's just arrived out back, would you—"

"I'll get it, yes." He tips her and the men at the bar a smirk. "Don't have too much fun without me."

The worst of the roar muffles as soon as the heavy door swings shut, leaving him to sigh and shake out his shoulders as he walks towards the back of the building. He unlatches the rear door and props it open with a wooden block. Cool, sweet smelling air wafts around his hair as he stoops to grab the casks of wine and haul them inside. A muscle in his shoulder twinges. The iron band around the wood rasps against a familiar callus.

He pushes those thoughts away too.

Even the thick door isn't enough to drown out the cheer than goes up in the main hall. He sets down the first cask with a grunt, casting a glance in that direction. That amount of noise at this time of evening?

The knights have arrived.

He is a proud man who runs a successful business. He has a duty to both himself and his patrons to ensure the quality of the goods he serves them, no matter how tedious or menial a task it would appear to be. There is nothing so important in that room that he should rush through that duty, a duty that could very well be the difference between his reputation and losing this place he worked so hard to build.

"That was quick," Serena remarks as he reemerges from the back halls. "Was the delivery light today?"

"Must have been."

He's already scanning the floor. Sure enough, front and center is a massive pile of broad-shouldered men, the laughs and jests already drowning out those of the nearby tables. They're large enough that only a few can sit properly at the table, the rest leaning on a single elbow with their legs propped out to the side so that others must step over them or brush close to their chests to make it through. Already a few are taking advantage of this, 'accidentally' stumbling or needing to brace themselves somewhere as they slide past, say, on a helpful hand or shoulder. Even the dim light of the tavern reveals strong, sure grips around tankards and steady hands as they rip apart chicken and vegetables alike.

And there, in the corner, at a table a little further away, sits Gwaine's knight.

Not Gwaine's. He's not Gwaine's. Gwaine would never hope to lay claim to any knight, especially not that one.

It's all Serena's fault, really. She'd convinced him to go with her to the last tournament held on the main grounds instead of working alone all day—really, it's the one moment of peace and quiet he knows he can have, it's no trouble to cover their work while they go and enjoy themselves, they've earned it, but no, she'd insisted—and they'd been mixed in with the cheering crowds as the knights showed off in their games. Gwaine saw no harm in arbitrarily picking a knight to cheer for, and was perfectly content to simply pick a color and root for that one, except…

It was no secret that the one thing perfectly designed to warm the skin underneath his collar was someone who was good at what they did. Nor was it a mystery that others felt the same: a good many people sat at his bar for ages just to watch him serve drinks. So when one of the knights began to excel in ways that spoke not only of years of experience, but a quiet ease that made this seem far more like a game, well, he was done for.

A knight bearing Camelot's red and yellow wrapped around his lance had made light work of everything. No, really, everything. He had speared the target perfectly from halfway across the field on a moving horse, had managed to catch every single flag tossed at him by waiting squires, and even pierced a ring no bigger than the base of a tankard with a lance large enough to knock a man from his horse at a full gallop. Everything. And the knight wasn't even showing off afterwards, simply moving back to his place in line after a cursory swirl of his colors, not like the others who would take full victory laps after a much more lackluster performance.

Serena had caught his slack jaw and elbowed him in the ribs and he'd never known a moment of peace since. It was all your knight is up next and your knight's looking over here and I bet if you smiled, your knight would throw you a flower. Gwaine had hissed at her to shut up, he's trying to watch, but it was no use.

And then the man had removed his helmet at the end of the games and, well, anyone who's been in Camelot longer than a fortnight knows the head of ginger curls that heralds Camelot's First Knight.

So no, Gwaine was not alone in his admiration of the man's skills and no, he was not Gwaine's knight.

"You seem to be left out," he says with a practiced grin, setting a tankard of mead down on the table, "if we need to get a bigger table, you need only ask."

His knight—the knight looks up with a smile of his own and Gwaine is not a blushing maiden, thank you, he will not go weak at the knees at the flash of a single smile. "I find myself needing a more solitary comfort tonight. Please, do not take any extra effort on my account."

He bends to set the food down next to the tankard, looking up through his lashes as his voice slides lower. "A worthier cause I could not find."

The knight huffs a laugh, reaching for the mead. In the flickering candlelight, his eyes glimmer with humor as he raises it to his lips. This close, Gwaine easily catches the faint smell of spice and salt that comes from the castle's stores. His throat rolls as he swallows and the metal parts from his mouth with a quiet smack. "Truthfully, there's no need for that. I could fit if I set my mind to it."

"Oh, I've no doubt about that."

The filth rolls easily from his tongue, but the knight only laughs again, gaze averted. "I should be the one praising you for your ability to accommodate all of us. The castle kitchens strain to fill our bellies on the worst of days and yet here you are, serving us and others as though it was nothing."

He's not made of such stern stuff that his chest doesn't puff out a little at that. Alright, a lot a little. "You should come by more often, then. Spare the hardworking kitchens and come strain ours for a change."

"Please, I would hate for us to wear out our welcome."

"No such thing! For any knight, our doors are always open." He leans against the table, boot propped up on a slat underneath. "You keep us safe, the least we can do is keep your bellies full."

The knight shakes his head, ginger curls bouncing. "As much as I'm sure the men would enjoy it, I fear for what loss in efficiency our fighting forces would suffer. We could hardly be able to keep you safe if we became so unproductive."

The flutter in Gwaine's chest at the words has him bend over further. "Depends very much on what you would count as productive."

This time, the knight meets his gaze. Gwaine's tongue darts out to wet his lips and he catches the momentary flick of his eyes to the movement and back. He opens his mouth to say something and Gwaine's heart leaps—

"Another round!"

The call is taken up by the other knights and Gwaine is already moving, smile settling back into place as he brushes his fingers against callused hands and winks as he steps over legs back towards the bar. He glares at Serena, who only waggles her eyebrows as she moves past him to cheers and shouts, quickly rinsing the tankards to be used afresh by whoever so needs it.

"Oh, come on, don't be a—urgh."

His head snaps around. At the other end of the bar, an older man is lumbering after a young boy—one of the blacksmith's boys, the youngest, barely old enough to shoe a horse properly. The older man reaches for him again, eyes ruddy with drink but clear with anger. Gwaine moves before he can think, rounding the bar and putting himself between the two.

"Everything alright over here, boys? We seem to be in need of a bite or two." He sets his hand on the bar, leaning against it. "How about you come sit back down and I'll bring you something to eat, hm?"

"Don' need somethin' t'eat," the man slurs, still glaring through Gwaine, "this boy needs t'—t'pologize t'me."

"Easy, old friend. It's too early and too good of a night to spoil with fights." He puts a hand on the man's shoulder, pushing him away. "Why don't you—"

"Don't touch me!" The man clumsily slaps his hand away. "'S not your busin-business. Leave us be."

"It's my bar, friend, that makes it my business. And you making it so my other friends can't enjoy themselves here, well, that's just not how things work out. So either you come over here and sit, eat something to counter all that drink in your belly, or I'm going to have to ask you to leave. Which one will it be?"

He's not wrong. It is early in the night to have to be throwing people out, and the thrill of having the knights here is enough for him to overlook the fact that the poor boy behind him is trembling, but the man in front of him growls and readies himself for a swing.

Gwaine catches the sloppy punch and pins the man's arm behind his back.

"Going home it is!" He tosses a wink at the blacksmith's boy and marches the shouting man to the door, settling him none-too-gently on the stack of hay across the road. "Maybe next time we'll have a better think before we do something like that to someone else, hm?"

Without giving him another look, he goes back inside, straight to the boy still trembling against the bar and putting a hand on his shoulder.

"Are you alright?"

"Yes, yeah, I'm…I'm fine."

"You sure?" He tucks his foot around a stool and pulls it out, sitting the poor thing down. "How much have you had to eat tonight? Here—" he pulls a plate forward with a roll of bread and some cheese— "eat, please."

"Thank you, ser."

"Hah! Not a ser, dear boy, just a man. Go on, it's alright." The boy starts to tuck into the food. "What happened? Does he pose any further threat to you?"

The boy shakes his head. "He was—he was trying to talk to the girl that just came in and went upstairs. Wouldn't leave her alone, so I told him to stop."

"That was very good of you to do. You tell your boys the rest of your night here is on us, yeah? Ah—" he holds up a hand when the boy goes to protest— "what sort of person would I be if I didn't pay kindness forward?"

The boy just blushes and nods and Gwaine leaves him with a pat to the shoulder and a promise to come and fetch him if anything else goes awry. He glances at Serena who receives him with a nod. A quick glance around shows that the little disturbance has gone unnoticed; the rest of the patrons seem not bothered in the slightest by what just happened, let alone noticed something gone wrong.

Well, almost none of them noticed. As his gaze flickers over the room, the knight catches his eye and raises his tankard.

Gwaine quickly turns and busies himself with serving drinks to the new group that just walked in. He has a bar to run, after all, he can't be just standing around doing nothing. No other reason for that.

If he's kept on his feet for the next few hours, well, that's just because it's a busy time of night and their walls are getting full. He has orders to rush to the kitchen and food to rush to tables, he has rooms to barter for with merchants and directions to give to lost visitors to the city. He has knights to serve and other knights to avoid so his face doesn't turn the color of his hair—not that it would! He and Serena keep the ale flowing and conversations light as the night goes on and on.

He almost misses the boy that runs in and raps his knuckles on the end of the bar.

He slides the tray over to Serena and makes his way over as calmly as he can, crouching down. "How many?"

"Five," the boy hisses back, "four armed. Guards already gave them directions here."

He mutters a curse under his breath and presses a coin into the boy's hand. The boy scampers off and he tosses Serena a glance. She nods and raps on the wall and out comes Gemma's mother, Helga, rolling up her sleeve and jerking her head towards the stairs. Gwaine hurries up to the second floor, striding towards the far end of the hall. He glances up and down to make sure no one's getting curious enough to poke their heads outside and knocks in a very specific pattern.

The floorboards creak softly. The latch clicks. A soft face appears in the thin gap between the door and the wall, mousy brown hair curling around round ears.

"They're here," the girl whispers, "aren't they?"

Gwaine nods. "Do what we planned, okay? Push the chest against the wall and crawl up into the rafters. Try and make your way over to the slat where the old chimney used to be, wedge yourself in there. None but a child will fit and there's no way for them to get up and check through the normal storerooms. Don't come down until you hear me knock on the chest."

Her fingers tremble on the wood. He covers her hand with his and gives a gentle squeeze.

"I gave you my word. They will not take you. We'll protect you, but you have to hide, alright?" She nods, face screwed up with determination. "And when this is all over, I'll have Helga make you a batch of cakes just for you, okay?"

"Thank you, Gwaine."

"Don't thank me, sweetheart, you never have to. Go, now."

She nods and the door closes. A few seconds later, he hears the creak of the chest being moved across the floor and the clambering of little feet up into the roof. He breathes out a sigh of relief and pulls the keys from his belt, locking the door. As he does, he hears the floorboard behind him creak.

In an instant, he has the man pressed to the wall with an arm across his throat.

"You heard nothing," he hisses, "you saw nothing."

His eyes widen when he meets not the face of a drunken tavern-goer or a customer coming up to his rooms, but the face of the knight. The knight. Ginger curls brush his arm as the knight raises his hands, resting them against the wall.

"I heard nothing," he repeats back, voice as hushed as Gwaine's, "I saw nothing."

"Good."

The knight raises an eyebrow. "Am I to remain against this wall, then, for the nothing I neither saw nor heard?"

Only then does Gwaine realize that he's pressing the knight into the wall, his leg perilously close to nudging between the knight's knees. He pulls away like he's been stung, hooking the keys back on his belt and running a hand through his hair.

"I know that I saw and heard nothing," the knight says, and Gwaine already turns to glare at him, "but if I had…"

"But you didn't, so it doesn't matter."

The knight gives him a look that he's sure would quell most squires. "If I had, I would ask how I could help."

"Help."

"Yes, help." He glances off down the hall and takes a step closer. "If people are coming for her—"

"They're not."

"If, I did say if. If they were, I would ask how I might recognize them. The men—"

"Because nothing is more conspicuous than a bunch of knights," Gwaine interrupts, glancing at the stairs. "Look. This isn't a sort of fight you win with steel. You win it by not starting a fight in the first place. Just—just let me handle this, alright?"

The knight looks at him for a long moment. The low light from the lanterns catches on the ends of his hair, the broad slope of his shoulders, the slight gleam of metal on his boots. An expression flickers across his face and he opens his mouth to speak when the door downstairs bangs open.

"Who's the owner of this place?"

Gwaine throws his shoulders back and saunters to the top of the stairs, grinning easily. "I am, good friends. My word, look at you! You must have come such a long way, come, come, sit, drink—"

"We have no time for your paltry wares, peasant—" oh, Gwaine is going to get along splendidly with these ones, isn't he— "we seek the girl."

Gwaine raises an eyebrow. "Between you and me, I think that's what most men are looking for. Though this isn't that sort of establishment, that's down the way on your left—"

A raucous laugh goes up around the room as tankards and bowls alike clatter against the tables. The man in front of him, a stern, balding figure with ostentatious embroidered cloth slung about his neck looks down his nose at Gwaine—well, as best he can when he has to crane his neck back to meet his gaze. "Don't play coy, barkeep. We know you're hiding her here."

"A girl? Hiding a girl here? Well, there's the lovely ladies behind the bar—" Serena waves and Gemma just stares back, Gods, he loves her— "and the sweet lady in the kitchen isn't old enough to draw your eyes, not that her mother there would let you get close…but a girl?"

He makes a show of checking his pockets, inside his shirt, to more uproarious laughter. He pats himself down, purposefully missing his keys, and makes an exaggerated shrug. The man doesn't look at all amused—honestly, no sense of humor is the worst quality in a man—and points a ring-laden finger at the stairs.

"Search the rooms. Find her."

"Now, wait just one moment—" but the other four men are already storming towards him. He moves up the way just to get out of sight before planting himself firmly in their path. "I will not have you disturbing the rest of my patrons just to satisfy whatever curiosity makes you think I'm hiding someone here."

"Lord Cavensdale does not like to be kept waiting," the armed man in front of him grunts, "and you would do well not to interfere with us, peasant."

"And I don't like strangers threatening me and my patrons with steel." Gwaine glares right back. "So why don't we all go downstairs, have a drink, and sort this mess out?"

The reward he gets for trying to keep things civil is a sword in his face. He glances over their shoulders to make sure he's out of sight of the people downstairs, sends a silent apology to the room down the hall, and punches the man across the jaw.

He goes down like a sack of coal and he wrests the sword free, tossing it behind him and punching the next one before he can get his steel free. He throws the man into the wall and dodges a sloppy kick, slamming his head against the metal sconce. Hands grab him by the shoulders and he twists, narrowly avoiding a dagger to the back. There's the sound of another sword being drawn and he makes ready to bolt for the other side when the sudden clash of steel has all of them frozen.

Gwaine looks over his shoulder. The knight stands there, sword in hand, disarming his would-be attacker with such a fluid motion that the man is already on his knees with the sword at his throat.

"Explain your presence here," he orders in a voice that threatens to make Gwaine's knees weak.

"Who are you to think you can speak to us like this?" the annoying man blusters, clutching his cloak as though it would protect him.

"I am Sir Leon, First Knight of Camelot and right hand to King Arthur Pendragon." The knight—Leon looks up at the man who slowly goes as white as a ghost. "Who are you to believe you can speak thusly?"

"I—I—I am a representative of Lord Cavensdale, Ser Knight," the man blubbers as Gwaine shoves himself free, "his wretch of a bride has gone missing and we have been sent to retrieve the disobedient thing before—"

"You will watch your tongue."

"Y-yes, Ser."

"Is this how Lord Cavensdale conducts his business? He sends men without an inkling of courtesy to go blundering into a place on what, less than a verified lead? You would draw steel in a place of leisure and threaten the life of someone who would show you hospitality you did not earn, no, you have no right to demand answers, let alone act as though you are the one who has been wronged."

"Ser, this is a misunderstanding, this is but a simple—"

"It is you who has misunderstood. You have received your answer, the person you seek is not here. You have threatened innocent lives and dared question the authority of the King's knights." Leon stands tall, candle flickering as if to bathe him in its light. "Perhaps the Crown should re-evaluate its relationship with its territories."

"Forgive us, Ser," the man blabbers, and Gwaine is convinced he'd get down on his knees if he could get up again, "forgive us, we meant no ill will—we will leave at once, we will not return—"

"I wish you safe travels back across Camelot," Leon says, voice as cold and unforgiving as steel.

The men turn to flee. Only after the door has banged shut behind them does Gwaine realize that Leon still holds one of their swords. He hums, examining it, before tossing it to Gwaine without a word. He catches it, still fighting the lump in his throat that appeared when the knight appeared.

"You've been trained."

"Hm?"

Leon nods to his grip on the sword. "You've been trained to fight before. You handled yourself like a warrior."

It's the exertion that has him flushing. It must be. "Well, can't exactly let anyone just storm up here, can I?"

"It's more than that. You fight like someone born for it." Leon steps closer. "You fight for those who cannot fight for themselves. I saw you, earlier, with the boy and the man, and before. You swore to protect her, as you protected him."

He's too close. He's too close and he's looking at Gwaine too closely. Gwaine swallows.

"Tell me," he says softly, "how does a nobleman end up running a tavern?"

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"Playing coy doesn't suit you, Gwaine." Oh, he was not prepared to hear his name from those lips, in that voice. "I much preferred it when you were honest."

"You have no idea what I'm like when I'm honest."

Leon hums, taking another step closer. "Perhaps I should find out, then."

Heat threatens to slacken his grip on the stolen sword. He swallows once more and straightens his shoulders, staring the man down. Leon meets his gaze easily—if anything, the edge of his mouth lifts up into a half smile. "Not tonight."

"Not tonight?"

"I have to get her to safety," he says, dropping his voice back to a hush, "now that they're gone, they at least have some inkling that she was close, they'll start poking around. I have to get her out of the city tonight."

"Do you have a plan?"

He nods. "A horse waits for us near the gates. I have somewhere safe for her to go."

"I could—"

"You are one of the most recognizable mounts in the city," Gwaine interrupts, loathed as he is to do so, "you would only draw more attention. You have to trust me."

"If you do not know that I do, then I have failed you." And he reaches out to place his hand on Gwaine's shoulder. "I could not help but notice that you did not say 'no,' only 'not tonight.'"

"…that is true."

Leon's smile grows. He squeezes his shoulder and steps away. "Then go, see to your charge. Another night it shall be."

Belatedly, Gwaine goes to hold the sword out to him but Leon stops him with a hand.

"You'll need it more than I. Besides," and here his voice dips slightly, "you're the one who won it. Far be it from me to try and wrest it from you."

And before Gwaine can wrap his tongue around any sort of response, Leon has gone back downstairs.

He takes a deep breath—and makes himself take three more when he catches a whiff of spice and salt—and hustles down the hall, unlocking the door and knocking on the chest. A few moments later, the girl appears and he holds out his arms, catching her as she jumps from the ceiling.

"Come now, get your cloak. We have to go."

"Is it safe?"

"For now, yes. You'll be as safe as can be by morning."

With practiced quiet, they sneak out the back and down the darkened streets to a horse waiting by the eastern gate. He lifts her into the saddle and climbs behind her, riding into the woods by the light of the moon. She snuggles against his chest as they hug the curve of the river, making their way towards the open fields just outside the main border patrols.

"Did your knight help you?"

Her question jolts him from his slight daze. "What?"

"Your knight. The one who fought with you. Did he help you?"

"He's not my knight, sweetheart."

"Oh. He sounded like he wanted to be."

Gwaine's heart gives a slight lurch in his chest. "He did?"

She nods, turning to look up at him. "I think so. He talked to you really nicely afterwards."

"Were you listening to us?" He tickles her side and she giggles. "What a clever little thing you are, sneaking around up there. Here, little sneak, have something to eat. You need to keep your strength up."

He puts a cake into her hands and lets her get crumbs all over his trousers. In a few more hours, they'll be at the field and his friend will take her the rest of the way to the farm nestled in the dip of the mountains. She'll be safe there, and he can go and visit her if he needs to.

Unbidden, his mind conjures up the image of a red cape and ginger curls riding beside him and he shakes it away. His knight, what a ridiculous notion.

Chapter Text

Could we please have more of the tavern owner Gwaine AU? – anon

He has to remind Helga and Serena five times that he's volunteered to watch the whole tavern by himself for the day so they can go to some of the festivals around the citadel grounds. Helga narrows her eyes in the way where he knows she'll be back around noon for some reason—ostensibly, Gemma will be tired and need a nap, or there will be something in the kitchen that she just has to get right—but they leave and he watches the door close with a chuckle before he goes about his business.

Harvest season in Camelot is no joke, after all; wagons arrive for weeks and weeks topped with all sorts of goods from every corner of the kingdom and each one brings its own crew of workers that will need housing for the few days they're here to offload. Not to mention the many fairs and markets that set themselves up in the roads of the city, or the people that arrive solely for the All Hallow's Eve celebrations. How could he stop his lovely ladies from going to such fabulous events? Especially when Serena has become good friends with seamstresses known for crafting exquisite disguises and costumes, or when Helga has single-handedly secured a delivery for the tavern from one of the farms out east of the river? No, no, he would be a greater fool is he attempted to forbid them from joining in at all.

His fingers drift along the list of supplies he's expecting and he rubs absentmindedly at his callus.

There may be another reason he refrains from attending the day celebrations, but that is only due to his professional attitude.

(He can hear Serena laughing in his ear and he scoffs internally.)

Look, there are only so many tournaments Camelot can hold in one season before it begins to feel a little repetitive. And there are only so many elbows to the ribs he can take about his knight before he begins to feel a trifle like a bruised peach. The All Hallow's Eve tournament is one of the kingdom's favorites, not in the least because the knights compete with their faces shown. Granted, they wear festive decorations in their hair or little masks to cover the area around their eyes, but it is not the full helmets for these are games, you see, and there are prizes to be won and favors to be given. Many a night in here has been spent surrounded by swooning maids with marks of paint on their faces and hands from such games. He will tolerate a certain amount of teasing, but only so much.

Besides, there is nothing there for him. Everyone knows the First Knight never competes in such games.

His mind drifts back several nights to his last encounter with Leon. Sir Leon, he reminds himself. The way the man had wielded his authority like a second blade, disarming those brutes so completely…

He gives himself a shake. He has inventory to do.

The day goes by smoothly. A few patrons have taken refuge from the caterwauling upstairs and he brings them their meals, asking if there is anything else they need, only to be waved away with smiles and murmurs of thanks. The old lady who can no longer manage the stairs sits with him in the kitchen as he works away, offering stories of her grandchildren and how they fare in the kitchen—or, more accurately, fail to—and he gives her the freshest of bread rolls and a mug of sweet cider. She allows him to walk her to the end of the street where her brother's son collects her in a small wagon, demurring the offered coin and instead accepting a kiss on his brow from her wrinkled lips. He takes the long walk back and passes out the old bread to the pack of children that scurry about the lower town, winking when they ask him what he's going to do when he can't find them.

(They don't need to know that he already knows most of their hiding spots. That's for them to discover.)

By the time he returns to the tavern, the afternoon guard patrol has come and gone. He glances down the street and sees the glare of sunlight off their helmets. He can't hide the twist of distaste as he ducks back inside.

Helga has yet to return, which likely means she will take advantage of his offer and stay out for the day, at least until the evening crowds prove too much for Gemma. That leaves him free to mutter his less than polite musings about the presence of armed soldiers in the streets where normal people live their lives under the pretense of, what, security? No more for the citadel's peace of mind than anything else, to be sure. What use was it to cause your people to live in fear when all it would do is breed unrest that would then be used as an excuse to breed more fear? No, there was one reason and one reason alone why the former great King had seen fit to introduce the patrols and it had nothing to do with the safety of the common people and everything to do with an ignorant man too sallow and selfish to see that the world was not full of—

The door opens and interrupts his mutterings. He turns, a smile already on his lips to say that no, there would be no celebrations in here today, only for his expression to freeze.

"I do hope I'm not intruding," says Sir Leon, First Knight of Camelot, "but I heard from Serena that you would not be joining the festivities today."

Gwaine blinks. Three things flicker across his mind. First, that Sir Leon, First Knight of Camelot, knows Serena by name. Second, that Serena told Sir Leon, First Knight of Camelot, that Gwaine would not be attending the daytime celebrations. Third, that Sir Leon, First Knight of Camelot, asked if Gwaine would be in attendance and upon hearing that he was not, came here to find him.

"You're not intruding, Ser Knight," he hears himself say, mask already settling over his features as his mind whirls, "how could we claim open doors to all and turn you away?"

"Please, just Leon is fine, we have no need for formalities between us." Leon comes and sits at the bar, an elbow propped against the wood. Out of habit, Gwaine's hands move to pour him a tankard of wine when fingers still him. "A cider, if you would?"

"By all means, who am I to dissuade you?" He pours the drink and sets it on the bar, waving away the coin that had suddenly appeared between the knight's fingers. "Please, if you allow me to call you by your name, you must allow me to serve you at no cost."

"Are you so generous to all such patrons?"

"Only the ones who help me defend children from brutes who would wish them harm," he says, voice lowered, "which I do not believe I ever thanked you for."

Leon's gaze softens, a smile curling up behind his beard. "You needn't thank me for something like that."

"Your duty as a knight, yes, I know, but still, let me—"

"For revealing the truth behind someone the Crown believed to be reasonable," Leon interrupts, a slight edge coming to his voice. "The King himself told me to pass on his thanks."

"The King of Camelot," Gwaine repeats flatly, "asked you to thank me for…what exactly?"

"Among other things, giving him the final reason to cut ties with the Cavensdale Estate, but mostly for offering protection to those who could not or felt they could not seek protection from the citadel." Leon raises his drink in toast. "I could hardly dissuade him."

"I have a feeling you didn't try."

"Perhaps."

Gwaine swallows, turning away to fuss with the taps. "Well, tell your prince his thanks are appreciated but unnecessary."

There's a moment's pause. Then the drink hits the bar with a soft thud and a rustle of fabric. "I have a question for you, but I do not know how it will be received."

"That's a great start to any conversation, wouldn't you say?"

"We do not know each other that well," Leon continues, his solemn voice prompting Gwaine to turn back around and see his pensive expression, "and yet I cannot bring myself to stifle my curiosity."

"There is very little you could do to get yourself tossed out, I hope you know."

"Perhaps, but I worry that I would damage what little friendship we have before it has the chance to grow, and that I could not abide."

Gwaine can't help his laugh as he begins to fold the fresh load of napkins. "Shouldn't it be the other way around? Shouldn't I, the humble tavern owner, be so lucky as to converse with Camelot's First Knight?"

Leon's expression twitches slightly. "And therein lies my question."

"Ask, my friend. We have few secrets here."

"Why do you despise nobility so much that you pretend you are not one?"

Gwaine's fingers stutter on the worn fabric. He lets out a huff, finishing the one under his hands and tossing it onto the pile. "Never let it be said you pull your punches."

"If you do not wish to answer, then—"

"No, no, I told you we have few secrets and I meant it." He glances at the door. "But you mustn't tell anyone."

Leon takes his hand and lays it across his heart. "I will keep your confidences, you have my word."

Gwaine takes a deep breath. It is one thing for him to speak this secret to someone like Serena or Helga, or even to someone like the innkeep, the baker, or the blacksmith. But this is The First Knight of Camelot, someone who was very much a noble, and evidently had the direct ear of the Crown. He looks down and rubs his callus.

"I'm not from Camelot. I was born in Carleon's kingdom. My father was a knight who served in his army." He waits to see if Leon will have some reaction to knowing that he is from a kingdom that once warred with Camelot, but the man just gestures for him to continue. "When he died, my mother was left penniless."

"My condolences for your loss."

He accepts it with a nod, but his hand tightens on the next napkin. "My father had served Carleon for many years. And yet when he died and my mother asked him for help, the King refused. We were left to starve."

"He refused to help the family of a man who had shown his nothing but loyalty?" Leon's tone borders on blistering with a vehemence that takes Gwaine aback, followed by a scoff.

"By the time I was grown, I'd decided I was leaving. I had no business in such a man's kingdom any longer."

"And so you came here?"

"Not exactly. I made a friend who needed a good pair of steady hands and a head for people. I owed him a favor, so he had me work in his inn for a few years." He gestures around. "I helped him defend it from a crew of mercenaries and we were offered a reward for their deaths."

Leon smiles. "It's good to hear you've long since been a protector."

Gwaine shrugs. "He didn't make it."

"Oh…forgive me, I didn't realize."

"I tried to give it to his wife. She wouldn't hear it, said she'd have the support of the village to get the inn back on its feet, but I—" he swallows— "I couldn't stay."

A cart drives by outside. Someone calls for their daughter.

"I didn't mean to stay in Camelot, not at first. But the woman who owned this place before, it was on the verge of closing because of repairs she couldn't afford, so I offered to help and she…gave it to me." He runs his hand along the bar. "Now I take care of it for her."

"And is she…?"

"Almost five years ago now, yeah."

"I feel as though I should be the one pouring you a drink," Leon says softly, "for the losses I've forced you to retell."

"Death is a natural part of life, what good would it do me to resent it?" He leans on the bar, nodding to the room. "In here we celebrate life, that's good enough for me."

"And you do it marvelously."

Gwaine looks over. Like this, he realizes belatedly, their faces are far closer, Leon's hair falling across his jaw. He hums low in his throat, briefly allowing his eyes to trace the path of a scar just under the knight's hairline.

"Can't imagine this is what you expected," he says quietly, "when you came to find me."

"On the contrary. I hadn't hoped I would get this much."

"Of my tragic past?"

"Of you," he corrects softly, "I hadn't hoped you would be this honest with me. I prefer it."

The memory of that night flickers across Gwaine's mind once more, of how Leon had said he preferred him honest. "Have I not always been honest with you?"

"You are a man of your business, you behave as such. You are yourself, to be sure, but do you not feel as though there is some performance, however genuine?"

"Is that why you've come to seek me out?"

"In part. In part, I wished to know why it was that you hide your nobility when to me, it is as plain as the nose on your face—"

"You're the only who thinks so."

"Then the rest of Camelot is lesser for it."

"You think so?"

"Gwaine, if I had even half a hope that you'd agree, I'd ask you to become a knight."

Gwaine balks. "A knight? A knight of Camelot, me?"

"Why does the thought surprise you so? Your skill with a sword is enough, your instincts, your bravery—"

"My noble blood?"

Here, Leon's brow furrows. "Have you not—do you not know? The King did away with the First Code as soon as he took the throne. Four of the Knights of the Round Table were not noble born."

Gwaine pushes himself upright. "You swear it?"

"Yes! On my life, I do." He hesitates, then reaches out and lays a hand on Gwaine's arm. The contact prickles and no small part of him warms at the touch. "Gwaine, had I not known that you were unaware, I would have led with that."

"Is that all you think it would take, for me to agree?"

"No, not at all. I—well, I thought you had known—no, I could hardly ask you to give your loyalty to a man you did not know after what happened to your family."

Oh. Gwaine looks at him once more, eyes searching his face for some hint of dishonesty, finding none. Indeed, all Leon does is murmur an apology, to which he has to close his eyes and cover the hand with his own. "You've given no offense, my friend, you have no need to apologize."

Leon's hand flexes under his. "You are not alone in being disappointed by nobility. There have been points where I've almost thought 'to hell with it,' and left Camelot."

"You? You're the most loyal knight in the realm."

He shakes his head with a wry smile. "Only a foolish or cruel man could stand by and endorse what Uther Pendragon has done to innocent lives in Camelot."

Now Gwaine's eyes well and truly widen. "I'm pretty sure speaking like that would count as treason."

Leon shrugs. He shrugs. "Uther Pendragon's ghost has far greater troubles now than the truth from my lips."

"And the current King would not have your head for speaking ill of his father?"

"Not when said King has been the most vocal opposition to his father's policies."

"Then why do soldiers still patrol the city?"

Leon sighs. "Because the Council is made up of such foolish and cruel men, and there is only so much the King can do without their approval."

He scoffs again. "And while they debate around a table, the people suffer."

"I do not begrudge you your anger," comes that gentle voice once again, "nor do I disagree with you. All I can do is attempt to assuage your worries—some of them, at least, by saying that we are trying to change."

Gwaine gives himself a shake. "Forgive me."

"For what?"

"For speaking thusly to you."

"Please, do not. It's refreshing to hear. If I have to listen to several minutes of flattery before expressing a single mote of concern every time I ask a question, I might throw myself on my sword." They share a laugh before Leon shakes his head. "As I said: if I had half a hope you might say yes, I would have offered."

"Don't tell Serena that, she'll make me take it."

"She cares for you a great deal."

"She's a great pain, that's what she is," he mutters, and Leon chuckles. "Hang on—what exactly did you ask her?"

"Only if you would be attending the festivities."

He narrows his eyes. "Why?"

"Is it so difficult to believe that I wanted to see you?"

"Yes."

Leon chuckles. "Come now, surely that can't be too much of a surprise. Was I not promised another night to see if I prefer you honest?"

He's forgotten, you see, that when he takes a deep breath he will smell the spice and salt of the castle, and so he does and quickly must look away lest Leon spot the heat spreading across the tops of his cheeks, bracing himself on the bar. What is this, that he is so undone in the safety of his own tavern?

"It's the day," he says weakly, only for the hand still on his arm to trace the seam of his sleeve.

"I felt it prudent to distract you during the slow time. Come the evening, will you not be busy with patrons?"

"Probably."

"Then would it not be easier for me to convince you while the place is empty?" Two fingers draw a swift, sure line down to the curve of his wrist. "Surely you've earned a break."

"Why, Ser Knight, what exactly are you insinuating?"

Leon shrugs, a boyish grin on his face. "Perhaps I've grown weary of my duties today."

"Is the great First Knight skirting his responsibilities? My, my, how unexpected," Gwaine laughs. "Well, I've certainly never been called a good influence."

"Then come, sit. Share a drink with me. Tell me of the things you can tell no one else."

"And what do you get in exchange, aside from my charming company?"

"Perhaps that is enough for me."

And so they…sit. And drink. They share tankards of warm cider and fresh bread, conversations about the harvest, the festivals, the poor lad Peter who can never seem to get away from trouble—the boy's ended up covered in pumpkin pulp every year for as long as anyone can remember. They talk of the sweet lass who lives near the eastern gate, who makes blankets and scarves for those who cannot find the time to make their own and in return, is offered a place at anyone's table should she need it for the night. They talk of the kindly old man in the red cloak and long white hair who sometimes visits Gwaine to speak of things he couldn't possibly understand—Leon gets a particular look in his eye when he tells him that story, though he won't say what exactly it means. Eventually, though, they talk about the other knights and the King.

"I've been teased more than my fair share," Leon confesses, "apparently, I'm the last one they expect to willingly visit a tavern, other than Merlin, but that's another matter."

"Merlin? Who's that?"

Leon gives him another strange look. "Have you never met him before?"

"No, not that I recall."

He chuckles to himself again. "Forgive me, it's a joke we share. Merlin is the King's manservant, been serving Arthur since he was a Prince still. I'm surprised the two of you have never crossed paths in the town square before."

"What cause would I to run into the manservant to a King?"

"He's also the Court Physician's assistant. He makes regular trips about the city to deliver potions and poultices."

"Ah, I see. No, most of the wares here are from the apothecary. Few ever have the coin to afford Gaius's services."

Leon frowns. "Then what do you do when one of your patrons or yourselves fall ill?"

"Helga trained as a healer before she came to us. She's capable of treating the vast majority of whatever plagues us here."

"I see." He still looks troubled. "I hope you know that you would be welcome to call upon Gaius should you ever need him. Merlin, at the very least."

"I'll keep it in mind."

There's still a private smile tugging at the corners of Leon's mouth, but he hides it behind another drink. "I have a sneaking suspicion that the two of you would get along quite well."

"Oh? What makes you say that?"

"Now I know for certain you've never met Merlin. If you'd heard how he treats Arthur—you'd be friends faster than I could blink." At Gwaine's questioning look, Leon chuckles. "The first thing he did upon arriving in Camelot was pick a fight with Arthur over his mistreatment of a servant and he's never backed down since."

Gwaine's eyes widen. "You're right, I simply must meet this man."

"He's eager to meet you as well, believe me."

"What?"

Leon sighs. "I told you that I've suffered a fair amount of teasing, did I not? Apparently, the others have heard about my visits here and insist on badgering me about it."

It's his turn to chuckle as he takes a drink. "Do they worry about you shirking your duties? Perhaps the First Knight does not practice what he preaches?"

"You should be the first person to know it isn't my habit to drink in excess while I'm here."

"Fair enough."

"And…no. I've never begrudged a man his comforts. If a man is willing to die for me, far be it from me to tell him how else he must live his life."

"How honorable of you."

Leon, the prick, just waves it off as though it's expected of him. "No, I…am teased not for the place, but for the company. I confessed I did not come here for the drink alone and now they all wish to meet the man who has 'convinced' me that taverns are worth spending nights in."

Now, Gwaine is only a man. He cannot be expected to hear something like that from the lips of the First Knight and react as though they were any other spoken words. In fact, it is a miracle that he does not spew his drink across the bar—a welcome miracle, to be sure, not only would he be thoroughly embarrassed, but he would also have to clean it again and that would be further embarrassment enough—but instead merely coughs a little.

"You jest."

"I do not." Leon turns to look at him. "I spoke of the kind man who would house a dozen knights as easily as breathing and protect his patrons as readily as any of them could, and they know me as a man of my word. So, naturally, they are all eager to meet you."

Gwaine laughs, but it's a tad hoarse. "Next thing you'll tell me, the King himself will be coming."

"He may, though I believe his intention is to accidentally run into you during the festival this year."

"Which is why you asked Serena if I was coming?"

"No, today that was for me and myself alone. I am not too good of a man to willingly give up a private moment with you. But this conversation? Yes, I admit I did hope to convince you to spend at least one evening at the celebrations." He nudges Gwaine's knee with his. "You did remember that they are supposed to be for all, yes? That includes noble tavern owners."

"The women—"

"Have already promised that they will cover for you should you choose to attend, not that they believe it will be necessary as everyone will be in attendance," Leon says with a pointed look. "Besides, I gathered from the look in Serena's eye that I am not alone in being teased, am I?"

"How much did she tell you?" Leon just chuckles. "Perhaps I will come, then, if only to meet this Merlin and the others who feel comfortable teasing Camelot's First Knight. This feels decidedly unfair at the moment."

"And how could I stop you from taking such action? After all, it is only fair."

Gwaine narrows his eyes as he gets the feeling he was just outplayed. Leon has a knowing look on his face that borders on smug but is far too gracious to be truly so. He sighs, downing the rest of his drink and setting the tankard back down with a thud.

"Gwaine."

He pauses as Leon's hand catches his arm once more. "Yes?"

"Forgive me if I have been too forward, or too brash," he says softly, "I truly do wish to spend time with you, just you, at the festival. I wish to be your friend, if you would allow it."

His friend. His friend. Not a bed partner for the night, not the target of idle or harmless flirtation, but friend. Gwaine's chest clenches. Never in all of his dark and lonely nights could he possibly have allowed himself to hope that Leon might call him friend and mean it. And now here he sits, having sought out Serena, having asked after him purposefully…after saying that he missed Gwaine's presence and chose to chase it.

Belatedly, he registers that he hasn't offered a reply.

"It's I who must ask your forgiveness. I…suppose I have spent so long thinking poorly of every noble that I've…put myself at risk of becoming like them."

"You are nothing like that."

"I wish to be your friend as well, if you could bear it."

"Happily, and with ease." He smiles and lets him go. "You are a fascinating man, Gwaine, and I would welcome the chance to know more."

Gwaine is not a maiden, his heart should not flutter at that.

Yet he feels wings beat against the insides of his ribs.

"Must you return to your duties, or can you spare a few moments more?"

A regretful smile. "I have to go. But tomorrow—the night of the bonfire, can I expect you?"

He just manages to rein in his excitement enough to sigh. "I suppose this place will survive one night without me."

Leon smiles. Oh, what a smile it is. "I'm pleased to hear it."

"I can meet you here, or—?"

"By the barn on the southern grounds. I give you my word, by sunset I will be there."

"Sunset, the barn."

Leon inclines his head and turns to go. The fading sunlight catches the copper in his hair as he moves down the street. Gwaine stares after him for a long moment before the realization catches up with him.

Leon asked him to spend the festival night together. Leon asked him to spend bonfire night together. He's to meet at the barn at sunset tomorrow to spend the bonfire night with his knight.

"My knight," he whispers to himself, "damn, I owe Serena a drink."